Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,78

body of Philip Blackmore spread-eagled on the paved walkway twenty feet below me.

Mom had obviously forgotten to mention a further consequence of excessive drinking.

It could kill you.

Chapter 12

And when I looked again," I explained an hour later, "he'd disappeared. That's when I ran to the ledge and...and saw what had happened."

Officer Agripino Piccione used the blunt end of his pen to scratch the place where the wild hairs of his eyebrows intersected over the root of his nose. "And what you tink happened?"

"He fell!" Duncan's hand was a comforting pressure on my shoulder as he stood beside me in the cool shade of the Uffizi's arcade. "He drank too much too quickly at a wine bar, and when it caught up to him, I think he passed out, and...and fell off the ledge."

Piccione flipped backward through the pages of his notepad. "How many people dis make who fall dead on you tour?" he asked tiredly.

"Four dead. One missing. But this was an accident. I saw it myself."

"You tink Signora Root, someone push her," he said, consulting his notes. "You no tink Blackmore pushed?"

"I didn't see anyone standing near him who could have pushed him in the few seconds when I wasn't looking at him." I eyed him, aghast. "Uff da. Do you think someone pushed him?"

"Ooff da? What you mean, ooff da?"

"It's a Norwegian idiom," Duncan informed him. "Loosely translated it means holy cow, holy smoke, holy cats, holy moly, holy mackerel, holy shit, or holy crap."

I stared at Duncan. Holy moly? No self-respecting Norwegian would ever say holy moly.

Piccione frowned. "How you use in sentence?"

Okay. Had I missed something? I replayed the scene in my head. No. I was sure no one had been around Philip. His fall had been an accident. But why did his death suddenly seem to smack of Jeannette Bowles's? "By any chance, have you seen the videotapes from the Duomo yet?" I asked Piccione. "I know you're busy investigating all these other incidents, but I should think if you'd get on those tapes, they might provide a huge break in the case."

"Signorina Andrew, I conduct investigation. Si?" Ignoring my question, he turned to Duncan. "Why you no see anyting?"

Duncan nodded toward the lines of people still jammed together beneath the arcade. "I'd gotten held up trying to extricate my companions from the unrelenting clutches of the clothes and art hawkers. You want a friendly suggestion? Get rid of them. They're a nuisance."

"I make note of dat and give to prime minister. I'm sure, how you say, he get right on it." Piccione slapped his notepad shut. "How much longer you people be in Florence?"

"We leave for Montecatini tomorrow morning," Duncan replied.

"Better for me you leave today. You people big trouble."

Testiness sharpened Duncan's voice. "You indicated you might want to question some of the guests about Ms. Root's death later this evening. Have you changed your mind?"

"We wait for autopsy report, den decide. I tell dem be quick so you leave soon." He nodded toward a nearby police car, where Marla and Gillian were crying hysterically and Mom was huddled over them, trying to lend comfort. "What you want do wit signoras?"

"Ms. Michaels has a minor heart condition, and Ms. Jones has severe hypertension, so it wouldn't hurt to have them checked out by a professional," said Duncan. "Can one of your officers give them a ride to the hospital?"

"Si." A digital tone sang out from the cell phone holster on Piccione's belt. "Pronto," he answered, striding away from us. I gazed up at Duncan.

"Do you want me to ride with Marla and Gillian to the hospital?"

"I'll go. That's my job. And maybe you wouldn't mind if your mom came, too." He bobbed his head toward the police car. "She's calmed the ladies down considerably in the past hour. Look at the three of them. I think they've become fast friends." His eyes grew distant, his voice wistful. "Your mother reminds me of my aunt Carolyn. I don't know what we would have done without her support after my sister died. She was a regular Rock of Gibraltar."

"I'm so sorry about your sister, Duncan," I offered in a small voice.

He shrugged. "You think you've dealt with the worst of it, but the emotions seem to keep cropping up, and then you have to deal with it all over again." On a whim he unzipped a security pocket on his shirt and removed a micro address book. Flipping to a page toward the middle of the