Toured to Death (10 page)

T
he teams began arriving in Rome late the next afternoon. Amy was waiting at the grand double doors of the hotel, the Albergo Marcello, stopwatch at the ready. At the previous stops, she had done her best to make the event smooth and welcoming. But this was Rome and the grand finale. It had to be a little more.

With the hotel's grudging consent, she'd hung a banner above the entrance.
MONTE CARLO TO ROME RALLY
was printed in gold on a swath of red satin. It obscured the fifteenth-century pediment that had been the building's pride and joy ever since its days as the home of Pope Julius II, before Julius moved to the big house on the far side of the river.

“It's like the end of a race,” Amy had explained to the sleek concierge and the even sleeker, more dubious manager. “They're going to expect a finish line.”

“Finish line?” The manager had choked with such disgust that for a second Amy thought she had made a mistake with her Italian and had accidentally said something like dung heap. “They're going to be expecting a dung heap.”

“Finish line?” he repeated. “You intend to put one of those cheap little ribbons across the door like for some footrace?”

“No, no.” Amy stopped herself. “Actually, that's a good idea.”

“No. I will not allow it. The banner is bad enough. Thank God it's not in Italian.”

“A ribbon.” Amy had to have it. “It will be for only a minute. When the first Mercedes pulls up, I can stretch it across the doorway. Signore Piroli.” She lowered her voice. “We are filling your hotel for the next three nights, plus the banquet. A little cooperation. . .”

For once she got her way, without so much as a “haricots verts” compromise to sour her victory. The concierge disappeared inside, returning a minute later with a red crepe paper ribbon left over from a six-year-old viscount's birthday party.

The finish was as exciting as Amy could have wished. Even though first place meant no more today than it had for any of the earlier stops, the teams had begun the day by challenging each other. Being the first to complete the two-week rally took on an exaggerated importance. All six teams had burst out of their peaceful Assisi hotel that morning, their boat shoes nearly burning rubber across the cobbled drive.

Via Sant'Angelo was lined on both sides with Rome's typical ocher facades, severe and respectable. Just one block long, the street was nestled in the tight triangle between the Capitoline Hill and the Tiber, a quiet upper-class neighborhood that slept in the late afternoon sun like a cat on a sill.

The tranquility was broken at 4:32 p.m., when the first Mercedes squealed around the corner, followed seconds later by another. The man from the rental car agency was standing in the doorway with Amy and turned white when he realized that these dusty, maniac-driven vehicles were his.

“Get out of their way,” Amy shouted in Italian. “Help me with the ribbon.”

From their vantage point at the top of the steps, they watched as the Stew Boys barreled down the single lane between the two curbs of parked cars. Frank Loyola was in the front passenger seat, his head bobbing out the window as he studied the buildings.

In addition to obscuring the pediment, Amy's banner succeeded in covering up the hotel's street number. By the time Frank realized what the banner said, they had gone too far. He called frantically to his teammates, and the Stewmobile jerked to a halt.

The driver, an Atlanta gem dealer, was just about to throw it into reverse when he saw the second car in his rearview mirror. “I can't back up. Make a run for it.”

Meanwhile, in the second Mercedes, Vinny Mrozek was forced to stop directly in front of the Albergo Marcello. “Damn, we're blocked. What's the number?”

“There it is!” Dominick yelled from the backseat. “The house with the red. Go!”

In a flash, the front passenger door flew open and his twin, Donovan, was leaping over the bumpers of the tightly parked cars. He hit the sidewalk a split second in front of Frank.

As they raced up to the stoop, the grunting patrolman tried to pass. But the teenager thrust out his arm in a horizontal block. With the same hand, he grabbed the top of a five-century-old lion-headed post and used it to catapult himself up the stairs. His jutting chin broke through the crepe.

By this time, a third Mercedes had pulled up behind the second. Martha Callas and her Bitsys sat in the Mercedes traffic jam, transfixed by the athletic event unfolding on the street. The ladies celebrated Donovan's win with a burst of applause, honking their horn and waving.

Amy celebrated with a little cheer of her own. The Mrozek team had been the only ones never to win a single day's competition. Having them break the finish line would go a long way toward giving Jolynn's husband and stepsons a fond memory of the tour.

The broken ribbon dangled from Amy's right hand. She glanced past the rental car representative, past the two laughing, panting men bent over in the pink marble lobby. Reluctantly, she caught the eye of the manager, a man who was decidedly less tanned and sleek than he'd been just a minute before. “The worst is over,” she said in soothing Italian. “They're really quite civilized people. Trust me.”

Within an hour, all six teams were lifting champagne flutes in the lounge. The Doloreses were in their glory, while the slower teams shared stories of bad luck and wrong turns and horrible traffic, traditional topics among the late arrivals.

“Amy? Can I have a word?”

Her back was turned, but she recognized the syrupy drawl and mentally swatted it away like a sand fly. Like a sand fly, it returned, ever more insistent. “It's nice being tall, isn't it? People can always pick you out in a crowd.”

She turned and forced a grin. “Martha.”

Martha Callas grinned back, closemouthed and mirthless. The parts of her sunburn that hadn't peeled were fading now into a blotchy tan. The nose was particularly striking, since it had been the victim of two distinct peelings and was teetering on the brink of sun poisoning. A layer of lotion glistened on the tip. “Last night I was on the phone to my sister.”

“Can this wait until cocktail hour?” That was always the best time to deal with Martha, when they both had drinks in their hands.

“Her husband is a homicide lieutenant in San Diego.” Martha said it in a near whisper. “My sister knows I have this passion for mysteries. Of course she knows. She's my sister. Often she'll tell me about Arnie's old cases.”

“San Diego?” Amy said in a true whisper. “Oh. Let's discuss this somewhere private.”

The dining room was decorated in the classic Roman style, with aged red velvet on the walls. Matching floor-length curtains framed the tall windows. Gathering dust on the high eggshell ceiling were elaborate plaster moldings—cherubs and clouds. The room was laid out as a dramatic oval, impressively large for a small hotel but probably just the right size for Pope Julius II. At the moment it was empty except for Amy and Martha and a lone waiter setting up tables in the oval's far end.

“What exactly do you know?” Amy asked. The late sun had just passed the corner building, and streams of light illuminated the suspended motes of dust like pale spotlights. Silently they faced each other until the waiter made his exit.

“Let's cut to the chase,” Martha suggested. “This game is based on the Carvel murder. From your reaction, I assume this is something you don't want to become general knowledge.”

Amy shrugged. “Other members of the tour know.”

“Georgina Davis, of course. And Marcus Alvarez.”

“You know about Marcus being the assistant?”

“Assistant, secretary. Whatever you want to call it.” The Dallas decorator fingered a water glass, a manicured nail scraping around the rim. “So . . . how much of this game is based on Carvel?”

“Very little,” Amy lied emphatically. “None of the Carvel guests were ever suspects. And Otto didn't uncover anything new.”

Martha returned her stare, backing down just a little. “Sweetie, look. I don't want my Bitsys left out. We've invested a lot of time and ego in this. It would be a shame if someone had an unfair advantage.”

“No one has an advantage.”

“You have to admit it's quite a coincidence, people involved in the real crime who are now playing this game.”

“What do you mean, people?”

“People, dear. Homo sapiens. Georgina, otherwise known as Dodo Fortunof, and Marcus, otherwise known as Fidel, the private secretary.”

“Secretary?” Amy swallowed hard. “You mean Fabian Carvel's secretary?”

“Secretary, assistant, whatever.”

“Marcus was the real Fidel.” Amy tried not to make it sound like a question.

“Isn't that what we're talking about? Amy, if I have your absolute word that they don't have any inside knowledge, then I'll keep quiet. But I'm going to be very suspicious if either of them wins the whole thing. Do you understand what I'm saying? Look at me, dear. Let me know you're paying attention.”

 

Amy didn't want company. Marcus should have been able to understand. On other nights in other towns, she had gone off by herself after dinner, and no one had objected, at least not too much. Everyone seemed to respect her need for some alone time. But not tonight. At the very moment when Amy felt she needed some time to think about Marcus, there he was, strolling by her side, determined to keep her company.

Isola Tiberina was a short walk from the hotel. The island had once been a sacred, mysterious place, shaped like a ship floating in the middle of the Tiber. Now it was little more than the midsection of a busy bridge connecting the two halves of Rome. But there was still a part of the island, behind the old basilica and several blocks from the traffic, where the rush of a little waterfall obscured the sounds of the city and you could imagine yourself far away from all your troubles. Unless they were walking right beside you.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said.

“Do you think Otto was killed because of the game?”

“You said that once before. Why?” Their eyes met. His reply seemed so innocent, not overplayed or underplayed.
Hazel,
she noted, not for the first time.

“It's just . . . I don't know. So many weird things. He sells us the game and gets killed. Someone throws a rock. Someone messes with the game and robs the rooms. Georgina winds up on this tour. . . .” She hadn't meant to add that part.

“Georgina? Why is that weird?”

Oh, well. In for a penny . . .
“Because she was involved in the Carvel murder, and this game is based on the Carvel murder.”
There.

“Wow.” Marcus cleared his throat. “I'm really getting my penny's worth.”

“Half the damned tour knows. Well, the Dodos and Martha Callas.” Amy shut her mouth. She had a tendency to ramble on, single-handedly filling the awkward silences. This time she wanted Marcus to fill them.

“All right.” His words became measured and exact. “It was Otto's little joke, something he didn't expect anyone to catch. He had no way of knowing Georgina Davis would be signing up. He would have loved the irony, I'm sure.”

“How much research did you do on the Carvel case?”

“Quite a bit. The real characters included Fabian's wife, their son, Georgina, Fabian's finance guy, a TV soap star . . . How many is that?”

“Five. How about the personal secretary?”

“Yes, the secretary. I forgot.”

“Was that a man or a woman?” Amy asked with no special inflection.

“A man.”

“And, as far as you know, Georgina is the only one of Carvel's dinner guests on this tour? I assume you did enough interviews and research to know what they all look like. I mean, let's say this secretary guy happened to be traveling under a different name. . . .”

“I would have recognized him, yes.”

“Are you sure? What was his name, by the way, Fabian's secretary?”

Marcus tilted his head. “Are you sure everything's all right?”

“Perfect.”

Amy had intended to confront him but now changed her mind. Knowledge is power. What would be the point of letting Marcus know what she knew? So he could lie again? She'd seen Marcus lie; he was good. He might easily admit to being Carvel's secretary and then explain it away, another detail he'd promised a dead man he wouldn't reveal.
No,
Amy decided.
Knowing what your enemy doesn't know you know . . .

Her enemy? That was too dramatic. But what was he? Not a partner anymore. Not someone to trust. Maybe that was the cause of her strange look, the realization that she was alone, responsible for twenty-four lives, and no longer able to trust anyone.

Later, when she walked back into her room, a red light was throbbing on the nightstand. A call from home had never seemed so welcome, which made her feel embarrassed and resentful and grateful all at once. Only it wasn't a call from home. From New York, yes, but not from home. Amy listened to the message, then did the six-hour subtraction. Sergeant Rawlings might still be in his office.

“Ms. Abel. Thanks for returning my call. I know this is on your dime, so I'll keep it short. I assume your mother has informed you of Otto Ingo's murder?”

“Yes, she has. Do you have any leads?” Did the police really use that term?

“Not yet, I'm afraid. No one in the neighborhood knew him. No known intimates. I think it would help if we could talk to the assistant he was working with.”

“You don't know . . . I mean, you haven't been able to identify him . . . or her?”