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Authors: Joanne Pence
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Back arched, tail fluffed, he marched from the room in a huff. “Mamma’s so worried about the girls she can hardly talk. They’re chasing a potential murderer! My God! Anyway, Mamma sent me here to take you to Flora Piccoletti’s house.”
“She could have just phoned with the address,” he managed, the bag of muffins in hand.
“She wanted to be sure. And she was afraid Papa might get suspicious if she kept having secret phone calls. She’s already had a bunch of them. We all have to be sure Papa doesn’t hear about this.” Bianca stacked the magazines on his coffee table and began gathering up the newspapers. “Do you save the crosswords?”
“Uh, no,” he said.
“Good.” She lifted the papers. “Where’s your newsprint recycle bin?” Everybody in San Francisco had several recycle bins of varying kinds. It was the only way to get garbage picked up without going through the third degree.
He took the papers from her. “You don’t have to do this.”
She took the papers back. “It’s nothing. I enjoy it. Besides, it helps take my mind off . . . ” Her eyes turned teary. “What in heaven’s name were they thinking? If anything happens to them . . . ” She bustled to the kitchen to find the newspaper stacks on her own. “I can understand Angie, but Cat?”
Paavo followed her, and couldn’t help cringing at the truth of her last words. “Coffee?”
“Sounds good. And I bought enough muffins for both of us. You get ready to go. I’ll take care of everything here.”
Muffins had all the appeal of sawdust to Paavo under the circumstances. He escaped to his bedroom. Once dressed, he called Yosh to fill him in.
“You’re taking a civilian with you?” Yosh asked.
“It’ll be okay. She’s calm and mature.” Paavo peeked into the kitchen, where Bianca was at the moment washing down the outside of his refrigerator. He hadn’t even known that the outsides of refrigerators were supposed to be washed. He sucked in his breath. “Anyway, their mothers are friends. Having someone Flora Piccoletti knows with me when I question her about her two sons will be a good thing.”
“You may be right. Keep me posted.”
“Will do.” He gently took the Formula 409 out of Bianca’s hands as she was about to shoot it at his light switches. In this old house, she’d probably cause a short.
“I see finger marks,” she explained.
“They’re part of history.” He understood all this hubbub was a reaction to being upset. He led her to a kitchen chair. “Coffee and muffins await.”
Chapter 10
“Ecco Da Vinci.” The cab driver pointed to a restaurant as he double-parked.
Angie thanked the driver and paid him, including a generous tip. Unsure which way to go after their metro ride to the northwest part of Rome, near the Vatican, they found a driver who knew the restaurant. It was on the Via Porta Cavalleggeri, facing the high, yellow-beige walls of Vatican City. The street was busy with shops—clothes, handbags, jewelry, appliances, gelato, a farmacia , a deli—and the small, unimposing restaurant owned by Marcello Piccoletti: Ristorante Da Vinci.
Inside, the dining room was fairly dark, the walls a dingy off-white, with dark wood-stained trim around the doors and windows. Wooden tables and chairs were situated close together in a way that would barely be tolerated in the U.S.
They were greeted by a short, round man with a bald head and wide, black mustache. “ Buona sera ,” he said in greeting, and showed them to a table.
Cat immediately requested a bottle of his best merlot. The menu was long, but Angie saw that it was basically different variations of basic food. For the primo , there were a variety of pasta noodles with an equal variety of toppings, a number of risotto dishes, and several kinds of zuppa . The secondo , or entrée, had far fewer choices of meat or fish. The menu listed several rather simple antipasto dishes which came, as the name implied, before the pasta.
“She could have just phoned with the address,” he managed, the bag of muffins in hand.
“She wanted to be sure. And she was afraid Papa might get suspicious if she kept having secret phone calls. She’s already had a bunch of them. We all have to be sure Papa doesn’t hear about this.” Bianca stacked the magazines on his coffee table and began gathering up the newspapers. “Do you save the crosswords?”
“Uh, no,” he said.
“Good.” She lifted the papers. “Where’s your newsprint recycle bin?” Everybody in San Francisco had several recycle bins of varying kinds. It was the only way to get garbage picked up without going through the third degree.
He took the papers from her. “You don’t have to do this.”
She took the papers back. “It’s nothing. I enjoy it. Besides, it helps take my mind off . . . ” Her eyes turned teary. “What in heaven’s name were they thinking? If anything happens to them . . . ” She bustled to the kitchen to find the newspaper stacks on her own. “I can understand Angie, but Cat?”
Paavo followed her, and couldn’t help cringing at the truth of her last words. “Coffee?”
“Sounds good. And I bought enough muffins for both of us. You get ready to go. I’ll take care of everything here.”
Muffins had all the appeal of sawdust to Paavo under the circumstances. He escaped to his bedroom. Once dressed, he called Yosh to fill him in.
“You’re taking a civilian with you?” Yosh asked.
“It’ll be okay. She’s calm and mature.” Paavo peeked into the kitchen, where Bianca was at the moment washing down the outside of his refrigerator. He hadn’t even known that the outsides of refrigerators were supposed to be washed. He sucked in his breath. “Anyway, their mothers are friends. Having someone Flora Piccoletti knows with me when I question her about her two sons will be a good thing.”
“You may be right. Keep me posted.”
“Will do.” He gently took the Formula 409 out of Bianca’s hands as she was about to shoot it at his light switches. In this old house, she’d probably cause a short.
“I see finger marks,” she explained.
“They’re part of history.” He understood all this hubbub was a reaction to being upset. He led her to a kitchen chair. “Coffee and muffins await.”
Chapter 10
“Ecco Da Vinci.” The cab driver pointed to a restaurant as he double-parked.
Angie thanked the driver and paid him, including a generous tip. Unsure which way to go after their metro ride to the northwest part of Rome, near the Vatican, they found a driver who knew the restaurant. It was on the Via Porta Cavalleggeri, facing the high, yellow-beige walls of Vatican City. The street was busy with shops—clothes, handbags, jewelry, appliances, gelato, a farmacia , a deli—and the small, unimposing restaurant owned by Marcello Piccoletti: Ristorante Da Vinci.
Inside, the dining room was fairly dark, the walls a dingy off-white, with dark wood-stained trim around the doors and windows. Wooden tables and chairs were situated close together in a way that would barely be tolerated in the U.S.
They were greeted by a short, round man with a bald head and wide, black mustache. “ Buona sera ,” he said in greeting, and showed them to a table.
Cat immediately requested a bottle of his best merlot. The menu was long, but Angie saw that it was basically different variations of basic food. For the primo , there were a variety of pasta noodles with an equal variety of toppings, a number of risotto dishes, and several kinds of zuppa . The secondo , or entrée, had far fewer choices of meat or fish. The menu listed several rather simple antipasto dishes which came, as the name implied, before the pasta.
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