them onto a side street. She hoped that by the time the goateed man realized they were no longer in the lobby, they’d be long gone.
“Wait! Where are we going? We haven’t done our shopping yet,” Cat said, since Angie was heading away from the shops.
“We don’t need to. We’re going home. Didn’t Paavo tell you that Flora Piccoletti was murdered?”
Cat grasped her arm, stopping her. “Exactly.” Her voice was low and determined. “If you would take a moment to think, to be logical, you’d realize that means the murderer is still in San Francisco! It’s not Marcello, or Rocco. We’re perfectly safe here, and I need to talk to them about the St. Peter chain.” Her face fell. “And other things.”
“What other things?” Angie asked suspiciously.
“That’s none of your concern.”
That kind of answer had Angie seeing red. “I told Paavo we’d come home soon.”
“Go.” Cat turned back toward the Via del Corso. “I’m going to buy some things I need, and remain here until I see Marcello.”
Arms folded, Angie trudged along beside her. “Who’s following us, then?”
“I think it’s all in your head. You know what a wild imagination you’ve got.” Cat looked completely disgusted. “Between Da Vinci’s and his hotel, I’ll find Marcello today and get this all straightened out.”
“Then we’ll go home together?” Angie asked.
“Of course.”
As they retraced their steps, Angie suddenly shoved Cat into a doorway. “Look!”
At the street corner was a thin, poorly dressed goateed man, clearly searching for someone or something. “That’s him!” Angie whispered.
Cat watched a moment and in a hushed voice said, “You know, it’s getting close to lunchtime. Since Marcello wasn’t at his restaurant last night, he might be there during the day. We should go back.”
Angie eyed her. “The metro’s just past the Piazza del Popolo.”
Cat nodded. “What are you waiting for?”
To reach Da Vinci’s restaurant from the metro’s Ottaviano station, it was necessary to walk across St. Peter’s Square. As impressive and imposing as St. Peter’s Basilica was—the largest Christian church in the world—Angie enjoyed being in the piazza even more, enclosed by the curved “arms” of Bernini’s colonnade. A hundred thousand people could fit in it.
From there she could look up at the large rectangular building just beyond St. Peter’s, which housed the Pope’s living quarters, top floor, far right. She had once stood in the piazza as John Paul II came to his window and blessed the crowd.
To the left of it she could see the top of the Sistine Chapel.
Being here, she remembered her Catholic upbringing, the parochial schools she attended, some of the good-hearted nuns like Sister Mary Margaret and Sister Rachel, whom she’d come to truly love, and a few, like Sister Mary Francis, who intimidated her as only a nun could do.
Near her, a group of nuns of the Missionaries of Charity, Mother Teresa’s order, in their distinctive blue and white habits, strolled by. Not far from them, a priest in a full-length black cassock hurried as if late for an appointment.
Angie loved seeing the traditional clothes of nuns and priests. She loved this aspect of the Church, the part with the mystery and miracles, the pageantry, formality, and rules. Much of that had been lost in many dioceses as they tried to become more “modern.” An inkling of the old, stricter religion seemed to be in the wind these days, struggling to come back, along with the old mass, the saints and their visions, the rules, and even the guilt when those rules were broken.
Something about the serious, almost haunted look of the priest caught her eye, and she quickly realized why. He was the one who’d been dining alone at Da Vinci’s last night. He crossed the piazza without hesitation, heading surely and directly toward the Swiss Guards who protected the entrance to the private sections of Vatican City.
“Wait! Where are we going? We haven’t done our shopping yet,” Cat said, since Angie was heading away from the shops.
“We don’t need to. We’re going home. Didn’t Paavo tell you that Flora Piccoletti was murdered?”
Cat grasped her arm, stopping her. “Exactly.” Her voice was low and determined. “If you would take a moment to think, to be logical, you’d realize that means the murderer is still in San Francisco! It’s not Marcello, or Rocco. We’re perfectly safe here, and I need to talk to them about the St. Peter chain.” Her face fell. “And other things.”
“What other things?” Angie asked suspiciously.
“That’s none of your concern.”
That kind of answer had Angie seeing red. “I told Paavo we’d come home soon.”
“Go.” Cat turned back toward the Via del Corso. “I’m going to buy some things I need, and remain here until I see Marcello.”
Arms folded, Angie trudged along beside her. “Who’s following us, then?”
“I think it’s all in your head. You know what a wild imagination you’ve got.” Cat looked completely disgusted. “Between Da Vinci’s and his hotel, I’ll find Marcello today and get this all straightened out.”
“Then we’ll go home together?” Angie asked.
“Of course.”
As they retraced their steps, Angie suddenly shoved Cat into a doorway. “Look!”
At the street corner was a thin, poorly dressed goateed man, clearly searching for someone or something. “That’s him!” Angie whispered.
Cat watched a moment and in a hushed voice said, “You know, it’s getting close to lunchtime. Since Marcello wasn’t at his restaurant last night, he might be there during the day. We should go back.”
Angie eyed her. “The metro’s just past the Piazza del Popolo.”
Cat nodded. “What are you waiting for?”
To reach Da Vinci’s restaurant from the metro’s Ottaviano station, it was necessary to walk across St. Peter’s Square. As impressive and imposing as St. Peter’s Basilica was—the largest Christian church in the world—Angie enjoyed being in the piazza even more, enclosed by the curved “arms” of Bernini’s colonnade. A hundred thousand people could fit in it.
From there she could look up at the large rectangular building just beyond St. Peter’s, which housed the Pope’s living quarters, top floor, far right. She had once stood in the piazza as John Paul II came to his window and blessed the crowd.
To the left of it she could see the top of the Sistine Chapel.
Being here, she remembered her Catholic upbringing, the parochial schools she attended, some of the good-hearted nuns like Sister Mary Margaret and Sister Rachel, whom she’d come to truly love, and a few, like Sister Mary Francis, who intimidated her as only a nun could do.
Near her, a group of nuns of the Missionaries of Charity, Mother Teresa’s order, in their distinctive blue and white habits, strolled by. Not far from them, a priest in a full-length black cassock hurried as if late for an appointment.
Angie loved seeing the traditional clothes of nuns and priests. She loved this aspect of the Church, the part with the mystery and miracles, the pageantry, formality, and rules. Much of that had been lost in many dioceses as they tried to become more “modern.” An inkling of the old, stricter religion seemed to be in the wind these days, struggling to come back, along with the old mass, the saints and their visions, the rules, and even the guilt when those rules were broken.
Something about the serious, almost haunted look of the priest caught her eye, and she quickly realized why. He was the one who’d been dining alone at Da Vinci’s last night. He crossed the piazza without hesitation, heading surely and directly toward the Swiss Guards who protected the entrance to the private sections of Vatican City.
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