dark hair. She hadn’t changed much. They had met once before, though he doubted she would remember.
She was still struggling with the massive iron key he knew Mifune must have given her. She shoved it in the lock again and gave the door another push. It creaked loudly but still didn’t open.
“Damn,” he heard her say. “It’s stuck, Jammy. It always used to stick.”
“Oh, thank God,” the blonde replied, sounding relieved. “It’s a sure sign we’re not meant to be here. Come on, Lamour, let’s just go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Lamour jiggled the key in the lock some more, then gave the door another mighty shove.
“Are you aware that you are trespassing?” Lorenzo said coldly.
Startled, they shrieked and swung round, clutching at each other. Wide-eyed they stared him up and down, taking him in, old shorts, paint can, and all.
“Who are you?” Lamour demanded. “And why are you here?” she added a little haughtily, trying, Lorenzo knew, to look confident, because they were women alone and he’d scared them.
“More important, who are
you
?” he asked. Of course he knew exactly who she was, but he wanted to put her at a disadvantage. “There are severe penalties in Italy for breaking into houses that do not belong to you.”
Lamour’s face turned an indignant pink and her big dark eyes blazed at him. “We did not
‘break in.’
” She dangled the old iron key on its string. “This is
my
house. It belonged to my father. I lived here when I was a child.”
Lorenzo looked steadily at her. It was as though he werelooking at a memory. “I knew your father,” he said at last. “You resemble him.” He turned and walked back down the steps. “A warning.” He threw the words over his shoulder. “It’s better not to go exploring here after dark. It might not be safe.”
And whistling for his dog, he was off, back through the garden to the stairs that he climbed as easily as any mountain goat.
NINETEEN
Lamour
Jammy and I stared after the arrogant stranger striding through my garden as though he owned the place. “What do you think he meant?” I asked nervously.
“I think he meant keep your nose out of Jon-Boy’s past and go back to Chicago.”
“But why? Who is he? And anyhow,
why
did he think I was trespassing?”
“Well, of course he didn’t know who you were until you told him,” Jammy said.
“And then he warned me off.” I didn’t want to admit it, but I was unnerved by that warning. I shivered; could it have something to do with Jon-Boy’s death?
“Hey, whatever,” Jammy said with a grin, “he’s surely a good-looking guy. Maybe you can hire him to paint the place; it looks as though it could use it.”
But I didn’t care what the man looked like; I was still thinking about what he’d said. I turned to look at the unmovable lock and sighed.
“Oh, the hell with it,” I said, suddenly dispirited. “Let’s just go get some lunch.”
The village of Pirata was only a ten-minute walk away. It looked like a movie set, with tall pastel-colored houses surrounding the medieval piazza, flanked by stone arcades and centered with an ancient fountain. A series of slender archesframed the waterfront like a painting, and through them I could see the bluest of seas and the small harbor lined with traditional red and green wooden fishing boats. In the piazza was a greengrocer’s with fruits and vegetables displayed in crates outside, and a general store that I remembered had hams and salamis hanging from the beams on giant hooks. They also sold dozens of different kinds of cheeses and homemade delicacies straight from the owner’s kitchen: tomato sauces and pesto, the best meatballs, potato gnocchi, and ravioli so fine it was almost transparent. In fact, my mouth was watering just remembering the smell of the place.
They sold a multitude of other fascinating things too, like machetes and hammers and nails, patterned spaghetti bowls and olive-wood salad
She was still struggling with the massive iron key he knew Mifune must have given her. She shoved it in the lock again and gave the door another push. It creaked loudly but still didn’t open.
“Damn,” he heard her say. “It’s stuck, Jammy. It always used to stick.”
“Oh, thank God,” the blonde replied, sounding relieved. “It’s a sure sign we’re not meant to be here. Come on, Lamour, let’s just go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Lamour jiggled the key in the lock some more, then gave the door another mighty shove.
“Are you aware that you are trespassing?” Lorenzo said coldly.
Startled, they shrieked and swung round, clutching at each other. Wide-eyed they stared him up and down, taking him in, old shorts, paint can, and all.
“Who are you?” Lamour demanded. “And why are you here?” she added a little haughtily, trying, Lorenzo knew, to look confident, because they were women alone and he’d scared them.
“More important, who are
you
?” he asked. Of course he knew exactly who she was, but he wanted to put her at a disadvantage. “There are severe penalties in Italy for breaking into houses that do not belong to you.”
Lamour’s face turned an indignant pink and her big dark eyes blazed at him. “We did not
‘break in.’
” She dangled the old iron key on its string. “This is
my
house. It belonged to my father. I lived here when I was a child.”
Lorenzo looked steadily at her. It was as though he werelooking at a memory. “I knew your father,” he said at last. “You resemble him.” He turned and walked back down the steps. “A warning.” He threw the words over his shoulder. “It’s better not to go exploring here after dark. It might not be safe.”
And whistling for his dog, he was off, back through the garden to the stairs that he climbed as easily as any mountain goat.
NINETEEN
Lamour
Jammy and I stared after the arrogant stranger striding through my garden as though he owned the place. “What do you think he meant?” I asked nervously.
“I think he meant keep your nose out of Jon-Boy’s past and go back to Chicago.”
“But why? Who is he? And anyhow,
why
did he think I was trespassing?”
“Well, of course he didn’t know who you were until you told him,” Jammy said.
“And then he warned me off.” I didn’t want to admit it, but I was unnerved by that warning. I shivered; could it have something to do with Jon-Boy’s death?
“Hey, whatever,” Jammy said with a grin, “he’s surely a good-looking guy. Maybe you can hire him to paint the place; it looks as though it could use it.”
But I didn’t care what the man looked like; I was still thinking about what he’d said. I turned to look at the unmovable lock and sighed.
“Oh, the hell with it,” I said, suddenly dispirited. “Let’s just go get some lunch.”
The village of Pirata was only a ten-minute walk away. It looked like a movie set, with tall pastel-colored houses surrounding the medieval piazza, flanked by stone arcades and centered with an ancient fountain. A series of slender archesframed the waterfront like a painting, and through them I could see the bluest of seas and the small harbor lined with traditional red and green wooden fishing boats. In the piazza was a greengrocer’s with fruits and vegetables displayed in crates outside, and a general store that I remembered had hams and salamis hanging from the beams on giant hooks. They also sold dozens of different kinds of cheeses and homemade delicacies straight from the owner’s kitchen: tomato sauces and pesto, the best meatballs, potato gnocchi, and ravioli so fine it was almost transparent. In fact, my mouth was watering just remembering the smell of the place.
They sold a multitude of other fascinating things too, like machetes and hammers and nails, patterned spaghetti bowls and olive-wood salad
Similar Books
