Toured to Death (13 page)

“No.” Amy was thinking back to that mystery seminar she'd attended last year up in Boston and the lecture entitled “Scents of Crime.” At the door, they'd passed out “scratch and sniff” cards. All very cute and harmless. “Amyl nitrite. You know, the little things you break open for heart patients. Or sodium something. Sodium nitrite. Where the hell do you get sodium nitrite?” She was starting to panic now, babbling on as Georgina's face lost its color, then quickly gained a bluish tinge.

Everyone just looked on, stunned.

“My God. Call a doctor!” Amy screamed. “Why are you just standing there? Don't you idiots know cyanide poisoning when you see it?”

R
ain clouds drifted over the broken vaults and arches. The dirty cotton balls floated among patches of blue, bringing drifts of light showers that alternated with long streaks of morning light. First one side of the Colosseum, then the other would be bathed in bright sun, followed by shadows and rain, followed by sun. It was a darkly dappled September sky, the kind of unsettled weather pattern most conducive to rainbows, although Amy wasn't in the mood to look for rainbows.

She was sitting on cold limestone in the stands, just a few arches in from the street and the traffic. Sheltered from the current spattering of rain, she poured another cup of strong black coffee from a thermos on loan from the hotel. The concierge had proved to be most understanding, more understanding about the murder, in fact, than he'd been about the finish line.

Amy blamed herself for things getting so out of hand. Not that she could have prevented Georgina's death. No one could have except the killer. But she should have done more to take charge. Perhaps if she had made people stay in their seats until the police arrived . . . Then again, they might not have listened. Calling them idiots hadn't won her a lot of points.

By the time she did try to assert control, it was too late. Twenty-three mystery fanatics were already running amuck. The effect of Georgina's death, once the initial shock had passed, had been like throwing raw meat into a pack of wolves. Even Frank, a police officer who should have known better, had joined in the frenzy.

A dozen evening bags had flown open, and two dozen hands had foraged for empty plastic bags.
Why,
Amy wondered,
do women always carry plastic bags in their purses? For moments just like this, obviously.

Amy had never been able to figure out the difference between the two Italian police agencies, the
polizia
and the
carabinieri.
For what it was worth, the
polizia
seemed to be in charge of murders. They were the ones who had shown up, looking bewildered as they were greeted by a horde of chattering Americans, who shoved approximately four dozen plastic bags into their faces. The bags were filled with potential clues, they were told, everything from the wineglass to the cork to a lone breath mint extracted with tweezers from Georgina's evening bag. Even Georgina's own plastic bags had been preserved inside other plastic bags.

“Tell them the bags are hermetically sealed,” Holly Baker insisted.

Each professional detective was surrounded by a small pride of amateurs, who pointed and grabbed and spoke in torrents of English. The few of Amy's guests who did know bits of Italian didn't seem to know the right words, which only added to the confusion.

“They call this a phrase book?” Jolynn growled as she threw her thin red dictionary against the red brocade wall. “It doesn't even have the basics.
Fingerprint. Witness.
How are we supposed to carry on a conversation?”

Amy finally pinpointed the captain in charge, an increasingly agitated man by the name of Boido. When Amy approached him, speaking passable Italian, the man's face lit up.

“Finally. Someone who can make sense. That woman . . .” He was pointing to Martha Callas. “My English is so bad. I thought she told me this murder was a game.”

“Not really,” Amy said with a sheepish grin.

“What? You mean to say it
was
a game?”

“No. I mean, we were playing a game when it happened. But the murder is very real, very serious.”

“I know.”

“No one thinks it's a game.”

“Then why do they hand me little bags of clues?” Captain Boido shook his head in the direction of the melee. Holly Baker was on her hands and knees, trying to get a uniformed officer to inspect a stain under the table. “It has been my experience that most people are sad and quiet at a murder scene.”

“Yes, well . . . they're just trying to help.”

“Amy,” Burt called out from the other side of the oval room. “I'm having one person from each table write out a deposition—while it's still fresh in their minds.”

“Judge, I think the police would prefer . . .”

“I'm a notary,” piped in Bill, the Atlanta gem dealer. “Should I notarize their statements?”

“Absolutely.” She was speaking perhaps a bit too loudly. “Notarize everything.”

A light breeze scooped a few sprinkles of rain up under Amy's arch and brought her back to the present. For the third time she removed her glasses to wipe them and this time decided to keep them off. It had been a long, unpleasant night with very little sleep.

The one bright spot had been the way her clients had accepted the death. As opposed to the members of most tours, who might be resentful of police questions and frightened by a death in their midst, her people were treating it like part of their schedule. “Finale banquet to be followed by murder of tour member. Gratuities included.”

She sipped her coffee, hot and good, then listened to the faint sounds of morning traffic. The Colosseum was her favorite place in Rome. In the days of her first tour with Eddie, it had always been open—free, tranquil, and ancient. A world-famous marvel you could slip into at any hour of the day or night. She recalled standing under an arch at midnight on Eddie's birthday, the two of them sharing a kiss. Then he'd pulled a bottle of champagne from his knapsack and popped the cork. They'd drunk from the bottle, giddy with the moment.

It had been too good to last, of course. The Colosseum had hours now, like any other tourist attraction—hours and gates, audio guides and admission fees. At least it wasn't too crowded this morning. And it was quieter than she remembered. No more blaring horns. Rome, like Amy's hometown, had instituted an ordinance against honking, except for danger. Here in Rome the law seemed to be generally respected, whereas in New York, it was regarded as little more than a cute throwback to a gentler day, like the law prohibiting you from hitching your horse to a public lamppost.

Amy checked her watch. Soon she would have to leave this sanctuary and return to the messy unpleasantries. The American embassy. The airline, for shipping the body. The police, who would undoubtedly want an autopsy. Contacting Georgina's relatives in the U.S.

And then there were her clients. Today was their final full day. It had been set aside for sightseeing and relaxation, although seven of them had planned to leave early. Would they be allowed to go?

“I like you better with your glasses on.”

Amy didn't look up but continued to sip her coffee, hunched over and pensive.

“The concierge said you might be here.” Marcus brushed the area beside Amy clear of raindrops. “It's nice,” he said but couldn't mask the shiver as he settled onto the cold, wet limestone.

Amy didn't reply but refilled her cup from the thermos and passed it over. Marcus accepted it, warming his hands on the plastic. “Today will probably be worse than last night, now that the excitement has worn off. If there's anything I can do . . . There must be a lot of details.” Amy looked at him for the first time. He was wearing jeans and a light jacket and looked tired.

“Did you come here to coordinate our lies?” she asked coldly. “Get our stories straight for the police?”

“Stories straight? What stories?”

“Well, for one, our friend, the king of Sweden. The guy who hands out bottles of poisoned wine.”

Marcus shrugged. “I wanted it to be special. What's the harm in letting people think it came from Otto? We all do that—like writing a thank-you note and adding your husband's name at the bottom.”

“My thank-you notes don't contain cyanide.”

“Neither did the wine. The poison was in the glass.” Marcus paused. “You're not going to tell the police about the wine?”

“I won't have to. The EEC requires all foreign wines to have the importer's name on the label—an Italian firm in this case. So, unless the king of Sweden buys his wine in Italy . . .”

Marcus whistled. “Thank you. Really. You saved me from an embarrassing little fib.”

“I saved you from nothing. They have a dozen notarized depositions featuring your lie about the king of Sweden.”

“I'll just tell them what I told you. They'll understand.”

“Understand?” She was on her feet, her voice echoing throughout the cavernous arena. Nearby, a bevy of teenage girls looked up from their audio guides. “You still don't get it.” Amy grabbed the plastic cup, tossing the leftover coffee out into the rain, which this time was refusing to stop. “They know you lied about the wine. They know you were Otto's assistant.” With a jerk, she screwed the cup back on the thermos. “One phone call and they'll find out Otto was murdered, too.”

“So what? I didn't kill . . .” His eyes widened. “Is that what this is about? You think I'm a killer?”

“No.” Amy tried it again with more sincerity. “No. You couldn't have thrown the rock at yourself or robbed the rooms. Even you couldn't do that.”

“I didn't do anything.”

“Look at it from their point of view. You worked for Otto. You poured the wine that killed Georgina. You worked for Fabian Carvel. How long before they find out about that?”

“Oh,” Marcus muttered, the last vestige of spirit draining from his voice. “How long have you known?”

“Long enough. Why did you lie about being the real Fidel?”

“I didn't lie—exactly.”

“The hell you didn't. Was it your idea, basing the game on the Carvel murder?”

“No.” He sounded sincere, but then he always did. “As soon as Otto found out I was involved, he began asking questions. It fascinated him.”

Amy nodded. “And so what do we have? Three unsolved murders, all connected by a single thread. You. The cops love this. They call it circumstantial evidence.”

“I didn't kill anyone.”

“And I believe you. Being a liar doesn't automatically make you a killer.”

She was doing her best to stay indignant, but it wasn't easy, not in the face of such helplessness. She smiled, hoping to take the sting out of her words. But Marcus was somewhere else now, staring at the hands in his lap, arranged as if they were still holding the warm plastic cup.

“Is there anyone else on the tour, perhaps another team captain, who knew the Carvels? Someone Fabian knew? Had business dealings with?”

Marcus shrugged. “I wasn't with him all that long.”

“Well, someone was pulling those stunts. It wasn't you, and it wasn't Georgina.”

“Poor Georgina. Dying in a strange country, surrounded by strangers. No one's even mourning, not really.” Marcus glanced up from his hands. For the first time that morning their eyes met—and held. “Jeez, don't look at me that way.”

“What way?”

“That way. That sentimental wince, like you just drove by a cute little rabbit roadkill.”

“You may be arrested, you know. Just so you'll be prepared.”

“I know.”

They both stood, facing each other. Then Marcus gently took the glasses from her hand, wiped the lenses with the tail of his shirt, and placed the frames on her face. “Better.”

Wordlessly, they made their way through the canyon of shadowy arches that led out to the cobblestone piazza. In the street beyond, a busload of Italian schoolchildren was just filing toward the entrance gate. A similar load of Japanese tourists was also climbing down from their motorized chariot, gaping and chattering and taking pictures as they prepared to enter the pagan amphitheater.

Directly overhead, the stubborn, unmoving cloud had nothing more in it than spray, tiny droplets that evaporated almost as soon as they touched the skin. “You want to walk, or you want to cab it?”

“Let's walk,” Marcus said. “It may be a while before I get any more exercise.”

They fell in side by side, hands almost touching. At a street corner Marcus reached out an arm to bar her from stepping out into a bustling herd of motorbikes. She let his arm stay there until the crosswalk was clear.

D
uring Amy's absence, the
polizia
had returned to the hotel, collected passports, and advised everyone not to leave town. Under the circumstances, with another night of lodging still paid for and an unsolved murder in their midst, Amy wasn't surprised by the cooperation her people were showing. She figured she had twelve more hours before the complaints began.

The concierge had arranged taxis, which showed up just as they were finishing a buffet lunch in the red brocade crime scene. For three hours that afternoon, Amy led her troops around the Forum and the Palatine Hill, perched above it. Marcus stuck by her side at the head of the procession, as if hesitant to mingle in the trailing pack. This was understandable. The tour members seemed to spend even more time than usual whispering among themselves.

“You shouldn't have come,” Amy said as she checked his map and turned left up the Via Sacra.

“It beats sitting in my room. And I'm giving them so much pleasure.”

Marcus was still at Amy's side when the two officers saw them entering through the hotel's mahogany doors. Almost simultaneously, the men rose from the lobby's satin upholstered chairs. Both were young and deferential and, like a surprising number of their compatriots, impeccably dressed. The tour stayed back, behind an invisible rope, as the taller officer spoke in Italian. He addressed himself to the air between Amy and Marcus, as if knowing that a translation would be provided.

Amy's voice quavered as she interpreted the single sentence. “Marcus Alvarez, in the name of the Republic of Italy, I arrest you for the murder of Georgina Davis.”

“Very good,” the shorter man said in English. “You are welcome to escort Mr. Alvarez to our station, although a representative from your embassy will be there.”

“I would very much like to,” Amy answered in Italian.

True to the officer's word, an embassy staffer, a cheerful, helpful middle-aged woman, was waiting at the Prefettura di Roma, located at the foot of Via dei Fori Imperiali, about halfway between the hotel and the Colosseum. They had walked right past the imposing building that morning in the misty rain without realizing it.

The staffer followed them into the booking room, her good cheer startlingly out of place. It was apparent that she had been only briefly briefed. This was undoubtedly a misunderstanding, she said blithely. The embassy dealt with this kind of thing all the time. Not to worry. And although both Amy and Marcus knew this was nonsense, still they took a measure of comfort in her self-assured ignorance.

A face still familiar from last night passed by in the hall. Amy excused herself from Marcus and the fingerprinting officer and the embassy staffer, who had just finished reading the arrest warrant and was no longer smiling.

“Capitano Boido,” Amy called out, chasing the man down the long green corridor.

Boido was a thin, angular gentleman, probably not far from retirement, a polite, worldly man whose rear bald spot had years ago merged with his front bald spot, leaving him with a thin laurel wreath of gray, well-manicured hair. As Amy spoke, the captain patiently adjusted his pocket handkerchief.

“Exactly, Signorina Abel.” His tone was soothing. “You wish to know the position of our case against your friend. That is reasonable. Please come to my office.”

For all of Boido's slow charm, the ensuing interview was surprisingly short. Amy barely had time to settle uncomfortably into a tall, straight-backed chair, the only provision in Boido's office for visitors.

The cyanide had been found in the wineglass, the captain explained, not in the bottle or in the food, not even in the single breath mint. Boido seemed perfectly at home in the neat, almost prim office. “According to many depositions drawn up by many expert witnesses . . . ,” he said, a note of irony creeping into his voice, “no one but the victim and the accused touched the wineglass. Our case is very simple.”

“He was keeping the glass from falling. Look, what possible motive could he have for killing her?”

“Who knows how the human mind works?” Boido said philosophically. “Have you another theory?”

“No,” she had to admit.

“You, too, would sign an affidavit saying that no one else touched the glass?”

Amy grunted. “Yes.”

“Just so. Signore Alvarez bought the wine on this same day, obviously with this purpose in mind. A cyanide pill is very small. A stumble and a little sleight of hand and in it goes.”

“If a cyanide pill is so small, then maybe someone just tossed it in.”

“And no one saw this person take aim or noticed a splash? Yes, I will keep your theory in mind.”

Amy returned to the booking room to find that Marcus and the staffer had been shoved on to yet another room, to be put through more of the endless paperwork that had helped make Italian bureaucracy world famous.

She borrowed a piece of paper from the fingerprinting officer and wrote. Her assumption that this note would be misplaced within minutes of its completion made her more honest that she might otherwise have been.

The Marcello's lobby was filled with stacks of familiar-looking suitcases, islands of black and brown dotting the pink marble floor. Amy wended her way through them. Not far away, some of her people stood in a cluster, waiting for their airport taxis. The passports, it seemed, had been released, and the seven early departures were trying to make their planes. There were last-minute hugs now and the checking of tickets, as if the events of yesterday and today were part of some half-forgotten movie.
And why not?
Amy mused as she ventured into the shadows of the dining room.
Life goes on.

“Amy. How is he? Does he have a lawyer?” Judge Baker was seated at one of the small round tables, a cocktail lamp illuminating his notepad. Beside him, Martha Callas sat poised over a similar notepad, her silver bullet reflecting the glow of a mauve lampshade. “Martha and I are staying a few extra days. How's he holding up?”

“He didn't kill Georgina.”

“Of course not,” Martha snorted, as if this was the most ludicrous thing she'd ever heard. “Our first goal, as we see it, will be to get him out of jail. Burt here . . .”

“I made a call to the Italian Bar Association,” Burt said. “They're contacting one of their top criminal lawyers and trying to persuade him to help out.”

“Great. But I can't speak for Marcus. I don't know if he'll be able to afford—”

“Don't worry. The captains all contributed.” Martha waved a small sheaf of checks. “And most of the others.”

“We had to use a bit of coercion on Jolynn. You know Jolynn.”

“Hold on. You think he's innocent?” Amy felt she must be missing something. “Look, either Marcus introduced the cyanide or it was one of the other captains. One of you. No one else even came near the table. You understand . . .”

“Naturally. How do you think we coerced Jolynn?” Martha performed her dramatic laugh with a gesture to match. “I said to her, ‘Jolynn, if you don't contribute, everyone will just assume that you're guilty, including the papers. Amy's already had a phone call from the New York Times.' That was a bluff, of course.”

Burt nodded. “One of us must have slipped the poison into her glass during Marcus's speech, although I really don't see how. Not yet.”

Amy was both pleased and perplexed. “Um, just to play devil's advocate . . .” She cleared her throat, then settled into the table's one remaining chair. “I believe in Marcus, too. But wouldn't it be logical to assume that the one person who could have committed the murder actually did?”

Martha's smirk was full of pity. “Amy, Amy. Some of the best mystery players on earth have spent the past two weeks picking apart clues, constantly thinking about murder. Marcus would not do anything so obvious. Right under our noses? It has to be a setup.”

“The Rome police don't see it that way.”

The judge placed a hand, large and gnarled, on the table, enfolding Amy's two folded hands. “This is not a joke with us. As you know, I admired Georgina a great deal. She didn't deserve to die.”

“Her murder casts a shadow over everyone,” Martha added. “It's our duty to bring the killer to justice.”

“Bring the killer . . . ?” Amy swallowed hard. “You don't actually mean that. You mean pay a private eye, that sort of thing.” She nodded, hoping they would nod back. They didn't. “You're not saying you want to conduct your own murder investigation. Please say that's not what you're saying.”

Burt broke into an eager smile. “Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the police are the best at doing their jobs. They have the manpower and the experience.”

“Not to mention legal authority.”

“But they're not infallible. Believe me, I've seen it. And in this case, the killer isn't some wild kid or jealous spouse. It's one of us, someone who loves mysteries and knows how to misdirect our attention. How can the police solve that? We were witnesses. They weren't. No matter what they think, and I'm sure we made a lousy first impression . . .”

“You did.”

“But we have a skill set. Granted, it's probably good only when pitted against a killer with a similar skill set. But that's exactly the situation we're faced with. We're after a murder-mystery murderer. We owe it to Marcus and Otto and especially Georgina not to let this go unsolved.”

“That's pretty much the oration he used on the rest of us,” Martha said with chiding affection. “No one applauded, but no one objected.”

“Officer Frank went along with this? He should know better.”

Martha nodded. “Frank was one of the more enthusiastic ones. Just between us chickens, I think he has dreams of making the homicide squad.”

“There is a realistic limit to what we can do,” Burt warned. “Besides the money. I can arrange a lawyer. Martha can influence the embassy when required.”

“Texas connections,” Martha explained. “We're everywhere.”

“Frank can use his police contacts in New York to get information. We were hoping that you could help, too.”

“Of course.” Amy felt herself getting defensive. “I wasn't going to abandon him.”

Martha clasped her hands to her breast. “I knew it. I told you Amy would do it.”

“Do it?”

“We were hoping you could take charge,” Martha said demurely, more Southern and helpless than ever.

“What?”

“Everyone agreed,” she continued. “After all, you're so organized and bright and full of energy and . . . Well, you and Marcus do seem to like each other, not in a romantic way perhaps.”

“He's not gay,” Amy blurted.

“I never said he was.”

“You can count on us to back you up.” Burt handed Amy the sheaf of checks. “We made them out to you. We figured Marcus might not be able to do much banking.”

It was only after Amy accepted the checks that the full implication dawned on her. She—Amy, “the Indecisive”—was in charge of an investigation, one unsanctioned by the police departments of two continents, aided by a handful of mystery fanatics, one of whom wouldn't be any help at all.

“I don't mean to harp on this, but you do realize that one of you is a killer? I mean, for real. Not fiction. One of my loyal assistants.”

“There's nothing we can do about that,” said Burt.

“We can't let that stop us,” Martha added. “The killer will just have to take his chances.”

“And so will I,” Amy added.

“Does that bother you?” asked Burt. “I mean, you were planning to help. You weren't just going to abandon him?”

“You're right.” It was amazing how one well-phrased question could make it all simple again. “Yes, all right.”

“Good,” Martha chirped. “So, where do we start?”

Amy sighed. “Well, if we're working together, I suppose you ought to know what I know. The police are going to find out soon enough.”

“This is all tied in to San Diego, isn't it?” Martha dug Burt in the ribs. “I told you it went back to San Diego. This is all so Perry Mason.”

“No, it's not Perry Mason. It's real life. Please remember that. I don't want my head crashed in by another falling rock, okay?”

“What falling rock?” Burt turned a page in his notepad and unscrewed the cap to his fountain pen. “Tell us everything.”

“Okay.” Amy took a deep breath. In retrospect, she would see this as the moment, her crossing of the Rubicon. After this there would be no turning back. “I don't know what any of this means.” A wimpy start, but a start.

“We're waiting,” said Martha.

“Here goes,” said Amy. “It all began five years ago on a country estate on Long Island. . . .”