A

Fashion Felon

in

Rome

Anisa Claire West

This is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and events depicted in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any similarity to actual people, either living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

Dedicated to my mother:

Fellow writer,

Inspirational woman,

& Italian chef extraordinaire

Prologue

West Nyack, New York

Packing My Bags…

Is there any reason why I can’t take my entire wardrobe to Italy? I perused my dresser full of vintage clothes, heartbroken to leave any of the gems behind.  You’re only going to be gone for two weeks, dummy.  I had to remind myself that my pending trip to Rome was strictly business, and I wouldn’t be in the Eternal City for more than a blink of time.  Before I knew it, I would be home sweet home in New York.

Still, I hated the thought of leaving my clingy bellbottom pants and white peasant blouse behind. Additional reminders to self: You are not attending a disco party in the 1970’s.  You are flying into one of the most fashionable cities on earth to compete in a highly coveted design contest.  I sighed, folding lime green jeans, a mauve tee-shirt and high heel boots into my suitcase.  Fashion was meant to be flamboyant, not flat.  Truthfully, I’d parade around in my goofy retro garb all day and then glide across a marble floor in a chic ballroom gown all night if I could.  But for my business trip to Rome, the vivid denims and cotton tee-shirt would have to satisfy my craving for bold couture.

“I’m going to miss you like crazy,” Richard’s deep voice interrupted my packing frenzy.

“I’m going to miss you too,” I murmured absently, still peering into the abyss of a dresser drawer.

“Stop packing for a second.  Come here.  Look at me.” Richard pulled me into his arms and forced my eyes to meet his.

“Come on, sweetie.  I’m only going to be gone a couple of weeks.”

“Yeah, well I don’t want you flirting with any Italian men when you’re over there.  I know the reputation they have…”

“Oh stop!” I hushed him dismissively.  “I’m all yours.  And have been for almost a year.”

“Is that a subtle reminder about our anniversary next month? Because I don’t need reminding.  I’ve got something very special planned for us.” His hazel eyes gleamed with romantic mischief as my imagination wandered to all the possible surprises he could have arranged.  Since meeting in the most unlikely of settings---a sports bar blind date arranged by mutual friends---Richard and I had stuck together like Krazy Glue. 

An inexplicable shock of fear coursed through me as I stared up into my boyfriend’s comforting eyes.  Why did he have to be so sweet? I felt like I was leaving a giant security blanket behind and jumping naked into January-frigid ocean waters.  The man loved me from head to toe, despite the fact that I wasn’t built even remotely like a fashion model.  My curves were better suited to a lingerie catalogue than the runway, and Richard adored every fleshy inch of me.

“Okay, enough of this dramatic goodbye.  Two weeks and I’ll be standing here with you again trying to wrestle the anniversary surprise out of you.” I grinned at him despite the uneasiness that hung over me like cloud cover. 

Richard’s eyes crinkled at the corners with mirth.  “Wrestle it out of me?  Be my guest, Gianna.” He pulled me deeper into a bear hug as our lips fused.

“I better get back to packing.  My flight leaves in 5 hours and I have to be at the airport in 2,” I said gently as he reluctantly released me.

“Why is this actress flying people in from all around the world just to design a dress for her?” Richard asked frowningly.

“Because she can,” I called over my shoulder, zipping shut a compartment of my suitcase.

“It just seems a little extravagant,” Richard continued.

“Well it is.  And so is she.  Sophia Pucci is the highest paid actress in Europe.  She can do whatever she wants.  Just be happy for me, Rich.  And wish me luck,” I urged, as butterflies somersaulted through my gut.

“You don’t need luck, Gianna.  You’ve got artistic talent. More than anyone I’ve ever met.  That’s why you were chosen as a finalist from how many portfolios worldwide? 1,000?” he said solemnly as my cheeks flared with modesty.

“Something like that,” I replied before declaring, ”I love you. Or should I say, io ti amo?”

“Your Italian sounds way too sexy,” Richard groaned as I laughed.

“Relax.  It only sounds sexy to you because you’re American.  Italians hear their language all the time!  I’ll probably sound incredibly boring to them,” I giggled.

“You could never sound boring to anyone.  So remember, if anyone hits on you…”

“I have a boyfriend in New York who loves me,” I finished for him.

“Yes.  But also, those guys could be your long lost cousins.” Richard raised an eyebrow and grinned.

“My grandparents weren’t from Rome, honey.  They came from Naples,” I tried to contain my laughter, but it popped from my throat like champagne bubbles.

“They could still be cousins.  Several times removed,” Richard insisted, continuing to shield his insecurity over my departure with downright silly humor.

“Okay, fine.  I’ll watch out for flirty Italian men.  And inappropriately flirty cousins,” I promised lightly before grabbing his face in my hands and whispering:

“Two weeks, just two weeks…”

Chapter 1

Rome, Italy

Sheraton Convention Center

Discreetly, I smoothed on a fresh layer of sheer lip gloss as people piled into the ballroom.  My flight from New York had been exhilarating and marked the first time I had crossed the Atlantic Ocean.  While others grumbled their way through Customs, I dove into the experience like a wide-eyed child, excitedly flashing my passport and beaming as it received its first stamp.  Dumping my luggage at the hotel, I only had time to grab a pistachio gelato as a makeshift breakfast before taking a taxi over to the hotel where I would come face to face with the woman who held a vital key to my future: Sophia Pucci.

Back home in the people-packed suburb of West Nyack, I had my own tailor shop where I specialized in altering clothes for curvy women like me.  But a fashion designer running a tailor shop is a bit like a gourmet chef dishing out slop at a diner.  Altering clothes was distantly related to the ridiculously competitive fashion design field I hoped to break into, but it wasn’t at all what I wanted to do with my life.  Sophia Pucci, who had starred in countless leading roles over the past two decades, had the power to propel my fledgling career to dizzying heights.

“Do you speak English?” An American-accented young woman with shocking blue eyes asked me as she approached from behind.

“Yes, I do.  I’m American too,” I replied, assessing her elegant navy jumpsuit and flawlessly matching velvet pumps.  Suddenly, I felt inadequate in my curve hugging tee-shirt and equally snug slacks that probably revealed a roll or two of fat.  Perhaps three rolls of fat after that extra creamy gelato I had inhaled for breakfast.

“Oh good.  I don’t speak Italian, so maybe you can help me,” she exhaled nervously and pulled a sheet of paper out of her purse.  “Is this where we’re supposed to meet Sophia Pucci?”

“Yes, as far as I know.  But I don’t think she’s arrived yet,” I replied, glancing around the room, troubled by how many faces filled the venue.  “Are you one of the dress design finalists?”

“Yeah, are you?” The woman’s demeanor tightened as she perceived me as a competitor.

“Yes.  But I thought there were just supposed to be four of us.  Who are all these other people?”

“Jewelry designers.  And hairstylists.  And make-up artists.  To name a few,” a male voice with a decidedly English accent informed brusquely from a few steps away.  “Ms. Pucci has flown in quite an entourage from all around the world.  You two are lucky you made the cut.  She didn’t choose any other Americans.”

“And how do you know all this?” I inquired curiously, noting the man’s sleek dark moustache and arresting green eyes.

“I’m Leonard Jilton.  Ms. Pucci’s assistant.  I organized this whole event.” He extended a hand that I accepted for a shake.

“Oh yes, I remember seeing your name on the application papers.  I’m Gianna Macchio.”

“And I’m Denise Craylin,” my competitor interjected testily.  “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise ladies.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare for Ms. Pucci’s arrival.  Feel free to help yourselves to some hors d’oeuvres and wine that we have on the tables over there.” Leonard Jilton pointed to an impressive buffet as my stomach rumbled. 

Eagerly, I made my way over to the buffet, wondering what the Italians would consider to be a main course. The “hors d’oeuvres” were a veritable banquet of eggplant parmagiana, baked ziti, and several varieties of crusty bread.  The cool pistachio gelato had been sweet, but I needed to sink my teeth into some real food.  Loading up a plate with half a baguette and drenching it with herbed oil, I took an ecstatic bite, trying not to make too much noise.  As I was depositing another bankroll of bread into my mouth, the room suddenly buzzed with energy followed by a burst of applause.

I craned my neck towards the entrance where Sophia Pucci was walking grandly into the ballroom.  Regally tall, she shimmied through the door, clearly enjoying the cheers that erupted all around her.  As she sauntered closer to my corner of the room, I noted how she appeared older than she did on screen.  And all natural, I acknowledged happily.  Her bosom, while full, didn’t stand at a military salute.  And smile lines proudly etched across her olive-toned skin.  Unlike so many American actresses, Sophia Pucci obviously hadn’t had any “work” done.  Taking a liking to her before she even opened her mouth, I hastily swallowed my bread, horrified when a chunk got caught in my throat, causing me to cough raucously.

Sophia glanced over at me as I clenched my hand to my heart, willing the coughing fit to cease and desist.  What a first impression.  Indelicately, I pounded my chest, feeling like everyone in the room was gawking at me as though I were an alien.  Mildly horrified, Sophia watched as I smacked a napkin against my lips, trying in vain to cover up my cough that sounded like a donkey stomping through a barnyard.  At last, the cough subsided and Sophia looked away as my eyes filled with tears from the oxygen loss.  Damn it. I’m going to have to design a dress worthy of Vera Wang to recover from that blunder.

Denise regarded me haughtily from across the room as Sophia Pucci finally spoke in flawless English.  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman.  Grazie for joining me here in Roma.  As you know, you have been chosen to audition to be part of my style team for the Cannes Film Festival.”

Audition?  Yeah, she really was an actress.  I listened with rapt attention, chills running through me at the mention of the glittering Cannes Film Festival held annually on the French Riviera.

“Four of you will compete in each category.  There are sections designated throughout the ballroom where you can meet your competitors. Today is only round one.  The dress designers will each sketch an original idea for a gown that will complement my figure.”

I swallowed anxiously as I learned that I would have to sketch a design cold, without any preparation or visual aid.  My jet lag threatened to set in as I contemplated the performance pressure.  Migrating over to the section labeled Dress Designers, I stood at a distance from Denise and inspected our other two competitors.  Not surprisingly, one was male, with an untamed rush of wavy black hair and searing brown eyes.  Powerfully built, he didn’t resemble the stereotypical wispy male fashion designer and looked more like a Spanish bullfighter.  My instincts weren’t far off target as he introduced himself to the group. 

“I’m Tomaso.  From Barcelona.  Where are you ladies from?”

Denise and I took turns introducing ourselves as the fourth member of our group piped up.  “And I’m Evelyn Flowers.  From London if my accent didn’t already give me away.” She smiled amiably for the group, lingering just a beat too long on Tomaso’s face as he reciprocated with a toothy grin of his own.

Blank sketch pads and sharpened pencils were laid out for our “auditions.” Ringing reminiscent of a schoolyard bell reverberated through the ballroom, indicating that we could begin drawing our concepts.  I closed my eyes, envisioning Sophia’s mature hourglass body and what style would best flatter her curves.  I opened my eyes, glancing at my twiggy female competitors and brawny male one.  If anyone amongst us knew how to dress up a curvy woman, it was certainly me.  Inspired with confidence, I sketched the silhouette of a model and overlaid a long, mermaid-style gown with a cleavage-enhancing sweetheart neckline.  Selecting a ruby colored pencil that would highlight Sophia’s olive skin, I filled in the lines of the dress, adding beadwork detail to the top half and leaving plenty of room for accentuating jewelry.

Like a student cheating on an exam, Denise looked over at my sketch pad as I protectively turned away to shield my idea from her view.  Evelyn’s pad was conspicuously blank as she made constipated expressions, apparently trying to drum up an idea.  Tomaso, meanwhile, was furiously sketching his design onto paper and utilizing a rainbow of colored pencils.  Judging his design as too intricate, I felt confident in the simplicity of my idea.  Just from 15 minutes in Sophia’s presence, I intuitively felt that she was gregarious enough to desire a red gown but sufficiently elegant to prefer a classic design.

Sophia circled the room, peering over shoulders to glimpse the early stages of what would become her persona for the Cannes Film Festival.  “Is she receiving a special award or something?” Tomaso wondered aloud as he chose yet another colored pencil to complicate his design.

“I don’t think so,” I replied, grinning at how similar his reaction was to Richard’s.  Men, fashion designers or not, simply couldn’t understand the importance of a woman’s attire.

“There’s going to be a red carpet,” Denise cut in.  “Actresses from all over the world will be there, and most of them will be younger than Sophia.” She lowered her voice to a shrill whisper.  “The cameras will be flashing, and she needs to look good.”

“Exactly,” Evelyn concurred, giving Tomaso a look of blended amusement and appreciation as she flipped her sunny blond hair.  Glancing at her hands, I noticed a sizable diamond on her left ring finger.  She was quite the coquette for an engaged woman.

“So what do you do in Barcelona, Tomaso?” Denise jumped in foolishly.

“Um, I design clothes,” he deadpanned. “But in my spare time, I like to take my speedboat out on the water.” His eyes sparkled with practiced charm.

“Speedboat?” Denise parroted.  “Wow!

“I love boating,” Evelyn added.  “It’s always been my dream to own a yacht.”

“Yeah, I think a lot of people dream of owning a yacht,” I said sarcastically, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at the women’s vapid chatter.

Casting a feline glare my way, Evelyn persisted, “How long have you owned the speedboat?”

“Since my 18th birthday.  It was a gift from my parents,” Tomaso revealed as Denise and Evelyn bordered on salivating.  So the guy came from money? So what? I’d take my hard working project manager Richard any day over a spoiled pretty boy like Tomaso.

Mercifully, Sophia glided over to our station, saving me from the mind-numbing emptiness of the conversation and wearing a poker face as she examined our sketches.  “Hmm, very nice,” she said to no one in particular.  “Write your names at the top and then leave the sketches on your chairs,” she instructed like a school marm.

“Are we finished?” I asked with surprise.

“For today, yes.  Round two will take place next week when I eliminate one of you and have the other three work with fabric to bring your designs to life.  And even if I don’t ultimately choose your dress to wear to the festival, I may like it enough to wear elsewhere.” She dangled the possibility like an intangible golden carrot.  I didn’t really care where Sophia wore my dress design.  She could wear it to the grocery store for all I cared as long as she wore it somewhere.  That way, I would receive international exposure and be able to shut down my tailor shop.  In its place, I could open up my dream boutique, selling nothing but evening gowns for the gloriously full-figured woman.

Placing my sketch face-down on the folding chair, I rose and bypassed the buffet table, even though I was craving more “hors d’oeuvres.” After my explosive coughing fit, I would never eat anything in front of Sophia Pucci again.  No, I wouldn’t even drink a glass of water.  I needed her to think of me as a competent professional, not a bumbling moron.

Hailing a cab to take me back to my hotel, situated near the shimmering Fontana di Trevi, I exhaled with relief that I had jumped through my first hoop in Italy.  I would call Richard later to share everything with him, but for now, all I wanted was to fall into a deep sleep.

***

I spent the next week as a happy-go-lucky tourist, exploring all of Rome’s treasures from Il Colosseo to Piazza Navona.  Frequently missing Richard, I thought how much more fun I would have with him by my side, experiencing the Italian wonders with me.  Indulgently, I filled my belly with greasy pesto pizza, heaps of pasta swimming in naughty cream sauces, and enough gelato to fill an Olympic size swimming pool.  Feeling about 5 pounds heavier at the end of the week, I waddled back to the convention center to face my next challenge.

A hush fell over the entire ballroom as I entered, imagining that everyone was thinking, ‘Ugh, it’s that crazy woman who almost choked to death!’  Ignoring the stares, I walked over to my designated area and joined my fellow designers.  Denise’s expression was solemn as Evelyn stared down at the carpeted floor.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, startled by their somberness.

“Tomaso was killed in a boating accident this morning,” Denise revealed gravely as I gasped in horror.

Chapter 2

“That’s terrible!” I cried in disbelief, a vibrant vision of the young man floating through my mind.  How could he be dead?

“It’s awful,” Denise concurred, unable to suppress a shiver.  “It was all over the Italian news this morning.”

“Was anyone else hurt?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.  From what I heard, his boat smashed into a rock.  Somehow he lost control of it,” Denise replied.

“That’s what I heard too,” Evelyn said shakily.  “They don’t know what caused it, but they think it could be some kind of mechanical failure.”

“Or it could have been just an accident,” I suggested.  “How early this morning was he on the water? If it was before dawn, then maybe he didn’t see the rock.”

“But he said he’s been boating since he was 18, remember?” Denise protested.  “I don’t think someone with that level of experience would make a careless mistake like that.”

“Well, however it happened, it’s absolutely terrible,” I exhaled a trembling breath and slumped my shoulders.

Directly in front of me, a set of nude mannequins stood waiting to be dressed up in sample gowns.  Fabrics and scissors lay on an oblong table, untouched.  How could we focus on such a frivolous project after receiving the harrowing news of Tomaso’s untimely death? 

“Did you know that Tomaso was only 25?” Evelyn asked sullenly as I flinched.

“Only 25? This keeps getting worse and worse.” I shook my head sadly, thinking how ‘untimely’ wasn’t a strong enough word to describe how Tomaso’s life had been nipped in the bud.

In contrast to her first grand entrance, Sophia walked solemnly into the room as all eyes immediately fixed on her.  She parted her lips to take a breath, as though poised to make an announcement.  Obviously, the news of Tomaso’s boating accident had reached her as well.

“I would like to say buona mattina, ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “But it is not a good morning at all.  You have probably all heard about the death of Tomaso Alegres.  Very, very sad.” She bowed her head respectfully as I wondered if she was just putting on an act.  Something in her demeanor was insincere, plastic, Oscar-seeking. 

She gathered up a dramatic breath and affixed her hand to her brow. “I don’t know why this happened.  You can imagine the scandal this will cause.  I was trying to do a good deed by inviting you amateur designers to Rome.  It was supposed to make me look good…” she stopped herself as I realized the real reason she had brought us to Italy: for publicity.  Certainly, she could afford Armani’s finest attire and the most outrageously priced pair of Jimmy Choos.  She didn’t need a bunch of no-name wannabes to dress her up at a discount.  No, Sophia wanted to draw attention to herself, maybe even appear heroic for sparking the careers of emerging artists.

Before Sophia could continue her theatrical monologue, a group of police officers barreled into the ballroom.  A short, stocky man at the front of the pack tapped Sophia on the shoulder and whispered something into her ear.  She visibly stiffened, nodded, and addressed us once again.

“I’m sorry to inform you that today’s round two elimination and audition has been postponed.  Come back next week at this time and we will try to move forward.”

Next week at this time? Next week at this time, I was supposed to be on a plane back to New York! And back to Richard.  Plus, I had only budgeted for two weeks in a Roman hotel.  I couldn’t afford to stretch my budget even one more night.  The cautious, wise side of me screamed to go home now.  Just get on a plane and go.  This adventure had already fallen apart at the seams.  But the reckless, daring side whispered to me to stay and see it through. 

Bewildered by the bizarre turn of events, I made my way towards the exit as a pair of officers approached Evelyn and Denise.  Pretending not to notice, I kept walking, wondering if I was hallucinating as I heard someone whisper:

“It was no accident.  Someone cut the brakes on Tomaso’s boat.  He was murdered.”

***

In the safe cavern of my hotel room, I closed the curtains, contemplating whether I should call Richard.  If I told Richard that someone in my group had died---perhaps even been murdered---he would be on the first plane to Rome.  And I didn’t want to disrupt his life, especially his job.  He was always juggling so many projects at his pressure cooker Manhattan job that I didn’t want to add any stress to the mix.  Plus, I was in no imminent danger as far as I could see.

Denise and Evelyn popped into my mind as I wondered why the officers had approached them.  Were they suspects?  Both of them had flirted rather shamelessly with Tomaso.  Had one---or both---of them become involved with him? But we had all met just a week ago.  It seemed too soon for anyone to become romantically linked, or had I been in a secure relationship for too long?  Yes, I was being naïve.  Tomaso was a gorgeous Latin man who could have easily seduced both Denise and Evelyn, among other women.

Then there was the issue of accident versus homicide.  If Tomaso had just arrived in Rome, then he couldn’t have made any enemies yet.  Except perhaps for a scorned woman like Denise or Evelyn if they had indeed been intimate with him. But did either of those women have even the slightest knowledge of boats and how to sever a brake line? Evelyn had mentioned her desire to own a speedboat, but she could have just been spewing hot air.  She probably knew as much about boats as Sophia knew about poverty.  Nothing.

Anyone who clipped the brakes would have had to possess at least a rudimentary knowledge of boats and electrical wiring.  And he or she would have to have known which boat was Tomaso’s.  Presumably, Tomaso didn’t lug his own boat all the way from Barcelona.  So he must have rented a boat from somewhere in Italy.

I scavenged around in my purse, retrieving a full color pocket map of Rome. Unfolding the map, I visually scanned for blue lines and the nearest body of water.  Tourist cruises ran daily along the Tiber River, which was also the closest waterway to the convention center.  Perhaps that’s where Tomaso had met his demise…

My cell phone ringing snatched me out of my investigating.  Seeing Richard’s info on the screen, I smiled and picked up.  “Hi sweetie!”

“What’s wrong?” He asked reflexively.  Darn it, I had tried my best to sound normal, but I guess he knew me too well to be fooled.

“What do you mean?” I feigned ignorance.  “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Babe, I could hear it in your voice.  You sound very tense.  What’s going on over there?” The blaring of police sirens and other city noises transmitted through the phone, telling me that Richard was in his midtown office.

“Nothing.  I guess I’m just a little homesick.” And that wasn’t a lie.  The thrill of spooning gelato into my belly every day had faded the moment I found out about Tomaso’s death.

“Well, you’ll be back here in a week.  And believe me, I’m counting the days.”

“So am I.” I bit my lower lip to prevent myself from telling Richard anything about the unfortunate event that had snaked its way into my life.

“How’s everything been going with the design competition? Did Sophia pick the winner yet?”

“No, not yet.  I’ll let you know when…” I trailed off as the ringing of the hotel phone startled me.  “Um, can you hold on a second, sweetie? Someone’s calling me at the hotel.”

I tossed my cell onto the bed as I picked up the hotel phone from the nightstand.  “Hello?”

“Signorina Macchio?” A firm male voice inquired.

“Yes,” I replied nervously.

“This is Detective Giancarlo Cantino.  I’d like to have a word with you regarding the death of Tomaso Alegres.”

Chapter 3

The burly, raven haired police officer stood menacingly in the hotel lobby.  Next to the uniformed giant was a startlingly handsome man in a black leather jacket and form fitting jeans.  They looked directly at me as I stumbled over my own feet, petrified of whatever inquisition awaited me.  Maybe I shouldn’t have hustled Richard off the phone without letting him know the possible peril I could be in.  I could easily be whisked away to the police station without anyone back home knowing where to find me.

“Detective Cantino?” I ventured, extending my hand as a peace gesture.

Curtly, he shook my hand, nodded, and led me down a winding corridor.  The leather-clad hunk followed at a close distance as neither man spoke.  Opening the door to an empty conference room, Detective Cantino gestured for me to go inside.  I complied, following his next cue to have a seat at a conference table.  Both men sat across from me and regarded me gruffly.  Under different circumstances, it would have been exciting to be in the same room as two such virile Italian men. 

“You are aware of the death of Tomaso Alegres, yes?” Detective Cantino began, still making no attempt to introduce the man adjacent to him.

“Unfortunately, yes.  I just found out this morning when I went to the Sheraton to do an, um, interview for Sophia Pucci.” I didn’t know how to explain that I was “auditioning” to be the actress’s personal fashion designer.  These grim-faced men didn’t look like they would understand such a trifling enterprise.

“We are aware of the competition Signora Pucci has arranged here in Rome,” Detective Cantino informed as my eyebrows rose in surprise.

“You are?” And who is we? I wanted to ask.  The whole police department? Or just the unidentified Clive Owen lookalike brooding silently at the table?

“Yes, and we’re trying to get ahold of anyone who may have come into contact with Tomaso during the past week since he left Barcelona.  Did you establish a personal relationship with Tomaso Alegres, Signorina Macchio?” The officer narrowed his gaze at me as I shook my head reflexively.

“Not at all.  I actually only met him once.  The first day that Sophia Pucci had us all gather at the Sheraton,” I skipped a breath, wondering if I should tell the cop about how brazenly flirtatious both Denise and Evelyn had been. 

“Were you going to say something else?”

“Um, well, I was just going to say that I think there may have been other women in our group who could have established a personal relationship with him,” I mimicked the officer’s formal language.

“And who would you be referring to?”

“I don’t remember their last names.  But one of them is American.  Her name is Denise.  And then there was this British girl named Evelyn. Wait a second, her last name was Flowers.  Yes, Evelyn Flowers. Anyway, they both seemed pretty interested in Tomaso…” I stopped myself and gulped.  “Is it true that Tomaso’s death really wasn’t an accident?  When I was walking out of the ballroom earlier, I overheard someone say that the brakes on his boat were cut.”

“I can’t confirm or deny that information,” Detective Cantino said sternly.  “Can you give me a rundown of your activities from yesterday at 3:00 pm until now?”

“Sure I can,” I tried to conceal my nervousness.  Was I a suspect simply because Tomaso had been a competitor of mine?  “Let’s see, yesterday afternoon, I did a little shopping.  I bought some souvenirs for my boyfriend back in New York.”

“What did you purchase? Do you have the receipts?” Detective Cantino interrupted.

“I think I have the receipts in my room.  I just bought him some little trinkets, like a shot glass, some postcards…I don’t really have a lot of money to spend,” I confessed. 

“Okay, and what did you do after shopping?”

The mystery man cleared his throat, reminding me of his unexplained presence.  I glanced from him to Detective Cantino, waiting for one of them to explain.  But still neither man uttered a word.  “Okay, after shopping I went to Il Mulino Ristorante and had shrimp parmagiana for dinner.”

“Did you drink anything?”

“A glass of Chianti,” I admitted, feeling silly for having indulged in a glass of wine alone.  But how could anyone come to Italy and not enjoy a glass of silky smooth red wine?!

“Then what?”

“Then I took a taxi back here and watched a little TV.  Read a book that I brought with me from home.  And went to sleep.”

“And this morning?” Detective Cantino pressed on.

“I slept in.  Maybe til around 9.  Then I grabbed some breakfast from the hotel’s buffet.  After that, I walked around the city for a little while until it was time to go to the Sheraton and work on my dress design.” I sighed, hoping the chronology would satisfy the investigator.  Then, it struck me that I didn’t have anyone who could corroborate my alibi.  I had been spending all my time alone.  I wriggled around in my seat, trying not to betray the mounting anxiety I felt inside.

Detective Cantino nodded slowly.  “That sounds about right.”

“What do you mean?” I asked warily.

“We’ve already had a look at the hotel’s security camera footage.  You were recorded returning early yesterday evening and leaving the hotel late this morning.”

“Oh, o---kay,” I said, confused.  “But I don’t understand what my activities of the past 24 hours have to do with anything anyway.  I heard that Tomaso was killed early this morning in the boating accident.”

“He was,” Detective Cantino confirmed.  “But he purchased the speedboat at 3 o’clock yesterday afternoon.  Sometime between then and this morning…a suspicious event took place.” The officer parsed his words, but I knew what he really meant.  The suspicious event was that someone cut the brakes on Tomaso’s boat.

“Wait a second, Tomaso bought the boat? Not rented it?” I exclaimed.  “Why would he buy a boat in Italy if he was going to return to Spain in a week or two?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.  Something doesn’t add up,” Detective Cantino said.

“Although I guess he could afford it,” I said, thinking out loud.  “I do remember him mentioning that his parents bought him a boat when he was just 18.  So I assume he came from money.”

“He did,” Detective Cantino affirmed.  “That’s another fork in the road we have to take.  See if someone was after his money.  A life insurance policy, perhaps.”

The candid manner which Detective Cantino had shifted into set me at ease.  Until a scary thought dawned on me.  Police officers were clever manipulators who used all kinds of underhanded tactics in order to make their suspects feel comfortable.  Befriending the suspect was the first step towards extracting a confession…true or otherwise.  Not wanting to fall head first into a carefully laid mouse trap, I chose my next words prudently.

“Detective Cantino, since you said that my alibi already checked out with the hotel security footage, is it okay if I get on with my day? I’d be glad to help if there’s anything else I can do, but…”

Detective Cantino eagerly cut in.  “There is something else you can do.” He turned to his left, finally acknowledging the stony faced Adonis at his side.  “This is Massimo Letrone.”

Massimo reached a large hand across the table and offered a shake.  His hand clamped firmly over mine, ever so slightly pressing into my delicate bones.  Using all his strength, the man could have easily crushed every bone in my hand.

“Massimo is a private investigator.  He was hired by the Alegres family to work alongside the police,” Detective Cantino explained as Massimo’s eyes burned into mine.  The first fragments of raw attraction pieced together in my body, so I tried to cast them aside, thinking of my loyal Richard and how he was waiting at home for me.

“Tomaso’s family has already hired an investigator?” I marveled aloud.

“The Alegres family is one of the most powerful in all of Spain.  They’re practically a dynasty.  Look them up online and you’ll see what I’m talking about,” Detective Cantino said as Massimo kept staring at me, speaking to me with his eyes but still not verbalizing at all.

“Okay, and what do I have to do with all this?” I asked skeptically.

“The Rome Police Department would like you to work with Massimo to help solve the crime,” Detective Cantino informed, looking at me expectantly as I wondered if perhaps Massimo didn’t speak English. 

“Help solve the crime?” I squeaked.  I was way out of my element now.  I had come to Italy to design a dress, not solve a murder!  “But why me? I have no experience in investigating murders! How could I possibly help?”

“We’re fairly certain that you had nothing to do with Tomaso’s death.  And we’re also fairly certain that someone in your group did,” Detective Cantino asserted as Massimo nodded, finally displaying a modicum of understanding.

“You mean Denise or Evelyn?” I guessed.

“Perhaps.  But there could be other suspects as well,” Detective Cantino suggested elusively as I scanned my brain to recall all the people I had met at the Sheraton.  I didn’t know who most of them were other than for those in my ill-fated group.

“Okay, but I still don’t understand how it is that I’m supposed to help,” I argued, feeling flustered.

“I’ll let Massimo take it from here.  I have a lot of work to do.  Please don’t let us down, Signorina Macchio.  An innocent 25 year old man is dead, and we need to find out why.” With those heart-tugging words, Giancarlo Cantino exited the conference room, leaving me alone with a strange, albeit gorgeous, man whose voice I had yet to hear.

“Bene. Si parla italiano?” Massimo asked, his voice rich and smooth like the Chianti I had sipped with my dinner last night.

“Yes, I speak Italian,” I answered in English, too flustered to enunciate in a foreign tongue.

“Okay, well maybe English is easier for you.  Not easier for me.  I studied in London a long time ago.  But I will try.” Shyness tinged Massimo’s lightly accented English as I exhaled, grateful that he could speak my language.

“Your English sounds fine to me.  I think you’re underestimating yourself,” I said gently as he bowed his head and grinned.

“Thank you.  Okay.  Gianna.  Will you come with me tomorrow?” He asked hesitantly, like he was trying on a pair of training wheels for his shiny new bicycle.

“Come with you where?” I asked as my heart flipped over.  In my pre-Richard days, I would have gone anywhere with a man like Massimo.  Anywhere. 

“To find Denise and Evelyn.  I am tracking them through Rome.  And we can have you…run into them by accident…”

“You mean follow them and then I pretend to be randomly running into them?”

“Yes, and then you lure them back to the Sheraton.  The police already set up the conference room with hidden audio and video equipment to record everything.” Massimo sounded increasingly confident as he poured oil onto his rusty English.

“But Sophia told us not to come back until next week.  She said that the event was postponed.”

“Not anymore.  Not for your group.  You will still design a dress for Sophia Pucci.  The Cannes Film Festival hasn’t been cancelled because of one man’s tragic death,” Massimo said gravely.  “She still wants a dress.  And she still wants publicity.  If anything, this murder will give her the publicity she was craving.”

“I don’t think so,” I protested.  “She seemed pretty upset today.  Like her whole plan had been ruined.  Kind of like Tomaso’s death was an inconvenience.” I shuddered, remembering how callous the drama queen had behaved.

“All publicity is good.  Even bad publicity,” Massimo said wryly.  “Sophia Pucci will be fine.  Better than fine.  Before, she was just going to be a guest at the festival, but now she will be the star.  And that’s exactly the way she likes it.”

Chills ran through me as Massimo spoke, but they weren’t from the attraction I felt to him.  Swallowing audibly, I whispered, “You paint Sophia Pucci to be a very shallow person.  Is it possible that she could have had Tomaso killed in order to bring attention to herself?”

Chapter 4

Massimo’s full-lipped smirk was so enigmatic that I couldn’t tell whether he was mocking me or agreeing with me.  Fluorescent light outlined his features, revealing a seductive 5 o’clock shadow that fair haired Richard never had.  I looked away from my Roman temptation, not wanting to fall into decadence and decline like the ancient city had.

“You have a suspicious mind, Gianna.  You’re going to be a great detective,” Massimo commented, his smirk twisting into alluring curves.

“I’m not a detective.  I’m a fashion designer,” I reminded him, still not meeting his dangerous eyes.

“Well starting now, you’re going to be a detective,” he insisted as I forced a semi grin.

I wanted to tell him that even Shaggy and Scooby Doo would make better crime solvers than me, but I kept my mouth shut.  Massimo had probably never heard of the cartoon duo and would jump to the conclusion that I’m an idiot for mentioning them.

“So what do you say, Gianna? I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby at 8:30 tomorrow morning?  Va bene?”

“Sure, I guess.  But whatever investigating I help the police with has to be finished within a week.  I have a plane ticket back to New York exactly 7 days from today, and I can’t afford to extend my trip,” I told him candidly.

“I’m sure Tomaso’s family would pay you to stay in Italy a little longer if they feel you are making progress solving their son’s murder.”

“It doesn’t matter.  I have a business to run back in New York.  I can’t stay away longer than my two scheduled weeks.”

“What kind of business? A dress shop?” Massimo inquired curiously.

“No, not exactly.  I’m a tailor,” I couldn’t suppress a sigh.  No matter how delicious it sounded to call myself a fashion designer, the truth was that I was a tailor who snipped up and restitched outfits for a living.  Suddenly, the pipe dream of being Sophia Pucci’s personal designer seemed as unlikely as starring alongside Julia Roberts in her next blockbuster.

“Tailor is a very respected career in Italy,” Massimo asserted, perceiving my negativity.

“I know.” I grinned in earnest.  “A lot of Italian immigrants came to New York in the early twentieth century and set up tailor shops.  I guess I’m carrying on the tradition.”

“You are an Italian beauty,” Massimo breathed like an incantation as I averted my eyes to the eggshell white wall.

Instead of mumbling, I have a boyfriend, and embarrassing myself for not being able to accept a little compliment, I glanced at my cell phone clock and feigned shock.  “Oh, look how late it is! I have to get going.”

Massimo’s face darkened as he nodded curtly.  “I will see you tomorrow morning at 8:30.  Sharp.  In the lobby.”

Bolting out of his chair, Massimo left the room abruptly as I cringed inwardly.  What a clumsy way to reject a compliment.  It would have been better if I had told him about Richard.  Feeling like a jackass, I collected my purse and headed to the elevator.  Maybe a little room service order of fried calamari with spicy dipping sauce would make me feel better.

***

Massimo was already in the lobby when I arrived there punctually at 8:27 the next morning.  Facing the road, he stared through the glass doors with his hands in his pockets.  He looked so pensive that I didn’t want to disturb him.  My boots tapped loudly in the echoing lobby as I approached him from behind.

He swiftly turned around, appraising me in my skin tight slacks and curve hugging blouse.  “Buona mattina,” he clipped.

“Good morning to you,” I replied, trying to sound cheerful and atone for my previous rude behavior.

“There’s been a change of plans.  We’re going directly to the Sheraton this morning,” he informed, waving for me to walk ahead of him as we left the hotel.

“Really? Why?”

“Don’t worry about why.  Just worry about getting as much information as you can from Denise and Evelyn,” Massimo said gruffly, opening the door to a black Fiat.

“They’re going to be there?” I asked, sliding into the passenger seat and noting 2 cigar stubs and an empty coffee cup near the gear shift. The smoky aroma permeated the car’s interior, sending me into a reverie of my late father who had adored lighting up potent Cuban cigars and smoking them after supper.

“I hope you don’t mind the smell of cigars,” Massimo said with a huff.

“Oh not at all.  My father used to smoke them.  I love…” I stopped myself, apprehensive to share any personal information with the stranger.

“Good.  Anyway, yes, the women will be there.  Along with Sophia of course.  She’s been informed of the plan, but Denise and Evelyn have not,” Massimo revealed, veering onto the gridlocked main road.

“So I guess you didn’t take my idea seriously, then,” I mused.

“What idea? That Sophia Pucci is the murderer?” Massimo chuckled condescendingly, reaching for his coffee cup and swearing in Italian when he found it empty.  “It was an interesting theory, I have to admit, but not very probable.”

“You really do speak English very well,” I commented, wondering why he had been so unsure of himself the day before.  “You said you lived in London?”

“Yes, I went to college there.  Lived there for 4 years.  But that was more than a decade ago, and I speak Italian all the time, so it’s hard to keep my English fresh,” Massimo sighed, cranking the window down and allowing a breeze to mix with the cigar remnants.

“It seems pretty fresh to me,” I observed, watching the sights in slow motion.  The rush hour traffic was the perfect opportunity for me to capture a leisurely view of Rome…without a ticking taxi cab meter stressing me out.

“Thanks.  Now let me brief you on what I need you to do.” Massimo glanced over at me and waited for me to meet his gaze.

Taking my eyes off a charming brick oven pizzeria, I fixed my gaze on a more distressingly charming sight.  “I’m listening.  Io ascolto,” I emphasized in Italian.

“Bene.  Sophia’s auditions for the dress designers, and only the dress designers, will resume today.  You’re going to introduce me to everyone as your boyfriend.”

“My what?!” I cried, startled.

“Your boyfriend,” Massimo repeated calmly.  “That will explain why I’m at your side all day.  Otherwise, I’ll just look like a lurking pervert.” His eyes glittered with naughtiness as I turned away again and stared out the window.

“This is ridiculous,” I argued.  “So now you want me to be both an investigator and an actress? Why don’t you just pretend to be Sophia’s boyfriend? She shouldn’t have a problem with the role.”

“Sophia is 46.  I’m 34.  It wouldn’t be realistic for us to be a couple.”

“Why not? Can’t she have a boy toy? She has everything else! Besides, that’s not such a huge age difference.”

“In Italy it is,” Massimo insisted.

“But not if we were talking about a man being 12 years older than a woman.  That would be perfectly normal, right?” I was getting riled up now, my American ideologies always trumping my Italian roots.

“As much as I’d love to have a feminist debate with you,” Massimo drawled sarcastically, “this really isn’t the time.”

My eyes blazed at him, but I didn’t press the issue. “Fine,” I submitted. “You’re my boyfriend.  Where did we meet?”

“In New York.  You are from Manhattan, right?”

“No, I’m from West Nyack.  It’s a suburb about an hour away from Manhattan.”

“West Nyack?” Massimo echoed blankly.  “Never heard of it.  But okay, West Nyack.  And we’ve been together for a year.”

I cringed at the irony, reminded of my real one-year anniversary that was right around the corner.  What would Richard think if he knew I was driving around Rome with some suave private investigator trying to solve a homicide of a Spanish Casanova I had only met once?  I shuddered to think how upset he would be at the crazy situation I had landed myself in.

“Okay, here we are.” Massimo swerved into the Sheraton parking lot, deftly parking the sleek Fiat and turning off the engine.  “Any questions?”

“Yeah, only about a million,” I grumbled, reaching for the door handle.

“Relax.  You’re doing a good thing, Gianna.  We’re going to get this murderer.  Maybe not today, but soon.”

Nodding as a response, I climbed out of the car and summoned a deep breath.  To my horror, Massimo circled the car to where I was standing and interlaced my fingers with his.  I pierced him with a deadly glare, but he seemed unaffected.

“We’re in character now.  And we can’t break character, no matter what,” Massimo said firmly as I limply held his hand, trying not to notice how powerful and smooth his grip was.

We strolled into the ballroom hand in hand as I fought to keep my cool.  “There you are! We’ve been waiting for you!” A voice called.  I looked up, recognizing the chiseled features of Leonard, Sophia’s British assistant.

“Hi Leonard,” I greeted, wondering if he also knew about the plan to corner Denise and Evelyn. Massimo nudged me as I shot him another warning stare before saying, “Leonard, this is my boyfriend, Massimo.”

Now it was Massimo’s turn to give me a menacing look.  Immediately, I realized the reason for his anger.  I should have invented a name.  Stupid me.  I had introduced a private investigator and given away his real name.  I matched Massimo’s toxic look as if to say, ‘you should have given me more instructions! I’m doing the best I can over here!’

“Nice to meet you, Massimo.  And don’t worry, Sophia already told me who you really are.” Leonard said amiably, shaking his hand.  “Will you be joining us today?”

“Sophia told you?” Massimo demanded furiously. “That’s just great. Let’s keep it quiet.”

“Of course,” Leonard replied coolly.

“Anyway, I wanted to see Gianna in action,” Massimo said without a hint of theatre.  The man had clearly done a lot of undercover role playing in his life.  “And I thought it would be nice to meet the great Sophia Pucci too.”

“Yes, Sophia is a pearl,” Leonard said dutifully.  “I’m sure she’ll sign an autograph for you.”

“Great,” Massimo replied.  “Now where should we go?”

Leonard pointed to a dark corner of the room where Denise and Evelyn were deep in conversation.  “The other dress designers are already working with their mannequins over there.  Or at least they’re supposed to be.” Leonard frowned.  “Looks like they’re gossiping.  Silly women.  Anyway, there’s an array of fabrics and beads and sequins and so forth available for Gianna to work with.  Sophia will be here a bit later on to assess the fashions.”

“Okay, thanks Leonard,” Massimo said, flashing a flawless smile. 

Denise and Evelyn glanced up curiously as I glided towards them with Massimo still gripping my hand.  “Hey girls,” I called casually.

“Hey,” Denise replied, unabashedly raking her eyes up and down the length of Massimo’s body.  “And who is this?”

“I’m Gianna’s boyfriend,” Massimo took the lead as both women continued to hawk him.  “But just pretend I’m not here.  Do your designing and ignore me.”

“I don’t know how anyone could ignore you,” Denise muttered under her breath.

Ignoring the swooning woman, I flipped open my sketch pad and reacquainted myself with the red mermaid dress I had designed for Sophia.  Crimson fabrics and metallic decorations beckoned from the table like gifts under the tree on Christmas morning.  Forgetting about the investigation for a moment, I returned to the real reason I had come to Italy: to launch my career.  Humming softly, I caressed the fabrics and pictured each one wrapped around Sophia Pucci’s voluptuous body.

Denise snuck up alongside me and whispered like a hissing boa constrictor.  “Your boyfriend is gorgeous!  Even hotter than Tomaso, if that’s possible!”

“Thanks,” I faked a smile and kept my eyes on the materials. 

“You know what?” She whispered in a lower king cobra hiss.

“What?”

“I think I know who murdered him.”

Chapter 5

Denise was hovering so close to me that I could smell her breath, cold and clean like Doublemint gum.  I sensed Massimo moving towards us to eavesdrop on the exchange.  Supposedly, the whole ballroom had been bugged with equipment, so even if he couldn’t decipher Denise’s hissing, any clues she provided would be recorded.

“Really? Who?” I tried to sound calm, though my nerves were splitting apart.

“I shouldn’t even say it,” Denise waffled, drawing into herself.  “You’ll just think I’m crazy.”

“No I won’t,” I assured.  “Who do you think it was? Evelyn?” I went out on a limb as Denise looked at me with astonishment.

“No! What makes you say that?”

“Um, I don’t know.  Forget what I said.  Just tell me who you think it is.”

Denise took a pregnant pause, looking deep into my chocolate eyes as though trying to discern whether she could trust me.  Massimo stood a few feet away with his back to us, but I knew he was listening.  “Okay.  I’ll just say it.  I think it was Sophia!”

I flinched, taken aback that Denise had the same instinct that I had.  Massimo had laughed off my supposition that Sophia Pucci could be the killer, but maybe it wasn’t so humorous after all.  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because I checked her out online.  Hundreds of pages about her acting career came up early in the search results.  But if you keep going, you’ll find out something very shady about her history,” Denise whispered, sounding more like a conspiratorial schoolgirl now than a snake.

“Shady how? Does she have a criminal record?”

“Not exactly.  But she had an early marriage.  Apparently, she got married at 21 and was a widow by the time she was 22,” Denise unveiled.

“That’s terrible! Was her husband young too?”

“Yes.  He was 23.  His name was Aldo and he was also an aspiring actor.  Aldo took Sophia on vacation to Capri where he supposedly fell off a cliff and accidentally died.  But conspiracy theorists claim that Sophia actually pushed him because she didn’t want to be married,” Denise relayed grimly.

“But maybe those theories were put out there on the internet by rival actresses who are bitter about losing roles to her over the years.  The internet is so anonymous.  You never know who you’re dealing with,” I suggested diplomatically, although Denise’s story wasn’t an outlandish one.  It was entirely possible that she could have pushed her young groom to his death and gotten away with it all these years.

“That’s true.  But Sophia has never remarried.  Married life obviously wasn’t for her.”

“Maybe she was too brokenhearted and traumatized from losing Aldo,” I pointed out.

“Maybe.  But maybe not,” Denise replied.  “Maybe she’s just a man-eater and uses men for her purposes.  And disposes of them when they no longer serve a purpose.”

“But she just met Tomaso.  Are you suggesting they had an affair and she got tired of him after less than a week?”

“I don’t know.  All I know is that her history has some stains in it.  And I don’t trust the woman,” Denise said definitively as Massimo stood as immobile as Michelangelo’s Statue of David, presumably absorbing every word of the conversation.

“To be honest, I thought maybe Sophia did it too.  But for other reasons.  I thought maybe it was some kind of extreme publicity stunt to thrust her into the spotlight,” I said, feeling guilty for concocting such a cruel hypothesis.

Denise’s eyes widened.  “Actually, that’s not so farfetched! Sophia is a complete narcissist.  And she’s getting older.  There won’t be as many parts for her in the future.  Maybe she’s getting desperate.”

“Maybe,” I agreed as Massimo finally turned around and inserted himself in our discussion.

“Bella,” he addressed me as my shoulders stiffened.  “Could I speak with you alone for a moment?”

“Of course,” I breezed.  “Excuse us, Denise.”

Taking my hand, he guided me out of the ballroom into a quiet hallway.  “Well, now I’m even more suspicious of Denise,” he said in a bass tone.

“Of Denise? Why?” I was completely perplexed.  If anything, Denise’s theorizing about Tomaso’s death had made me eliminate her as a suspect.

“Why?” He seemed surprised by my question.  “Because she’s trying to divert attention away from herself! By implicating Sophia, she’s making herself look innocent, don’t you see?”

“Well that’s some serious reverse psychology right there,” I replied, whirled back to my Psych 101 class in freshman year of college.

“It’s one of the tricks of the trade,” Massimo rejoined.  “But you’ve gained her trust, which is good.  Keep having those conversations with Denise whenever you can.  Sooner or later, she’ll slip up and say something incriminating if she is the murderer.”

“I don’t know about your tricks of the trade, boyfriend,” I drawled sarcastically.  “But I do know about my gut feelings.  And my gut is telling me that Denise had nothing to do with Tomaso’s boat crash.”

“Gut feelings are useful too,” Massimo said thoughtfully.  “But my 12 years of experience as a private investigator are a royal flush.  Gut feelings are just a full house.”

“You’re really arrogant, you know that?” I puckered my lips, insulted by his poker metaphor.

“I’m just confident in what I do, that’s all.  Aren’t you confident in what you do?” He asked provokingly.

“I’m confident of my gut feelings,” I snapped.

“Oh there you are! Gianna, isn’t it? Why aren’t you inside designing my dress?” Sophia emerged from nowhere, floating over to me and offering an artificial air kiss on each cheek.

“I was just about to go back inside,” I answered as her gaze shifted to Massimo.

“You’re the investigator, yes?” She deduced.  “But you’re parading as Gianna’s boyfriend, I heard.”

“Exactly.  I’m Massimo.  Just play your role to perfection as you always do, Sophia, and no one will be the wiser.” The flattery dripped from his smug lips as I rolled my eyes heavenward.  What a maddening man!  And what a dumb decision to clue Sophia in on the plot.  Did she have an alibi too? If not, then Massimo and the police were overlooking a potential suspect.  Royal flush, my nose! My gut feelings had never led me astray, and I knew in my heart that Denise was innocent.  I could not, however, say the same about Sophia.

We returned to the ballroom as Leonard waved to Sophia and then huddled in the corner with her in a private pow wow.  As I was picking up a yardstick to measure fabric, a stinging alarm infiltrated the room.  Lights flashed dizzyingly as alarms blared from every corner of the hotel.

“Oh damn it! What now? A fire? Just my luck!” Sophia cried out, again shocking me with her endless self-centeredness.  Oh yes, the building is on fire? Poor you!

Massimo grabbed me around the waist as I tried to jerk out of his grasp. But he held me powerfully against him, leading me towards an emergency exit as chaos erupted all around us.  Hotel guests poured down the hallways, pushing each other to clamor out of the building.  Faintly, the stench of smoke wafted through the stale air of the hotel, indicating that this was no false alarm.  Evelyn’s elbow jabbed me in the eye as I yelped in pain.

“Sorry!” She muttered, pushing her way in front of me.

Leonard followed directly behind her, also rudely cutting in front of me.  I guess Sophia wasn’t the only self-important moron.  In a life-or-death situation, people could turn ugly very quickly.

“The fire’s spreading!” Someone shouted from behind.

“Oh, I hope my fabrics don’t get burned!” Sophia yelled vapidly as I was tempted to clunk her on her hollow head.

Finally, we reached the exit, but people were still pushing and shoving their way in front.  Smoke billowed closer, the smell becoming overpowering and making my eyes water.  Massimo wrenched me in front of him and pushed me forcefully out the door as we simultaneously choked on a whiff of smoke.  Outside, it was a perfect Mediterranean day with a fresh blue sky complementing the sweet, dry air.

“We got out just in time!” Massimo gasped, clutching his chest.  “I just hope everyone else can get out!”

“So do I,” I said, afraid to look back at the hotel.

Massimo took hold of my hand again, running with me towards the safety of the parking lot.  The first fire truck raced onto the scene as masses of people struggled to breathe.  I was pretty sure that some of the ones still unfortunately in the building would need oxygen masks.  Squeezing my eyes shut, I hoped and prayed that no one would be seriously injured.  I didn’t need to open my eyes to know that the inferno was spreading rapidly.  Even from the cool concrete of the parking lot, I could feel the heat from the fire.

Sophia crouched next to Leonard and Evelyn, the trio coughing loudly.  I looked around for Denise but didn’t see her anywhere.  But in the pandemonium, I knew it could be easy to overlook someone.  Hopefully, she had made it out of the building safely and was trying to catch her breath like the rest of us.

“Why are these things happening to me?” Sophia ranted.  “It’s like I’m cursed!  Ever since Aldo died…”

Massimo and I exchanged a curious look.  If Denise hadn’t told me that story, I would have had no idea what Sophia was talking about.  But what did she mean? Was she cursed because she had lost her husband in a tragic accident? Or cursed because she had staged his murder to look like an accident and never been brought to justice?

“Relax, Sophia,” Leonard coddled.  “Everything will be okay.”

“No, it won’t! At every turn, my plans keep getting ruined! You better get my agent on the phone this afternoon and see what roles he can dig up for me.  I’m not going to the Cannes Film Festival without my next movie lined up!” Her infantile tantrum raged on with the fire.

At that point, I didn’t even want to design a dress for the shrew.  I didn’t want to do anything except go home to Richard’s comforting arms and forget about this whole nightmare.  As I choked on a lingering wave of smoke, I vowed to do exactly that.  Massimo and the police could solve the crime without me.  I was going home sweet home to New York where I belonged.

Chapter 6

An hour later, firefighters confirmed that everyone had been evacuated from the hotel. The blaze appeared to have ignited in the hotel’s 5-star Mediterranean restaurant.  No one had been injured, except for two of the chefs who suffered minor burns to their hands while trying unsuccessfully to extinguish the fire with dish towels.  Sitting beside Massimo in his car with the windows rolled down, I prepared to inform him of my plan to leave Italy.

I felt like a coward and a quitter as I opened my mouth to speak the words.  “Massimo,” I began.  “I don’t think I can…”

His cell phone beeped urgently, preventing me from uttering the words.  He glanced at the screen and sighed heavily.  “I just got a text saying that Tomaso’s parents have arrived at the airport.” He hung his head despairingly.

“And you have to meet with them?” I guessed softly.

“Of course.  This is the part of my job that I hate.  It’s so hard to deal with a grieving family.  And Tomaso was an only child, so I can’t even imagine what they’re going through.”

“He was an only child?” I repeated as a stab of compassion traveled to my heart.

“Yes.  25 years old.  Gone in an instant.  It’s hard to even comprehend.” Massimo looked away from me as I wondered if he had tears in his eyes.  His voice had turned gravelly and overwrought with emotion.

Now it was my turn to look away from Massimo.  The sight of a man crying for someone other than himself had been rare in my experience.  I didn’t want to soften to him and rearrange my plans of going back to New York.  Staying in Italy as a homicide hunter was simply too stressful, and I didn’t want to be away from Richard any longer.

“I understand,” I soothed, looking out the window, feeling a welcome breeze tickle my hairline.

Grim faced, Massimo turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the parking lot.  “Where are you going?” I demanded.

“To the airport,” he replied somberly.

“Not with me you’re not! Let me out of the car!” I jiggled the door handle as he placed a powerful hand over my wrist.

“Are you crazy? Trying to jump out of a moving car? Why are you so upset anyway? You agreed to help, and a big part of helping is meeting the victim’s parents.” Massimo slowly removed his hand from my wrist as I went slack in his grip.

“I know I agreed to help, but it wasn’t like I had much choice.  I feel like I was coerced.  Or recruited.  Honestly, I’m in over my head with this investigation.  And I don’t see how I can help…”

“You already have helped.  That conversation you had with Denise was very eye opening.  Next time you need to try to get closer to Evelyn too.”

“No! No next time! I’m going back to New York.  Actually, you might as well drop me off at the airport since that’s where I’m going anyway,” I said, even though my passport was locked in a safe in my hotel room.  There was no way I would be allowed to cross the ocean again without that vital little booklet.

“Calm down, Gianna.  I know you didn’t come to Italy to be a homicide investigator.  But this is the situation.  And you have it in your power to help a grieving family get justice.  Do you believe in destiny?” He gave me a peculiar look that revealed his own passionate feelings about the subject.

“Yes, I do actually.  I do believe in destiny,” I replied sincerely as the aroma of cigar smoke suddenly drifted through my senses.  An image of my father, with his raven moustache and twinkling gray eyes, floated inexplicably into my mind.  I didn’t understand what the image meant as my father would surely have supported my decision to go home.  He never would have wanted his only daughter to become entrenched in such a perilous endeavor.  So why did I suddenly feel his presence?

“Well, then believe that it’s your destiny to solve this crime,” Massimo urged, sliding onto the highway as he switched a blinker on.

“I’ll go with you to meet Tomaso’s parents,” I submitted.  “But I can’t promise you anything beyond that.”

“Fine, let’s just see how things go,” Massimo replied with mock casualness.  It was obvious that he would do anything to keep me as his partner.

Fifteen minutes passed without another word exchanged between Massimo and me.  He sang along to an Eros Ramazotti pop tune on the radio and tapped his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel.  I tried not to fixate on those thick, capable fingers.  I tried to pretend I was in the car with my older brother, Donatello, but I couldn’t control the sizzles of energy that kept drifting between us. 

Arriving at the airport, Massimo parked the car in a top floor garage, fielding another text message as he twisted the key out of the ignition.  “Tomaso’s parents are at baggage claim.  They’re waiting for us.”

“Us?” I parroted.

“Yes, they know that one of their son’s colleagues has been hired to help with the investigation.”

Hired? I wanted to parrot that word too, but I knew it would be crass.  I wasn’t going to receive any monetary compensation for my work in the investigation, so technically I couldn’t have been “hired.” More like dragged kicking and screaming.  And, most recently, manipulated into participating with Massimo’s sappy suggestion that I had come face to face with some irrepressible force of destiny.

Exhaust fumes choked me as I walked through the parking garage at a safe distance from Massimo.  There was no need for our hand holding charade to continue in front of Tomaso’s parents.  I glanced over at the dedicated investigator, perceiving a fierce nervousness in his characteristically cool demeanor.

“This way,” he barked, pointing to the right as I veered off to the left.  “Baggage claim is this way.”

Woodenly, I followed Massimo through a set of glass doors to the massive room where baggage carousels spun in perpetual circles.  Immediately, Tomaso’s parents were recognizable.  Streaks of teardrops and reddened cheeks were visible from all the way across the room.  A gray haired replica of Tomaso stood beside a petite beauty with upswept hair and rounded features.

Massimo walked directly over to the couple, clasping both his hands over theirs in a silent gesture of condolence.  I glanced up in surprise as he murmured a few words in Spanish as the couple nodded and pursed their lips sadly.  Their eyes brightened as Massimo introduced me.  Tomaso’s mother looked deep into my eyes and warmly shook my hand as Señor Alegres did the same.

In a flurry of Spanish, Massimo apprised the parents of what had transpired so far regarding the quest to identify their son’s killer.  Bits and pieces of the language were similar enough to Italian for me to decode the basics of the conversation.  My imagination wandered as I contemplated whether Massimo had lived in Spain as well as in England.  His Spanish was practically flawless.  Then again, many Europeans were multilingual.  My cell phone vibrated inside my purse, snapping my attention from Massimo to Richard whose number flashed on the screen.

Excusing myself in Italian, I walked a few paces away to take the call.  “Hi sweetie!”

“Hey babe,” he groaned longingly.  “Where are you? I can barely hear you.”

“Um,” I faltered.  If I told Richard I was at the airport, he would mistakenly assume that I was coming home early.  One glimpse into the soulful eyes of Tomaso’s parents and I knew I had to see the investigation through to completion.  Overhead, a voice announced that Flight 461 to Athens had been delayed.  Apparently, the decision of what to tell Richard wasn’t mine to make.

“Are you at an airport?” He asked in astonishment.

“Yes, but I’m not here to get on a flight,” I hastily clarified.

“Then what are you doing at the airport?” He asked incredulously.

Sighing, I realized that I needed to tell Richard about the tragedy that had occurred.  I couldn’t deceive him with a story of meeting a friend at the airport or some other imaginative yarn.  Gathering strength from the sight of the stoic, dignified mourners huddled just a few steps away, I told Richard everything in precise detail.  He stayed ominously silent throughout the story, heaving an enormous sigh when I finished speaking.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Gianna.  You’re not really going to put yourself in the middle of a murder investigation, are you?” He sounded more angry than worried.

“I’m already in the middle of it whether I like it or not,” I replied.  “Believe me, I’m not thrilled about it, but I feel like I need to help.”

“Why? You only met this guy once.  What makes you feel that you have to help solve the murder of a total stranger?”

“There’s nothing wrong with helping a stranger.  The world would be a better place if more people helped strangers…”

“Don’t be naïve, Gianna.  You’re putting yourself in harm’s way.  If the damn regional manager wasn’t flying in from Seattle tomorrow, I’d be on the first plane to Rome.”

“I wouldn’t want you to do that anyway and uproot your life,” I said gently, eager to get off the phone and rejoin the European trio that waited for me expectantly.

“When are you coming home?” Richard demanded impatiently.

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.

“How can you even afford to stay there? And what about your tailor shop? Do you need me to wire you money?”

“No, I don’t need any money.  The victim’s family is probably going to take care of that.  And as for my shop,” I paused, reflecting on the minuscule storefront I had operated begrudgingly for the past 7 years.  It was a feeble version of what I wanted to do with my life.  Would it be the worst thing if my tailor shop went out of business? No, what would be far worse is if I never reached for my dream of being a fashion designer…and if I abandoned a murder inquest to which I could possibly hold the key.  “As for my shop, che sera sera.  What will be, will be,” I philosophized.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.  Is all the pasta going to your head?” Richard asked scornfully as my lips thinned into a frown line.

“Listen, Rich, could I call you later? This isn’t the best place for us to talk,” I shouted over yet another flight delay announcement.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he scoffed.  “Fine, I’ll talk to you later.”

Richard ended the call, leaving me feeling alone and disoriented in the Italian airport.  Maybe I had become too dependent on him in the past year.  Maybe I needed to hurl myself out of my comfort zone and put a little space between us.  Destiny.  I reflected on the word momentarily before making my way over to Massimo.

***

Three hours later, I got back into Massimo’s car, rubbing my weary temples.  The Alegres had kept us a captive audience at the airport’s Starbucks, sharing adorable and poignant stories of their son’s childhood while we sipped countless cappuccino refills.  Instead of feeling wired from all the caffeine, I felt utterly exhausted, more emotionally affected from learning about Tomaso than I wanted to admit.

“Tomaso may have come from money, but he wasn’t a spoiled little rich boy,” Massimo commented as I nodded in agreement.

“I know.  I can’t believe how much charity work he did back in Barcelona.  The scholarship fund he created for underprivileged kids.  And the free boating lessons to local teenagers.  I guess he worked hard and played hard,” I mused.

“Exactly,” Massimo concurred.  “We’ve got to find out who cut the brakes on his boat.  And the sooner the better.  The next time I see Lola and Pablo Alegres, I want to have some good news for them.” His tone was gruff and determined.

“Are you open to new ideas?” I queried hopefully.  During our epic coffee meeting with Tomaso’s parents, an unorthodox strategy had dawned on me.

“Absolutely,” Massimo said firmly.

“Really?” I doubted his sincerity.  “Because so far you’ve discarded all my ideas as ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry.  Old habits die hard.  I’ve been doing this for a long time,” he said sheepishly.  “But yes, I’m open to your idea.  What do you have in mind?”

Gathering a full breath, I parted my lips and whispered words that would make Massimo view me either as a dodo bird back from extinction…or Albert Einstein reincarnated as a voluptuous brunette.

Chapter 7

“Let’s throw a party.” The words flowed from my lips with an unintentional gasp at the end.  My crazy idea even had me shocked.

“Excuse me?” Massimo appeared dumbfounded.

I swallowed nervously, realizing how incongruous the idea of throwing a party was in the wake of a young man’s death.  “Just hear me out,” I urged.  “It gets better.”

“Okay,” Massimo sighed.  “I don’t see how your idea could possibly get any worse. So go on.”

“Of course we would need the Alegres’ permission to do this, but they seemed open to try any tactic to catch their son’s murderer.  So I’m sure they’ll get on board,” I prefaced as Massimo persisted to look completely aghast.  “My idea is to throw a party near the Tiber River where Tomaso was killed.  We’ll call it a memorial service.  A celebration of his life.  We’ll invite everyone who he knew here in Italy. Everyone from Sophia Pucci’s posse.”

“Okay, hang on, I think I may actually understand what you’re trying to do,” Massimo said excitedly.

“You do?” Exit the dodo bird back to extinction.

“Yes.  You want to gather everyone together in a social setting.  With some wine and good food.  Everyone will be relaxed…”

“And likely to let the truth slip in conversation,” I finished triumphantly.

“I don’t know about ‘likely,’” Massimo argued skeptically.  “But it’s possible.  And as long as it’s okay with Lola and Pablo.”

“I bet they’ll fund the whole thing,” I predicted.

“Perhaps.  It will also be interesting to see who doesn’t show up.  Absence at an event like this could be even more incriminating than presence.”

“Right,” I added.  “A guilty conscience could keep the murderer away.”

“You know, this idea of yours is actually good.  It is crazy, though.” He smirked at me.

“Just crazy enough to work,” I corrected. “Are you calling Tomaso’s parents?” I asked as Massimo reached for his phone.

“Yes…” he stopped himself, frowning as he read a message on the screen.  “I just got a text from the police.”

“What does it say? Did they find the murderer?” I pounced eagerly.

“No, they’ve just confirmed that Tomaso’s wallet is missing.  Probably stolen.  It hadn’t been found on his body and no one could locate it in his hotel room either.”

“Do they know who stole it?”

“No, not yet.  Add that to our long list of things to figure out.”

“Well, the stolen wallet isn’t necessarily related to the murder,” I reasoned.  “It could have been stolen by a maid at the hotel or some other staff member who knew about Tomaso’s wealth.”

“That is a possibility.  A more likely possibility, though, is that the same person who snipped the brakes on Tomaso’s boat also pocketed his wallet.”

“Really? I don’t think that makes sense,” I disagreed, starting to enjoy the inquisitive role in a case that had been thrown at me like water balloons.  “Whoever cut the brakes probably didn’t want to be seen.  My gut feeling is that the person got the job done really quickly, figuring out which boat Tomaso had bought and disappearing right after clipping the brakes.”

“You’re getting better at this whole crime solving thing, you know?” Massimo looked at me with authentic admiration. 

“Maybe I’ll become a detective if fashion design doesn’t pan out,” I joked.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Massimo said soberly.

“I was just kidding! Please! I’ve been sewing since I was 3 years old.  Actually, I could hold a needle and thread long before I knew what to do with a pencil and paper!” I warmly reminisced about the cloth dolls and baby blankets my mother had taught me to sew.

“Three years old and sewing? That would make you a prodigy.”

“No,” I protested. “That would make my mother a good parent who showed her daughter how to be creative.”

“You’re close to your family?” Massimo inquired.

“Yes, very.  I’m sure there will be a big spaghetti and meatball dinner at my parents’ house to welcome me home.” My stomach grumbled at the thought of my mother’s hearty Italian cooking.

“Mmmm, I could go for some spaghetti right now.  Would you like to get some dinner? We could plan the party and figure out our next move.” Massimo’s eyes transformed into pools of seduction.

I hesitated for a few breaths, feeling like I would be cheating on Richard if I had dinner with Massimo.  But it was for business purposes, right? As long as I conducted myself with decorum and kept the conversation focused on the investigation---rather than Massimo’s sexy midnight orbs---I had nothing to feel guilty about.

“It wouldn’t be a date,” Massimo said hastily, sensing my uncertainty.  “I’m not trying to take you away from your boyfriend.”

“How did you know I have a boyfriend?” I asked. 

“It’s obvious,” he shrugged nonchalantly.

“Well I also wouldn’t want to take you away from your girlfriend or whoever…” I was shamelessly fishing for information, but I couldn’t help myself.

“No lady in my life.  I don’t have time.  My job as a private investigator is 24/7.  And it involves frequent travel.  I wouldn’t be surprised if this case eventually brought me to Barcelona,” Massimo mused as my heart sank from his stony perspective on relationships. 

What is wrong with you, Gianna? I silently chided myself.  Who cares if this man doesn’t have time for love? You have Richard.

“Anyway, I’m up for dinner if you still are.” I shifted back to a neutral subject as Massimo nodded and prepared to pull out of the airport lot.

“Andiamo,” he said.  “Let’s go!”

***

Hours later, Massimo and I emerged from a 4 course Italian feast.  I had gloriously stuffed my face with enough carbs to give me the energy needed for an Iron Man competition.  From the oil-dipped bread to the macaroni spirals in vodka sauce to the espresso-soaked tiramisu, the meal had been an exercise in overindulgence.  Leaning back in the seat of Massimo’s car, I giggled as I felt the zipper of my pants pop ever so slightly.

“Feeling giddy from the wine?” Massimo guessed.

“Um, yeah,” I fibbed, too embarrassed to tell him I needed a bigger waistband to fit my bloated belly.

“I guess I should get you back to your hotel room.” Massimo drove on as we passed the Fontana di Trevi, my favorite landmark in all of Rome.

“Ooh, look how it’s lit up at night! It looks magical! All golden and shimmering,” I marveled as Massimo slowed the car down for me to get a better view.

“Have you thrown any coins into the fountain yet?” He asked.

“No, I haven’t.  But I know about the legend.  If I toss a coin into the fountain, that means I’ll be returning to Rome some day, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Then I’ll have to be sure to throw a coin in before I go back home.  Because I definitely want to come back to this beautiful city,” I breathed, noticing a pair of children licking monstrous gelato cones that dripped onto the cobblestone.

“Yes, make sure you do that,” Massimo said with peculiar formality.

He stayed stubbornly silent for the next few minutes until we arrived at my hotel.  The prospect of returning to my room alone seemed very lonely.  You’re just missing Richard, that’s all.  I tried to convince myself.  Richard! I realized with horror that I had forgotten to call him back like I had promised.  Maybe he wasn’t on my mind that much after all…

“Here we are.  Get a good night’s sleep.  We have a lot of work to do tomorrow for the crazy party.” He grinned crookedly before resetting his features in stone.

“I’ll try.  And thank you for dinner.” I resisted the temptation to kiss Massimo on the cheek…or somewhere else. 

My jelly belly and I bounced out of the car and back to the hotel room.  Before I turned out the lights, I checked my cell phone, surprised to see that Richard hadn’t called.  What time was it in New York?  It was after 11 pm in Rome, meaning that it was around quitting time at home.  Knowing Richard, though, he was probably still holed up in his office.  So I set my phone down on the nightstand, vowing to call him as soon as I could the next day.

***

“A party? Really? But what will I wear?” Sophia asked in all her shallow vainglory the next day.  The woman was really starting to grate on my nerves, and I didn’t care anymore whether she chose my design for the Cannes Film Festival.  Did I really just say that? No, scratch that.  I cared very much, but I wanted to get her all stitched and buttoned up in my creation and then run for the hills.

“Massimo and I are calling it a party,” I explained.  “But for the guests who aren’t in the know, it’s a memorial service for Tomaso.”

“Fine, fine, whatever you call it.  But I have nothing to wear.” Sophia pouted like a child as she picked up my sketch pad and flipped through the pages.

“Is that why you asked me to come to the Sheraton today?” I wondered aloud.  A text from Leonard at 8:30 am had woken me from my blissful carb-induced coma.  The message had been curt, simply stating that Sophia wanted to meet with me personally to discuss something.  I had promptly texted Massimo to tell him to meet me at the Sheraton, but he had yet to arrive.

“Actually, yes it is.  I’m very impressed by your designs, Gianna.  From the first day, I’ve had my eye on you.  It’s really a pity if someone killed Tomaso to eliminate him as competition because I didn’t care for his ideas at all.  Really, you’re the one who’s a threat to the others.  If someone wanted to weed out the competition, they might have done better to kill you.” Sophia’s tone was even more venomous than her shocking words.  Seriously, someone needed to give that woman a movie role before she completely lost her mind. 

“Well, thank you,” I struggled to find appropriate words.  “I’m glad you like my designs.  And I really do think that scarlet mermaid dress would look amazing on you.”

“So do I!” Sophia’s demeanor switched like a faucet to cheerful as she absorbed the compliment. “I am going to wear your dress to the award ceremony, Gianna.  You just have to bring the design to life for me.  But don’t worry, I won’t tell the others.  I wouldn’t want someone to come after you before you even create the dress!” Sophia gurgled with laughter.

My jaw tightened with distress.  The woman had a truly sick sense of humor.  Glancing across the room, I spotted Massimo strolling in, flanked by Tomaso’s parents.  Gratefully, I met them in the center of the ballroom as Sophia noisily trailed me in her pointy Prada heels. 

“You must be Tomaso’s parents!” Sophia exclaimed in Italian as the couple looked at her in confusion, clearly not understanding the language.

Jumping in as our unofficial United Nations interpreter, Massimo translated Sophia’s words as she continued, “Don’t they know who I am?”

“Of course they do,” Massimo assured.  “You’re famous all over Europe.”

“Well they don’t seem very excited to meet me,” she complained as my eyes widened.

Really, her behavior was too grandiose even for a woman who had spent more than half her life in the spotlight.  Revisiting the possibility that she could be the murderer, I thought of how icily and insensitively she had spoken to me.  Someone with such a cavalier attitude about life could easily be the instigator of premature death.

“If you don’t mind, we are going to steal Gianna away for a few hours.  We have a lot of planning to do,” Massimo said politely as Sophia’s eyes flamed.

“Well, I suppose that will be fine,” she said frostily.

“The party is tomorrow,” Massimo announced.  “Be there at 7 in the evening.  The pier where…the tragedy occurred,” he said gently. 

“Yes, I will be there.  I wouldn’t miss it,” Sophia promised, her glacial voice awakening a chill in every cell of my body.

Chapter 8

Dressed from head to toe in mourning black, Tomaso’s parents contrasted sharply with the turquoise waters and brilliant sky.  Together, they gazed up at that radiant sky, perhaps sending love to their lost son.  I breathed shakily, feeling like a fraud as I set up bottles of Limoncello and Pellegrino on a buffet table.  Expressionlessly, Massimo unloaded a box of plates and flatware.

“Did you see Tomaso’s parents?” I asked sadly.

“Yes, but I’d rather not think about it,” he answered roughly. 

“I really hope something comes out of this big charade,” I sighed as Massimo nodded curtly but made no reply. 

A brief moment of peace was shattered by Sophia’s sweeping entrance alongside Leonard who followed her like a puppy as he always seemed to do.  I wondered if Leonard had ever had an affair with Sophia.  He wore no wedding band, so perhaps intimate romps were on the menu.  Waving to Sophia and Leonard, I returned to the task of setting up the “party.”

“Where is everyone?” Sophia demanded.

“It’s only 5:30.  The party starts at 7,” Massimo replied darkly.

“But I thought there would at least be a pre-party!” Sophia exclaimed.

“This isn’t the Oscars.  There’s no pre-party.  And there will be no after-party.  Unless of course Tomaso’s murderer reveals himself tonight.  Then I’ll be celebrating like it’s New Year’s Eve,” Massimo said, but he didn’t sound very optimistic.

Rebuffed, Sophia declared, “Then I’ll go for a spin in one of the speed boats until the party gets started.  Or perhaps I could rent a yacht.  Leonard, could you see about renting me a yacht for an hour or so?”

“I think yacht rentals are by the day, Sophia.  I don’t think you can rent one for just an hour.”

Sophia regarded her assistant defiantly as if to say, ‘I’m Sophia Pucci and I can do anything I want!’ “Leonard, don’t be a fool.  Go get me a yacht.  The paparazzi will have a ball filming me and publishing the pictures in the tabloids.”

“The paparazzi?” I questioned.  “That’s funny.  I haven’t noticed any photographers around.”

“That’s because they hide in the bushes!” Sophia hissed.  “They only come out from hibernation when there’s a good photo op that they can sink their claws into.”

Or maybe the paparazzi aren’t here at all except in your imagination. Maybe you’re such a washed up, delusional fool that you think the world is watching you when really everyone is looking away.

“Oh, okay,” I shrugged.  “Well enjoy your yacht ride.  It’s a beautiful evening to be on the water.” I had to be civil towards the shrew if I wanted her to follow through and wear my design to Cannes.  But I wasn’t going to grovel to her.  Not on her fancy schmancy life.

None too discreetly, Massimo rolled his eyes as Sophia and her loyal dog walked off the pier.  “I’ll be really happy when this case is over.” He massaged his temples in a circular motion.

“She seems to be getting worse and worse,” I pointed out.

“That’s because the attention has shifted away from her.  She can’t stand it.  Attention and approbation are like food and water to her.” Massimo rolled his eyes again as I grinned.

“That’s sad but true,” I sighed. 

An hour later, the guests started to filter in as Sophia waved theatrically to everyone from her yacht. Tomaso’s parents seemed disgusted as they watched her attention-begging sail.  With drooping shoulders, they walked over to my station near the buffet, looking at the tempting array of appetizers and grimacing.  Compassion pulsed through me as I knew they were too distraught to eat even one bite.  I poured each of them a glass of sparkling mineral water, which they accepted with a simultaneous “gracias.”

Massimo didn’t stay in one place for more than a minute, sleekly combing through the growing crowd and presumably eavesdropping on every nugget of conversation.  Leaving my station at the buffet, I drifted over to the bar, sensing that more details would emerge over alcoholic beverages than over plates of olives and cheese. 

“Are you playing bartender tonight?” Denise asked pertly, pointing to a bottle of Pinot Grigio and gesturing for me to pour her a glass.

“I guess you could say that,” I replied neutrally, handing her a glass of the chilled white wine.

“This is the weirdest memorial service I’ve ever been to,” she said scornfully, touching her lips to the rim of the glass.

“Well, this is how Tomaso’s parents wanted it.  They didn’t want it to be all gloomy and depressing. They wanted it to be a celebration of his life.” The lie poured out of my lips as smoothly as the Pinot Grigio had cascaded out of the bottle.  Maybe Massimo was right.  Maybe I wouldn’t make such a bad detective after all.  Hmmmm…

“It’s still bizarre to me,” Denise insisted, glancing up.  “Oh hey, look, there’s Evelyn.”

Cloaked in a black wraparound knit sweater, Evelyn looked somber as she approached us at the bar.  “Hi ladies,” she said in a voice scarcely stronger than a whisper.

“Are you okay?” Denise inquired softly.

“Not really.  This is so sad.  I don’t even want to be here.”

“Then why did you come?” Denise asked.

Evelyn’s frowned deeply.  “To pay tribute to Tomaso. Isn’t that why we’re all here?”

“Maybe not all of us…” Denise pointed to Sophia whose yacht was docking at the shore.  Laughing and flailing around like an insane ragdoll, she looked as though she had already paid several trips to the bar.

“She’s so inappropriate,” Evelyn shuddered.  “I don’t even want her to pick my dress anymore.  And if she did pick my dress, I might not even let her wear it.  I have integrity.”

I peered at Evelyn quizzically, wondering where her sudden rush of emotion and conscience was coming from.  I no longer suspected that Denise had been involved with Tomaso, but it seemed increasingly likely that Evelyn had.  Her emotions were raw; this was no pitch-perfect performance like the ones Sophia had been staging.

“Why are you all dressed in black, Evelyn?” Leonard asked coldly.  “Are you in mourning?”

Ignoring his question, Evelyn walked away from the bar, heading towards the water with her head bowed. That was strange.  Why does Leonard care what Evelyn is wearing? No one else seemed to notice the odd exchange as Sophia clapped her hands together like a seal would slap its flippers as she spotted a bottle of Prosecco, the Italian version of champagne.

“Pour me a big glass, barkeep,” she squealed as I obediently filled a flute with the bubbly liquid.

“Mmmmm, so divine,” she crowed, gulping rather than sipping the effervescent wine.

Abandoning the bar and the guffawing disgrace known as Sophia Pucci, I went in search of Massimo.  He needed to hear about the inexplicable incident that had just transpired.  Evelyn’s cold shoulder towards Leonard had been so subtle that I doubted anyone else had noticed. 

“Massimo!” I called urgently, interrupting his conversation with one of the yacht captains.

“Excuse me, please,” Massimo said to the captain while taking my arm.  “What’s going on? Did you hear anything suspicious?” He led me down a long pier where we could talk privately.

“Yes, I heard Leonard ask Evelyn why she’s wearing black.  He made some sarcastic comment about her being in mourning.  It just seemed really strange for him to care what she’s wearing.”

“You’re right.  That is very strange.” Massimo’s brow creased in contemplation.  “How did she respond?”

“She didn’t.  She just walked away.  See, she’s standing over there by herself.” I pointed to the opposite end of the pier where Evelyn hugged herself tightly even though there was no chill in the balmy air.

“We need to have a conversation with her.  Come on, let’s go.” Interlacing his fingers with mine, Massimo headed towards Evelyn as I tried not to think about how comfortable his touch was starting to feel. 

Lost in her own thoughts, Evelyn didn’t notice when we were standing directly in front of her.  “We didn’t want you to be standing here all alone,” Massimo explained as Evelyn’s head popped up in surprise.

“Oh! You guys scared me.  I didn’t even hear your footsteps coming over here.” Her voice was trembling.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean to startle you,” Massimo apologized.  “Obviously, you’re feeling sad.  I’m sure Tomaso’s parents would appreciate a few kind words from someone who actually cares.”

“Oh no, there’s no way I could talk to them!” Evelyn protested, shaking her head wildly.

Massimo’s expression changed as he looked intently into her glistening eyes.  “I’m sorry.  I know it’s absolutely none of my business.  But was there something going on between you and Tomaso?”

Affronted, Evelyn smacked a hand over her heart and snapped, “No! I’m engaged to be married, not that it’s any of your business anyway.” Turning to me, she added, “You should teach your boyfriend how to talk to people!”

Flouncing away, Evelyn hurried in the direction of the parking lot.  A line of taxis was waiting, and she quickly hopped into the first one.  I tapped Massimo on the shoulder, pointing towards Leonard, who was watching the taxi pull away.

“Look at the expression on his face! He looks furious! But why?” I whispered frantically.

“I have no idea,” Massimo said, running a hand through his hair in a clear sign of frustration.

“And it’s not like we can play detective with him.  He and Sophia both know what this ‘party’ is all about.  And he knows you’re not really my boyfriend.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t talk to him,” Massimo argued, pulling me along with him as he targeted Leonard.

But as we bounded towards him, Leonard ran into the parking lot, climbing into his car and escaping any potential interrogation.  “Damn it!” Massimo swore.  “We’ve got to go after him! See where he’s going!”

“I’m guessing that he’s following Evelyn.  But still, the question is why?” I tried to match Massimo’s brisk pace, feeling my lungs contract with the exertion.

“And the other question is how?  How are we going to track Leonard down? There are a thousand cars in Rome that look exactly like the one he just disappeared in.” Massimo jerked the passenger door of his car open as I piled inside.

“Then maybe it’s not a smart idea to try to chase him!” I said breathlessly as Massimo fired up the engine.

“No, we at least have to try.  Something is very fishy, and I need to find out what it is.”

“You mean we need to find out what it is,” I corrected.  “I’m in this just as much as you are now.”

“Yes, I suppose you are,” Massimo grinned briefly before masking his features again with an impartial stare.

“Just don’t drive like a maniac,” I pleaded.

“Bellissima, everyone in Rome drives like a maniac,” Massimo retorted, rocketing onto the road and looking in every direction for Leonard’s car.  “If you don’t drive like a maniac in this city, people will think you’re a maniac!” To punctuate his point, Massimo pounded the accelerator, whizzing away from the waterfront at a death defying speed of 90 miles per hour.

Chapter 9

As Massimo pounded the gas pedal, I lost all concept of time and location.  At such a vertigo-inducing pace, I could have been in Prague or Paris…or Pluto.  I really had no idea.  The seatbelt clung to my chest, digging into my sternum and making me feel like I was being smothered.

Abruptly, Massimo struck the steering wheel with the back of his hand, bringing the car to a screeching halt at the side of the road.  “What’s wrong? Why did you stop?” I asked as my pulse kept jumping even though we were no longer in motion.

“Because it’s pointless.  We’ll never catch him.  I can’t even see his car, and I have no idea where he went off to.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure he was going after Evelyn.  So maybe if we track down Evelyn, we’ll corner Leonard too,” I suggested as Massimo nodded his approval.

“Another good idea that I’m too frazzled to come up with.  You’re an incredible partner, Gianna.”

Massimo’s constant praise for my accidental detective skills was overwhelming.  “Are you trying to recruit me?” I grinned.  “Seriously, it feels like I’m being recruited.”

“I guess you could put it that way,” Massimo answered cryptically as he whipped out his cell phone.  “Is Evelyn staying at your hotel?” 

“Not that I know of.  Or at least, I haven’t run into her there,” I replied as Massimo started dialing on his phone.  “Who are you calling?”

“The police.  They’ll be able to tell me which hotel Evelyn is staying in,” he explained.

“I have a better idea,” I asserted.

“Oh, I’ll bet you do.  What’s your idea now, Signorina Sherlock?” He grinned in that wickedly handsome way that rendered me unable to concentrate.

“Um, well, I just wanted to look up her name on my smart phone and see what comes up,” I unveiled my latest idea, not sure why I felt that searching for her name online would reap tangible results.  “Evelyn Flowers, let’s see here.” I punched the name into my phone as Massimo slipped his own back into his pocket and peeked over my shoulder.

“Why don’t you click on that result?” Massimo pointed to a people database that had appeared at the top of the heap.

“Okay.” I clicked on the database, stunned to view the results.  “This is unbelievable! She lives in Rome!  Look, Massimo, her address is listed in Rome!”

“Yes, I see that.” Massimo appeared fascinated by the revelation.  “But the address is private.” He clicked on a link only to be redirected to a page prompting for credit card information.  “We don’t need to pay to see her address.  All I need to do is call Detective Cantino, and he’ll give me the info.”

As Massimo retrieved the phone from his pocket, I envisioned the sparkling diamond ring on Evelyn’s finger.  Was it possible…I stopped myself from leaping to conclusions.  Or at least I tried to.  Placing a hand over Massimo’s, I blocked him from making a call.  “Hold on.  Before you call the detective.  Something just occurred to me.”

“What?” Massimo asked urgently.

“Evelyn is engaged.  And now I’m wondering if Leonard is her fiancé.  Why else would he act so possessive around her?  And he lives here in Rome too as Sophia’s assistant.  Plus, they’re both from England.” As I spoke the words, I felt like there could be no other explanation.

“That does seem reasonable.  But why wouldn’t she have introduced Leonard as her fiancé?”

“Probably because it would seem like nepotism.  If she really is his fiancée, then he must be the one who got her a spot in Sophia’s fashion competition.  As Sophia’s groveling assistant, Leonard could probably squeeze a favor out of her from time to time,” I glued the fragments together as Massimo nodded fervently.

“I think you’re onto something.” Our fingers brushed provocatively as he gently lifted my hand off of his and resumed dialing.  “Hey Giancarlo, this is Massimo.  Ascolta, I need some information pronto.  Can you look up Evelyn Flowers’ address in Rome?” Massimo was silent for a few beats before turning to me and whispering, “He’s looking it up right now.”

I nodded, shivering all the way down to my toes as I sensed that the investigation was about to take a crucial turn.  My pulse still erratic, I turned to Massimo who looked as anxious as I felt.  His strong Roman profile was etched in shades of contemplation and analysis.

“Okay, great, that’s all I needed to know.” Massimo hung up the phone and immediately merged back onto the road.

“You got the address?”

“Yes, I did,” he said triumphantly.  “47 Via del Sole.  And that’s our next destination, darling.”

***

Evelyn’s house was located in the chic beach town of Stella Polare, about an hour’s drive outside of Rome.  During the ride, I tried not to dwell on Massimo’s cozy reference to me as “darling” just as I struggled not to focus on how long it had been since Richard had gotten in touch.  As much as it stung me to acknowledge, I found my boyfriend to be less and less on my mind.  And I couldn’t help but wonder if the feeling was mutual. 

At my request, Massimo stopped at a gelato stand halfway through the ride to Stella Polare.  I hadn’t eaten a morsel that night, and I was starting to feel faint.  Nothing could be better than a strawberry gelato sundae to calm my nerves and give me a much needed boost of strength.

“This gelato is amazing,” I purred.  “How’s your mocha cone?”

“Delizioso,” he replied, wiping his lips with a napkin.  “Now let’s get back on the road.  I don’t want to lose any more time.”

“Okay,” I sighed contentedly, sated from the sweet treat.

After indulging my taste buds, I passed the remainder of the ride ravishing my vision with moonlit waters and sandy promenades.  New York had its share of picturesque beaches, especially in the posh Hamptons, but Italy’s shores were simply magical.  I didn’t know if it was the full moon glowing over everything in sight or if it was the arresting man at my side, but my eyes had never glimpsed such a magnificent display of nature.

“We’re here,” Massimo finally announced, slipping into tour guide mode.  “Stella Polare is a spectacular beach.  I highly recommend you visit before going back to New York.  Just be careful of the swindlers.  There are always men combing the beaches with fake designer scarves and other things trying to sell to the pretty ladies.”

“I think I’d be able to spot a knockoff,” I grinned knowing I could recognize a phony Fendi in my sleep.

Massimo returned the grin.  “Sorry.  I almost forgot that you’re in the fashion world.  I’ve started to think of you as a private investigator like myself.”

“Well, I’m not,” I protested.

“So what’s your expert opinion on my clothes? What do you think of how I dress?” Massimo asked impishly.

How you dress? I only want to know about how you undress…Banishing the wicked thought from my mind, I replied, “You dress like a rebel.  Leather and jeans.  Like an American rebel.  Very stylish.” And incredibly sexy.

He grinned as we both glanced at the modest single-story cottage that faced the ocean.  In the dim twilight, it appeared empty, except for one window near the back that shone a sliver of light.

“I think she’s home,” Massimo said as I craned my neck towards the driveway.

“And so is Leonard! Look, isn’t that his car in the driveway?!”

Massimo’s eyes flashed as he followed my gaze to the driveway.  “That’s definitely his car! Yes, that was the car he drove away in!” He gripped the door handle, apparently ready to fly and land on Evelyn’s doorstep.

“But where’s her car?” I wondered aloud.

“She took a cab back from the party,” Massimo reminded.

“That’s right,” I recalled.  “And maybe Leonard and Evelyn share a car.  I mean, maybe they live here together?”

“They must.  There’s no way an unemployed designer could afford a house on the beach.  Even a house as small as this one,” Massimo reasoned.

“So what are we going to do now? Just storm the house?” I inquired.

“I was hoping you would answer that question, boss,” Massimo smirked.

“You’re kidding now, right?” I asked doubtfully.

“No, because honestly, I don’t think either one of us knows what we’re going to do next.  We just have to do it.”

“Wing it,” I added, exhaling nervously as Massimo’s smirk intensified.  “What? You look like you want to laugh at me.”

“No…it’s just that you have a little gelato on your mouth,” he said humorously.

“Where? Here?” Embarrassed, I dabbed my lips with a napkin.

“No, right there,” Massimo lightly pressed two fingers onto the corner of my mouth as I reflexively pulled away.

“I can do it,” I scolded as his mood instantly switched to serious.

“Okay, let’s go now.  Stop wasting time,” he grunted, barreling out of the car.

I hurriedly shoved myself out of the car, catching up to Massimo who was walking an infuriating two paces ahead.  As I slid alongside him, we both watched as the back door of the beach cottage swung open.  Massimo held me back, his arm like a crowbar across my chest.  “Don’t move a muscle,” he directed in a harsh whisper.

Immobilized, I watched as Leonard crept around the side of the house, reaching into his jacket pocket and running a comb briskly through his hair.  Smoothing out his clothing, he darted into the driveway and clicked his car key pad to unlock the doors.  As Leonard fisted the door handle, Massimo grabbed my hand and ran with me to the driveway.

“Stop right there, Leonard!” Massimo yelled as the Englishman looked at us in shock.

“What the hell? Did you two follow me here? What’s the meaning of this?” He demanded. 

“I need to have a word with you,” Massimo seethed as I glared at him. He was treating Leonard as though he were a criminal.  Maybe I only had a week’s worth of detective experience, but I had 30 years of people experience that told me this was exactly the way to make someone shut down.

“No can do.  I have an errand to run,” Leonard evaded, clenching his car keys in his hand.

“An errand? At this late hour?” Massimo probed.

“It’s none of your affair,” Leonard declared.

“Is Evelyn here?” I spoke up in a gentler tone.  “Your fiancée, I mean.  She is your fiancée, right?”

Leonard shot me a pulverizing stare that told me I had hit the nail on the head. “She’s asleep and my relationship with her is private,” he evaded, maneuvering his big body into the slim sedan.

“Leonard, I’m telling you,” Massimo warned.  “If you drive away now, you’re going to look even more suspicious.”

“Suspicious? Oh so I’m a suspect now, am I?  I didn’t even know that Tomaso gigolo.  No one in Rome did.  You’re barking up the wrong alley,” he gritted, cranking up the ignition and throwing the car into reverse.

Massimo clasped my hand more tightly, guiding us to take a simultaneous step back from Leonard’s car.  Spearing us with a distasteful grimace, Leonard burned rubber out of the driveway and onto the dusty beach road.  As soon as Leonard had vanished into the night, Massimo lunged for his cell phone.

“Did you hear what Leonard said?” I asked softly.

“Yes, he’s an arrogant son of a…”

“No, did you hear what he called Tomaso?” I clarified impatiently.

“Huh?”

“He called him a gigolo! Why would Leonard say something like that about a man he claims not to know?  The only way that Leonard would know that Tomaso was a gigolo is if he had been fooling around with Evelyn.  That’s the only explanation!”

“As usual, I think you’re right,” Massimo clipped, speaking sternly into the phone.  “I need a squad car here.  Immediately.  I’m in Stella Polare at Evelyn Flowers’ residence.  And I also need you to track Leonard Jilton’s license number and follow him.  He needs to be questioned about Tomaso’s death.”

Massimo’s voice echoed along the sea breeze as I dashed over to the front door, knocking firmly several times.  No answer.  Relentlessly, I pounded my fists against the door, an uneasy feeling in my gut overtaking me.  As my knocks went unanswered, I kicked the door, certain that even the deepest of sleepers would hear the intrusive sound.  But still I received no reply.  A horrific possibility brewed in my mind as I beat my fists into the door until my knuckles were raw.

Chapter 10

“Massimo!” I cried as he looked over at me with grave concern.  “Evelyn’s not answering the door!”

“Put a rush call on those squad cars.  It’s urgent!” Massimo shouted into the phone before bolting to my side.

“Massimo, I’m really worried.  Why isn’t she answering the door?” I said breathlessly as he led me over to the side of the house.

“I don’t know, but we need to break down the window and get in,” he said harshly. 

He held his fist up to the glass, poised to punch the window open.  “Don’t! You could break your hand,” I hissed.  “Isn’t there something in your car that you could use to break the window open?”

“Probably,” Massimo huffed, rushing back to the car as I followed.

“I should never have asked to stop for that stupid ice cream.  We might have given Leonard just enough time to…”

“Don’t say it,” Massimo begged, examining an umbrella and deeming it too weak to shatter the glass.

“Kill her!” I finished with a lump in my throat.  “They probably had a huge fight and he lost his temper and…”

“Okay, don’t get carried away.  We don’t know what happened yet.  But we’re going to.” Massimo lifted a heavy metal wrench out of the car, running towards the window and hurling it at the glass.  “Duck down!” He ordered as the glass shards flew everywhere.

Protecting his hands with a pair of gloves, Massimo wiped away the remaining glass from the windowsill.  “Okay, it’s safe now.  Let’s slip inside.  I’ll go first and make sure everything is safe…no, on second thought, wait for me out here.  I don’t want you to be traumatized by what might be in there.”

“There’s no way I’m waiting out here! Don’t worry about me.  Just hurry so we can get to her!” I screamed as Massimo hoisted himself through the window.

Feeling like a curvier version of Catwoman, I slinked inside right behind him, my rump centimeters away from getting stuck.  “Evelyn! Evelyn, are you okay? It’s Gianna and Massimo!” I called hopefully, holding my breath waiting for a response.

To my enormous relief, a cowering Evelyn emerged from the kitchen, wielding a large wooden spoon in an apparent effort to defend herself.  “Gianna!” She gasped.  “That was you knocking on the door like a psychopath? I thought Leonard had forgotten his keys and came back to hurt me!”

“You’re alive,” I whispered, gazing at Massimo who exhaled in unison with me.

“How did you know that I needed help?” She asked shakily.

“So Leonard was trying to harm you?” I prodded, taking a step closer as she laid the wooden spoon on an armchair.

“Yes, I guess you probably figured out that he’s my fiancé…and I don’t think I should tell you the rest.” She looked guiltily down at the floor.

“Yes, you should,” I coaxed.  “Because I have a confession too.  Massimo is not my boyfriend.  He and I have been investigating Tomaso’s death together.”

“Gianna,” Massimo grated, furious that I had leaked the information.

“No, it’s okay.  I want to work with you guys,” Evelyn said softly, sweeping a teardrop off her cheek.

“Leonard murdered Tomaso, didn’t he? Leonard was the one who cut the brakes on Tomaso’s boat, right?” I deduced.

She sighed heavily, crossing her arms over her chest.  “I know what I did was wrong.”

“You mean getting involved with Tomaso?” I conjectured.

“Yes. How did you know that?” Evelyn asked, taken aback.

“I didn’t know it for sure.  But I thought it was pretty likely. You and Denise both flirted with him quite a bit,” I pointed out candidly.

“I know.  And I shouldn’t have cheated on Leonard. It’s all my fault! I’m the reason that Tomaso is dead!” Evelyn sobbed.

“No, Leonard is the reason that Tomaso is dead,” I corrected.

“Did Leonard actually confess to you?” Massimo inquired.

“No, but he didn’t deny it either when I accused him.  I had suspected all along that Leonard was the murderer.  He saw me kissing Tomaso on the beach…oh, I was so stupid!” She raved.  “But tonight at the dock, I felt certain for the first time that Leonard was the killer.  And the way he treated me when we got home only made me even more sure.”

“How so?” Massimo probed.

“He had never been violent before, but tonight he shoved me against the wall.  He shoved me so hard.  So I told him to leave.  Just to get out.  But I should have gotten a confession from him before I let him walk out.  Oh, I’m a horrible person.  Tomaso only bought that boat to impress me. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror anymore,” she despaired as a shadow appeared in the bare window.

We simultaneously gasped, fearing that Leonard had indeed come back this time.  Instead, though, the comforting figure of Detective Cantino materialized.  “We don’t need a confession,” he informed.  “There’s a little something called surveillance footage that’s already taken care of that detail.”

“Surveillance footage at the boat dock, you mean?” I guessed.  “Was Leonard actually caught on tape cutting the brake lines of Tomaso’s boat?”

“He certainly was,” Detective sighed with satisfaction.  “And thanks to you Gianna, and you Massimo, we apprehended him before he could get out of Stella Polare.  We’ve got our killer.”

“And now the Alegres family can get some peace,” I said, feeling a grateful smile perk up at the corners of my lips.

Spontaneously, I hugged Massimo, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my body warmly into his.  “We did it!” I whispered.

“You deserve most of the credit,” he said gruffly, holding me a little too tightly.  “Let me take you back to the hotel now.  You deserve a good night’s rest.”

“I really do need a good night’s rest,” I agreed as we each shook hands with the detective.

Walking over to Evelyn, who was still trembling, I pulled her into a supportive hug.  “You’ll get through this.  And remember, it’s not your fault.”

She hugged me back feebly and nodded uncertainly.  “Thanks, Gianna.”

“Let’s go, Detective Gianna,” Massimo offered warmly as we slid out the window like graceful wildcats embracing the full moon and airy night.

***

Early the next morning, I arose feeling more refreshed and peaceful than I had since arriving in Rome.  Tomaso’s murderer was behind bars, and I had played a pivotal role in making that happen.  Justice was being served, and in a few minutes, a scrumptious buffet breakfast would be served in the lobby.  Stretching luxuriantly, I reached for my phone, noting that Richard still hadn’t called or sent a message.

More out of obligation than desire, I dialed him in New York.  It was the middle of the night back home, and I would probably be waking him up.  But I didn’t care.  We needed to break the silence.

On the fifth ring, our lines connected.  “Hello?” A cooing female voice answered.

My heart halted as I wondered if I could have dialed the wrong number.  But no, I had gone straight to my contacts and pressed Richard’s speed dial entry.  There was no one else’s number it could be but Richard’s.

“Who is this?” I demanded as a commotion erupted on the other end of the line.

“Why did you answer my phone?!” Richard’s voice was muffled but outraged.

“Oh, sorry,” the female voice apologized.

“Give me that! Oh no…” Richard sounded desolate.  “Gianna?”

“Yes, it’s me,” I replied tightly.  “Who is that woman?”

“My co-worker, Cynthia…we’re working late tonight.” The lie didn’t fool me for a second.

“Working late? I’m not stupid, Richard.  Who is she?” My voice rose several octaves in my fury.

“I told you, she’s…”

“Just stop! You’re cheating on me, aren’t you? I can’t believe this!” I slammed my hand on the nightstand as angry tears pooled in my eyes.

“I’m not cheating, I swear…”

“Richard, if you tell me one more lie, I’m hanging up this phone right now!”

A long pause followed before Richard croaked, “I’m sorry, Gianna.  But you’ve been gone so long and…”

“I haven’t even been gone two weeks!”

“I know, but I just got lonely and…”

“You’re pathetic.  Absolutely pathetic.  It’s over, Richard.  There’s nothing you can possibly say.  I’ll never trust you again!”

Before he could try to weasel out of his deception with another lame excuse, I disconnected the call, throwing myself onto the bed and burying my face in a pillow.  Indignant tears stained the pillowcase as I wallowed in the painful reality that my relationship with Richard was over.  We hadn’t even made it to our one year anniversary.  Amidst my rage, though, a strange sense of relief flooded through me.  I had been falling out of love with Richard since…honestly, since the moment I met Massimo.  Or had I ever been in love with Richard at all?

A knock on my hotel room door startled me out of my musings.  Tossing the pillow aside, I squared my shoulders and walked with dignity over to the door.  Peering through the peephole, I was shocked to see Massimo standing on the other side of the door.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted out, instinctively pulling the ratty tee-shirt I had worn to bed down my knees to hide myself even though he couldn’t see me.

“Good morning.  I wanted to take you to breakfast.  Is that okay?” He queried, sounding more than a tad nervous.

“Breakfast?” I echoed, trying to remember the last time I had taken a shower.

“Yes, but not a date,” he said hurriedly.  “Just a thank you meal for working so hard to solve the crime.”

“I’d love to,” I breathed, glimpsing his smile through the peephole.  “Just give me a minute to get dressed.”

“Take all the time you need,” he said chivalrously as I dashed to my suitcase and rummaged through my unworn outfits.

Selecting a crepe dress with scalloped edges, I rushed to the bathroom for a makeshift “sink shower.”  Soaping myself up, I felt all thoughts of Richard and his betrayal evaporate like bubbles.  Feeling sufficiently clean, I stepped into the dress and a pair of sandals, pushing a hairbrush through my tresses and hurrying to meet Massimo at the door. 

There was no time to apply even a drop of make-up.  I had no choice but to be my naked self that morning, unprotected by beauty products or designer threads.  I didn’t know in that moment whether I was meant to be a fashion maven or a homicide sleuth.  I didn’t know if I wanted my breakfast with Massimo to be just a “thank you meal” or the beginning of something far more intimate.  All I knew was that the old adage, one door closes and another one opens, was beautifully weaving its way into my life.  

Epilogue

1 Year Later

Home Sweet Home

Soothingly, the sewing machine stitched my shell camisole together at the seams.  I removed the needle and paused to admire the silk creation that was nearly complete.  All I needed to do was add a sweep of detail at the edges of the neckline.  Then I could slip into the camisole, pairing it with a sharp business jacket to wear to my meeting with a team of stylists later in the week.

Since Sophia Pucci had flaunted my mermaid gown at the Cannes Film Festival, I had been inundated with requests from other European celebrities.  To date, I had designed and sewn more than 30 dresses and half a dozen custom tuxedoes.  My tailor shop was long gone, as was my cracked relationship with Richard.  New York was no longer home sweet home.

“Ciao, bella,” Massimo swept into the dayroom, planting a kiss on my forehead.

“Hello handsome,” I beamed.  “I have some linguine and clam sauce simmering on the stove downstairs.”

“Sounds wonderful.” He smacked his lips.  “I need to talk to you about something over dinner.” His light tone became grave.

“Another case?” I guessed.  Since helping to catch Tomaso’s murderer, I had joined forces with Massimo in several other high profile cases.

“I know you’re busy with your design business, but I could really use your skills on this new case I’m working on.” Massimo massaged my shoulders as he spoke.

I grinned and gave in.  “Sure, let’s go have dinner and you can tell me all about it.  And then you can go have your cigar.” I recalled that day in Massimo’s car when my father’s presence had felt so near. At the time, I hadn’t understood, but now I knew that the feeling was serendipitous of my destiny to be with Massimo and to help bring criminals to justice.

Arms entwined, we strolled downstairs to our spacious kitchen in our apartment located a block from the Fontana di Trevi.  I hadn’t gotten around to tossing a coin into the fountain in order to ensure a return visit to Rome.  But I hadn’t needed to either.  I had never left Rome, and with my relationship with Massimo growing stronger every day, I knew the Eternal City would remain my home sweet home.

***

*BONUS SECTION*

10 CLASSIC ITALIAN RECIPES

TURN THE PAGE TO START COOKING LIKE A ROMAN!

Recipe #1

Mama’s Marinara Sauce

2 imported cans of whole plum skinless tomatoes with basil 

1 small can of tomato paste (Contadina)

2 small cans of Contadina tomato sauce

1 clove of fresh garlic (chopped)

½ of yellow onion (sliced)

Olive oil  (less than 1/8 of a cup)

Oregano (dried), basil (dried)

Grated Parmesan cheese to taste

Place garlic and onions in heated olive oil allow until light golden. Add some oregano and basil to this mixture and stir. Add the two cans of tomato sauce and stir. Place canned tomatoes in a blender.  (One can at a time) for about 30 seconds. Add to the pot, stir. Add tomato paste, stir. Add cheese, more oregano and basil, Stir and simmer. Turn off heat and allow sauce to continue to cook.  Stir and taste; add more oregano, basil and cheese as desired.  You’ll know when it tastes good! This sauce forms the basis of many Italian recipes, including the vegetarian delight on the next page.

Recipe #2

Eggplant Parmagiana

2 medium eggplants

Plain bread crumbs

3-4 eggs (organic, cage-free)

Corn oil

Fresh mozzarella cheese

Peel eggplant and slice so that slices are circles of medium thickness. Heat corn oil.

Dip slices into egg and then breadcrumbs. Place in frying pan, make sure the oil is hot. Flip eggplant quickly until golden brown. Place on paper towels to drain oil.

Oil will need to be changed at least 3 times. Place fried slices in a square baking pan, layered.  Place ample sauce and grated cheese between layers. Cover with aluminum wrap and bake at 340 degrees for 40 minutes. Remove from heat, turn off oven. Eggplant should be soft. Place generous slices and pieces of mozzarella on top of the eggplant and return to the oven to let cheese melt with residual heat.

Serve and savor this healthy yet satisfying main dish!

Recipe #3

Fresh Mozzarella & Tomato Basil Salad

6 ripe heirloom tomatoes, cut in slices

30 fresh Mozzarella balls

Fresh basil

Extra virgin Italian olive oil

Salt and pepper (optional)

Arrange tomatoes, cheese, and basil on an attractive serving platter.  Drizzle olive oil evenly over the arrangement.  Add a dash of salt and pepper if desired.  This refreshing salad is an excellent starter to any main dish.

Recipe #4

Baked Ziti

1 can crushed tomatoes

Classic Marinara Sauce (medium saucepan)

1 can tomato paste

2 cloves of garlic, chopped

4 basil leaves

15 oz Ricotta cheese

½ pound shredded Mozzarella cheese

1 pound Ziti noodles

Put tomatoes, sauce, paste, garlic, and basil in a crock pot.  Keep on low flame for 8 hours.  Layer sauce, noodles, and Ricotta in a rectangular glass lasagna dish.  Layer to the top and sprinkle on extra cheese.  Bake at 350 degrees for 50 minutes.  Baked Ziti is very filling comfort food!  Try preparing a simple green salad and serve chilled AFTER you eat the Baked Ziti…the way the Italians do!  Main dish first, salad to finish and cleanse the palate.

Recipe #5

Zucchini Lasagna

1 box lasagna noodles

Classic Marinara Sauce (large saucepan)

2 pounds Ricotta cheese

3 pounds fresh Mozzarella cheese

4 fresh green zucchinis, chopped

4 yellow zucchinis, chopped

Grated Parmesan cheese

1 egg (organic, cage-free)

1 tbsp garlic powder

2 tbsp parsley

1 tsp nutmeg

Mix nutmeg, parsley, garlic powder, egg, and grated cheese into the Ricotta.  Layer sauce, noodles, mixed Ricotta, zucchini, and Mozzarella cheese in a large rectangular glass dish.  Make 3 layers and bake for 1 hour at 375 degrees.  Make your Zucchini Lasagna the main dish at dinner and satisfy the whole family!

Recipe #6

Fettuccine Alfredo with Shrimp & Broccoli

1 package fresh cut Fettuccine

1 pound shrimp, cleaned & peeled

Butter to sauté shrimp

Powdered basil

½ pound fresh broccoli

8 oz alfredo cheese sauce (Contadina brand suggested)

Grated Parmesan cheese (optional)

Salt & pepper (optional)

Mix softened butter with powdered basil.  Melt basil butter into a frying pan.  Sauté shrimp until fully cooked (pink color).  Steam broccoli and chop.  Bring 2 cups of water to a boil.  Stir in fresh Fettuccine and simmer for 2 minutes. Pasta will be slightly chewy, or al dente as the Italians say.  Drain pasta. Mix broccoli, pasta, and shrimp in a large saucepan.  Pour in sauce and mix until combined.  Top with optional ingredients and indulge in this rich, cheesy dish!

Recipe #7

Antipasto Appetizer

1 jar roasted red peppers

1 jar artichokes in oil

Slab of Italian Parmesan cheese, sliced

6 ripe heirloom tomatoes, cut in slices

1 jar black olives

1 jar green olives stuffed with cheese or pimentos

Artfully arrange all antipasto ingredients on a large serving platter.  Makes an elegant appetizer for a party.  Serve alongside herbed rosemary crackers or crusty Italian bread.  Buon appetito!

Recipe #8

Cool Classic Cappuccino

1 ½ cups cold coffee

1 ½ cups chocolate or vanilla ice cream

1 cup crushed ice

Chocolate syrup (to taste)

Whipped cream

In a blender, combine coffee, ice cream and chocolate syrup. Blend until silky smooth. Pour over crushed ice. Spray on some whipped cream and delight in this refreshing beverage!

Recipe #9

Cocoa-Tinged Tiramisu

3 egg yolks

¼ cup sugar

2 tsp pure vanilla extract

2 cups Mascarpone cheese

24 ladyfinger cookies

1 ½ cups warm coffee

2 tbsp cocoa powder

In a bowl, beat yolks with sugar and vanilla until smooth. Fold mascarpone into yolk mixture. Set aside. Dip ladyfingers in coffee and arrange 12 of them in an 8x8 inch dish. Spread half the mascarpone mixture over the ladyfingers. Make a second layer with remaining cookies and mascarpone. Cover and chill for at least 1 hour. Sprinkle with cocoa powder to satisfy your chocolate cravings!

Recipe #10

Biscotti for Dunking

½ cup vegetable oil

1 cup sugar

3 ¼ cups flour

3 eggs (organic, cage-free)

1 tbsp baking powder

1 tbsp anise extract

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Grease cookie sheets. In a bowl, beat the oil, eggs, sugar and anise flavoring until blended. Combine the flour and baking powder, stir into the egg mixture to form dough. Divide dough into two pieces. Form each piece into a roll. Place roll onto cookie sheet, and press down to 1/2 inch thickness.

Bake for 30 minutes in the preheated oven, until golden brown. Remove from the baking sheet to cool on a wire rack. Slice each cookie crosswise. Place the slices back onto the baking sheet. Bake for an additional 7 minutes on each side. Slices will be lightly toasted.  Brew up your favorite coffee and dunk away!

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TASTY CRIMES

Prologue

New York City

Brownstone on East 73rd Street

“Promise me, Marlena, promise me, mi amor!” The strength had drained out of my grandmother’s voice, but her will was stronger than ever.

“I promise you, Nana, I will find out who killed your sister.” I gazed into her warm cocoa eyes that had transformed from lustrous to dull over the past few weeks of her pneumonia.

Accepting a few ice chips that I offered her, the dear woman who raised me wet her throat as tears moistened her eyes.  “I always thought that I would be the one to solve Silvia’s murder.  How can I leave this world without knowing who killed my sister?!” Her voice was scarcely more than a raspy whisper mingled with a cough.

“Stop tormenting yourself,” I urged, squeezing her wrinkled hand.  “You’ve done everything you can to solve Aunt Silvia’s murder.  But she was killed in Spain.  You’ve been in New York City for the past 50 years.  It would have been a miracle if you had been able to solve the crime from here.” I offered her a tiny wedge of fresh orange, but she waved it away.

“That’s why you must go to Spain.  Go to my home in Barcelona.  My land holds many secrets that you must uncover! Please!  No matter what it takes!  And bring this envelope with you.  It will help you.” She pointed to the mahogany nightstand where a sealed envelope sat waiting for me to claim it.

I picked up the envelope and tucked it close to my heart.  “Yes, I will go to Spain, Nana.  And I won’t come back to New York until I find out who killed Aunt Silvia.  That’s a solemn promise.”

Gently, I pressed my lips to her forehead as she sighed and her eyes fluttered closed like butterfly wings.

Chapter 1

Barcelona, Spain

2 Weeks Later

As the plane slid onto the runway at Barcelona El-Prat Airport, torrents of rain hammered down with it.  I had cried my last tear somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean and wore a stony face as I yanked my carry-on out of the overhead compartment.  Grieving for my grandmother wasn’t an option; I had a homicide to solve and needed to veil my emotions until my mission was complete.  Faces were a blur as I stood in the cramped aisle waiting to get off the plane and catch a whiff of fresh oxygen.  After the 8 hour flight from New York, my cascading mocha ponytail was caked in grease and my eyes were blotchy from crying.  Feeling like a zombie, I squeezed my way off the narrow jetliner and wheeled my suitcase down the long corridor towards the front of the airport where taxis were queued up.

Immediately, a taxi driver swept my luggage out of my hands and gave my figure a brazen perusal.  “Bienvenidos a Barcelona, Señorita.” He gawked at my slender body as he spoke.

“Gracias,” I replied curtly, sliding into the cab and hoping he wouldn’t try to make conversation.  I had grown up speaking Spanish with my grandmother and could easily converse with anyone in the city, but I was in no mood to speak any language with some leering cab driver. “Take me to the Alonso Hotel in the Gothic Quarter.  Por favor,” I requested, hoping the middle aged man would take the quickest route so I could get out of his suffocating cab.  I desperately needed a shower and a huge glass of iced coffee.

Trying to ignore the lewd glances the driver kept tossing me in his rearview mirror, I reflected on all that I had left behind in Manhattan.  At 29, I had just been promoted to Vice President of Sales at my job at BoldTech, making me the youngest VP in the history of the company.  My friends had all agreed that I was making a colossal mistake by quitting to go chase ghosts from half a century ago, but I needed to honor the promise I had made to my grandmother.  The woman had sacrificed more than enough since my mother abandoned me when I was 7 years old.  Now it was my turn to sacrifice for my grandmother and find out who had murdered her younger sister in 1962.

“Are you here on vacation?” The driver asked in Spanish.

“No,” I stated the syllable in a monotone, staring out the window at the Medieval buildings that whizzed by in a rainy haze.  

“Then what brings you to Barcelona?” The cab driver asked in a jovial tone that made me seethe.  Why couldn’t he just understand that I didn’t want to talk to him?  In New York, there’s a sign on the back seat of every yellow taxi that proclaims one’s right to a “silent ride,” but clearly things were different in Barcelona.

“I’m here on business,” I evaded, scowling deliberately so he could see me in the rearview mirror.

“Ah, a business woman,” he mused as my scowl intensified.  “Well, you must find some time for pleasure as well during your stay in Barcelona.  How long will you be here?”

“As long as I need to be,” came my unfriendly reply.  “If you don’t mind, I’m not feeling very well after my plane ride and just need to sit quietly.” My eyes met his in the mirror, and I could tell that he was offended, but I really didn’t care.  If he knew how grave the reasons for my trip to Barcelona were, then he would understand why I needed peace and quiet.

Long minutes later, we arrived at the Alonso Hotel as I tipped the driver fairly and rushed with my bag to the reception desk.  “Buenos dias.  I have a reservation under the name Marlena Falcon,” I announced to the bubbly front desk clerk.

“Yes, I see here, Señorita Falcon.  I’ll need to see your passport, please.” The young girl smiled at me as I smiled wanly back and handed her my identification.

“Do you know where I can get a really good cup of coffee around here?” I asked, hearing the desperation in my own voice.  “All they gave us on the airplane was some nasty, stale instant brew.”

The girl, whose name tag read Talisa, replied with a soft laugh, “Yes, right down the block there’s a great place called Dario’s Cappuccino Boutique.  Best coffee in Barcelona in my opinion.”

“Mmmm, I can smell the coffee beans roasting now,” I murmured, rubbing my hands together in anticipation of a strong, frothy cup of java.

Taking my room key, I wheeled my suitcase to the elevator, trying to prioritize the rest of my day: Coffee first.  Shower later.  Opening the door to my room, I frowned at the depressing décor all shaded in maroon and beige.  The walls could use a new coat of paint, and the furniture was in dire need of shampooing.  Oh well.  I wasn’t going to be spending much time in my hotel room anyway.  Armed with nothing more than my grandmother’s sealed envelope and my own intuition, I was sure to be spending countless hours combing the city for Aunt Silvia’s acquaintances…if any were still living.  Knowing that the crime’s age was my one biggest obstacle, I nonetheless was driven to figure out who had smothered my aunt to death when she was just 26 years old…

Tasty Crimes - Kindle edition by Anisa Claire West. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

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CHAMPAGNE DECEPTION

Milan, Italy

A Black, Moonless Night in May

Inside the art gallery, Coretta put the finishing touches on a tray of Italian hors d’oeuvres set on a table lined with bottles of the finest champagne.  It was eight o’clock precisely, and the gallery was about to open its doors to introduce her paintings to the world.  Swallowing a breath of nervousness, Coretta smoothed the fabric of her scarlet cocktail dress while listlessly twirling her shoulder length mahogany hair.  It was time to open the doors to the public; she couldn’t wait another minute longer.

With trembling fingers, she unlocked the doors and opened them wide for the avid art lovers who stood queued up in the balmy spring air.  Immediately, they pushed through the doors, clamoring to reach the walls and place early bids on her best paintings.  Coretta smiled in stark disbelief; this kind of fame and popularity were completely new to her.  A few months ago, she couldn’t even get an art dealer to look at one of her paintings and now here she was with a gallery opening devoted to her work.  Discreetly, she pinched her forearm, giggling silently as she observed the customers fight over her paintings.

From the darkest corner of the gallery, Coretta continued to watch in awe as the elegant art lovers fussed over her labors of love.  Emerging from the shadows and strolling over to the buffet table for a glass of champagne, Coretta scanned the room for her lover.  They had quarreled earlier when he misplaced three paintings that she had planned to feature in the display, and now she wanted to make amends.

Coretta selected a flute of champagne and lifted the delicate glass to her lips, indulging in a sip.  The icy bubbles rolled smoothly across her tongue, and she closed her eyes, savoring the moment.  She pressed the rim to her lips for a second sip when a strident beeping assaulted the hushed atmosphere of the gallery and the lights simultaneously dimmed to black.  The recently opened gallery contained no back-up generator, and the entire space was immediately as dark as the moonless spring sky.  The glass of champagne slipped out of Coretta’s fingers and crashed onto the floor as she jumped in fright.

Groping in the blackness, Coretta bumped her knee against a metal table and squealed with pain as the group on the other side of the room became agitated.  The sounds of bodies bumping into each other and glasses crashing to the ground elicited a scream from one woman and grumblings in Italian from several of the other guests.

Coretta spoke up and addressed the crowd in her most authoritative voice: “I apologize for this inconvenience.  Apparently, there has been some sort of electrical failure that has caused a blackout.  I would advise you to take out your cell phones and use the lights from those devices until I can find some candles.  A candlelit art reception, not bad, right?” She spoke lightheartedly, trying to allay the concerns of her guests.

As a handful of people dug into their pockets for their cell phones, Coretta felt a body press against her backside.  “Excuse me,” she murmured to whomever had collided with her.  The moment she spoke, a gloved hand smacked against her face and covered her mouth while a menacing arm pressed into her belly and knocked the wind out of her.  Gasping for air, she wriggled in the death-grip of the gloved man, frantically biting on his covered hand to get him to release her.  As her teeth sank into the thick fabric, his grasp tightened even more around her waist until she thought her ribs would shatter.

Roughly, the man dragged her backwards towards the darker recesses of the gallery.  Lighting the way with a tiny flashlight clenched between his teeth, he pushed Coretta down the stairs into the cellar…

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A PASTRY THIEF IN PARIS

Prologue

Paris, France

Sometime after Midnight…

Forget all the romantic images of Paris where starry-eyed tourists climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower and kissing lovers sail along the River Seine.  Make no mistake.  Paris after dark is a ruthless jungle, and it’s no place for a woman to be roaming the streets alone.  Fatefully, on one chilly night when the moon was full and the air was thin, I learned this truth the harsh way.

Strolling outside my apartment by Collette’s Pastry Shop, where I worked part-time during daylight hours, I gasped to see a sleek figure dressed from head to toe in black.  Donning a ski mask and carrying a burlap sack in one hand, the figure slipped away into the Parisian night before I could make sense of what had just happened.  Creeping over to the shop, I flinched to see the door wide open.  The figure in black had been inside the shop! 

Softly, I made my way inside, holding my breath as though another criminal were about to jump out and attack me.  But the door hadn’t been broken or disturbed at all.  Oddly, the cash register was also in tact and not a single Euro was missing.  The shop hadn’t been looted and nothing appeared out of place.  Slithering into the kitchen, I used the moonlight drifting in to illuminate my view of the room.  All the appliances were in their proper spot and, again, nothing had been ransacked.

Opening up the refrigerator door, I blinked, wondering if my eyes were deceiving me.  Several trays of pre-made pastries were tidily lined up for the next day’s sales.  Thick orange mousse filled up cannoli shells and glazed strawberry tarts were in their designated place.  But one shelf of the refrigerator was conspicuously empty. 

“The cream puffs!” I exclaimed, realizing that an entire tray of the French sweets was missing.

Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, I groped around in my purse for my phone and called the police to report a most unusual robbery…

A Pastry Thief in Paris - Kindle edition by Anisa Claire West. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

Dear Reader:

Thank you for reading A Fashion Felon in Rome. I hope you enjoyed reading about Gianna’s sleuthing & romance with Massimo!  I welcome your feedback and make an effort to personally respond to every email I receive.  Write to me at anisaclairewest@yahoo.com.

Happy Reading!

Cordially,

Anisa Claire West

Titles Available by Anisa Claire West

ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

& COZY MYSTERY

A Fashion Felon in Rome

A Pastry Thief in Paris

Cappuccino Twist

Champagne Deception

Cookie Dough Crook

Cupcake Shop Clues

Dark Chocolate Murder

Deep Dish Lies

Hotcake Homicide

Hot Fudge Fraud

Northern Moonlight

The Scarlet Suit Murder

Wild Autumn

FANTASY

Silver Goddess Series:

Island Tango, Book 1

Orca Dance, Book 2

Leopard Rhythm, Book 3

Mermaid Gold, Book 4

HISTORICAL ROMANCE

Eternal Melody

ANTHOLOGIES

Chocolate Covered Crimes

Exotic Daydream

Passion’s Raindrops

Silver Goddess

Sweet as Pie Crimes

Tasty Crimes

About the Author

Anisa Claire West graduated with honors from Yale University and also holds a Master of Arts degree in Literature and Teaching.  Learning about cultures is Anisa’s passion, and she has studied more than half a dozen languages including French, Arabic, and Italian.  A certified yoga instructor, Anisa embraces mind-body fitness, animal advocacy, and a compassionate lifestyle.  She also enjoys Italian cuisine and has sampled more than a few of the recipes included in this book!