The Body in the Piazza (9 page)

Faith had forbidden him to repeat this joke, which he had tried out on her some weeks before, and she was only happy that at the moment the audience was limited to their two friends.

Gianni laughed uproariously and Francesca looked puzzled. Faith gave her husband a look. A wife-type look.

“Okay, okay.” He was laughing, too. “I had to try it once, didn't I?”

“Not really,” she started, and was about to elaborate when Francesca pulled her to the side. “Could you come into the kitchen for a moment or do you need to freshen up?”

“No, I'm fine. And I'd love to see the kitchen. Tom, why don't you unpack your things?” This wouldn't take long. Tom had packed even less than she had. “If you're not in the room, I'll find you where?”

“Definitely checking out the pool.”

The reverend had obviously decided he was on vacation, Faith thought. And she would work at getting in the same mood. Tom saw much more death than she did—and he had also not had the same amount of contact with Freddy. She looked out the French doors that led to a patio and spotted the pool, an inviting turquoise oblong farther down the hillside. It, the garden, the pleasure of cooking again with Francesca, would all help her to move on. And move is what she did, following Francesca down the hall and through the dining room, noting the sizable wooden table, long and wide, easily seating the entire class and then some. The kitchen was conveniently located off the room.

The Rossis must have gutted whatever was here, Faith thought. She had expected the
cucina
to match the rest of the house, but instead it was a sleek modern restaurant kitchen with slip-resistant rubber foot-friendly flooring, stainless appliances, and enough workstations to accommodate up to sixteen students. Under each table, she glimpsed everything that would be needed—bowls, measuring cups, pots, pans, strainers, etc. Knives and other utensils would be close at hand in the drawers, she was sure. Yet this would never be mistaken for a teaching kitchen in the United States. A window had been pushed out to provide a wide sill with space to grow fresh herbs, the glazes on the pots a splash of color. Braids of garlic and dried peppers hung on either side. Several containers of oils sat next to rows of earthenware jars no doubt filled with all sorts of olives, dried mushrooms, and fruits and vegetables preserved in a variety of ways. Francesca had been the one to teach Faith how to make the best glazed fruit, eggplant caponata, and an Italian version of olive tapenade. There were serving pieces of the same pottery on display in the living room piled on one counter. Faith felt her whole mood change.

“It's gorgeous! I can't wait to start cooking,” Faith said. “You and Gianni have done an amazing job, I hope you have some ‘before' pictures. How do you say ‘dream kitchen' in Italian?”

She was suddenly very much aware that her enthusiasm was having no effect on her friend. In fact, the woman looked close to tears.

“I have a big problem and I'm very worried.”

Faith thought she knew and was instantly sympathetic.

“Constance?”

Francesca shook her head. “I can handle her. She is just like my mother's friend Lucia; something always has to be wrong to make them happy. No, none of the students. It's our assistant. Alberto. He has disappeared.”

E
xcerpt from Faith Fairchild's travel journal:

So much for the pool. Tom is sound asleep on top of what looks like an extremely comfortable bed. Cucina della Rossi is going to be a big success. They have done everything right. The house is beautiful, and if the other rooms are anything like this one, they'll be turning people away. It could be in one of those Tuscan-style coffee table books—the bed has a sheer muslin canopy, very romantic—and the walls are the color of goldenrod. They must have scoured the countryside for the antique furniture, a beautiful armoire and chest of drawers. There's even a tiny balcony just big enough for a table and two chairs, perfect for morning espresso or an evening digestif. Anyway, we're here and I am determined to have a good time. I can be sad, impossible not to be, but I'm with my beloved (although not much company at the moment) and that's what's important.

I'll write about my fellow students later. Have to wake Tom soon and get down to the kitchen. We're making antipasti for tonight's meal. Wonder what it will be. But want to make note of these people at some point. A mixed bag. At least we all share a love of good food. I think. But poor Francesca. Not even open twenty-four hours before a major problem. I wanted to tell her this was going to happen a lot, but she doesn't need to know that yet. What she needs now is a solution. Apparently months ago she found the perfect sous chef, Alberto. Someone from another village (maybe this was a mistake?), and they have been working side by side to get everything ready. Last night they all said buona notte and trundled off to bed. The Rossis and staff are sleeping in what used to be the Italian equivalent of a granary, which they remodeled for their use and any overflow guests. When Alberto didn't show up for his morning cappuccino Gianni went to his room and discovered that he was gone. Also all his things. The bed hadn't been slept in. This without a word to them or any other indication that he was planning to jump villa. They've put the word out to get a replacement and I offered, but Gianni's sister is filling in for now. Not a good solution, tho. Besides working in the kitchen, Alberto was acting as the handyman, helping Gianni, and she can't do that. She's about five feet tall and her arms are like linguine. First Francesca was afraid something happened to him, but after she discovered some truffles stored in a place only the three of them knew about were missing, she moved straight to livid. More later. Tom's awake and it's time for some vino.

B
efore moving into the kitchen, Gianni invited the students for a glass of cold Prosecco served on the terrace, which extended across the rear of the house. Lavender and rosemary the size of small shrubs lined the walls, and a pergola covered with vines provided shade. It smelled, and looked, heavenly. Whether because of the wine or the beautiful setting or both, by the time the group moved indoors, it was a convivial one. Faith noticed that Roderick Nashe had managed to snag several refills, and his face was looking much less like that of a country squire confronting a poacher, his habitual expression heretofore, and more like a country squire hoisting a tankard or two after riding to the hounds. Even Olivia seemed almost cheerful.

They had just started to go indoors when a man appeared from around the corner of the house. He looked Italian and Faith immediately assumed it was the wayward sous chef returning with a plausible excuse for his absence and his sudden need for the truffles—his Vespa had been stolen? A relative needed an operation? Anyway, whatever the reason for the sudden absence turned out to be, Faith was very relieved to see him. Gianni's sister seemed like a lovely person but was clearly not up to the chores.

Except it wasn't Alberto.

“Jean-Luc! Just in time.” Gianni went to greet his neighbor. “Come and meet everyone. We are about to start preparing, and more important, getting set to eat, the antipasto.”

“Since I have brought the wine for our tasting, I knew you wouldn't start without me.”

He was smiling broadly, conveying the impression that there was nowhere else he'd rather be at the moment than with all of them. He was going to be a fine addition to the group, Faith thought.

Seeing him closer, she realized he was older than he had appeared at first. His curly dark hair was streaked with gray, yet he carried himself with youthful athleticism. He was stylishly dressed in a pale yellow linen shirt and trousers the color of cocoa.

“Before I learn your names, please call me ‘Luke,' since so many of you are Americans, I understand. When I was working in Colorado a long time ago—a young man's adventure—they gave me the nickname and I think I will be ‘Luke' for the week again.”

Glancing at her fellow classmates, Faith noted they seemed as taken with the man as she was, even Constance, who had acted positively, and even slightly nauseatingly, girlish when he shook her hand.

About to introduce herself in turn, Faith felt the words stick in her throat in reaction to the smell of lime that hit her full force as he approached. It was the same citrus cologne that Freddy had worn. She swallowed hard. Coincidence. Only coincidence. The brand, Penhaligon's, was no doubt sold in Florence at all the upscale
farmacias
. She tried to sidestep the memory, stammering out that she was Faith Fairchild and lived in the United States near Boston, Massachusetts. Tom took over, asking the man what part of France he was from and how long he'd been living in the neighborhood. She knew it wasn't because her husband had picked up on her confusion. It was what he did. A natural interest in people that went with his turf, even sans collar.

“I am from a small place near Nice, but this is now my adopted country. I have been doing my best to help the Italian economy for many years, though I bought my villa here only four years ago.”

Gianni was ushering people back into the house toward the kitchen. “Jean-Luc—oh, I must remember you are an American cowboy for these days—
Luke
speaks perfect Italian even with his French accent, which means he has been able to talk to the men working on his place. I think this is why he has been able to do so much in so little time.”

The kitchen drew oohs and aahs. Gianni's sister handed out white chef's aprons and kitchen towels. Faith noticed that, like herself, Olivia, the Nashes, and the Culvers all placed the towel at the front of the apron over the drawstrings for easy access, indicating their familiarity with professional kitchen routines.

“No toques?” Luke asked.

“No hats at all, just keep your hair back if it is long,” Francesca said firmly. “Now, we have twelve people, so all week you will be cooking in groups of four. You must tell me how you would like to be divided. I thought couples might split up, as often the groups will be cooking different things and this way you will learn more, but if you would rather stay together please say so.”

“We'll split up,” Len Russo said quickly, earning a glare from his wife. He added, “So we can learn more stuff, hon.”

“Good idea,” Faith said. She knew being with Tom would make her crazy. She'd want to snatch the knife or the whisk from his hand and do everything herself.

The Nashes also split up, and Faith noticed Constance sidling over to Luke. Oh dear, there could be tears before bedtime, she predicted. She doubted the handsome Frenchman went in for tweed. The Culvers opted for separate groups with more protestations about wanting to learn
just
everything and
truly
loving Italian food. Jack and Sky stayed together. Faith was not surprised.

When everyone was at a station, Francesca said, “We are going to make
crostini,
a simple and delicious way to start the meal. First of all, let me tell you the difference between
crostini
and
bruschetta,
which we will also make during the course. ‘
Crostini
'
means ‘little toasts' and ‘
bruschetta
'
comes from ‘
bruscare,
' to roast over hot coals. The biggest difference is the kind of bread. For
bruschetta
we use a rustic, country-type bread, similar to sourdough, and we slice a larger and thicker piece than for
crostini,
which uses a different bread as well—a white, baguette-type loaf. One of the nights when we are cooking outdoors, we'll do
bruschetta
over the coals. The simplest way, which we like best, is rubbing the slightly charred bread with garlic and topping it with our own olive oil—maybe a little fresh basil and diced tomato.”

“I'm starving already!” Hattie called out.

“Good. We want everyone to bring a good appetite. Now each group is going to make a different topping for tonight's
crostini,
which we will toast in the oven under the broiler. You can also make
crostini
by brushing some olive oil on each side and baking the bread. I like to have sometimes the extra crunchiness the broiler makes.”

Each group sliced bread at their tables and Gianni's sister—what was her name? Faith wondered—whisked the baking sheets away to the oven. Francesca explained that she had selected quick toppings, but that she would include others in the recipe packet.

“One of my favorites is a traditional spread we make from cooked chicken livers, sage, rosemary, a little cognac, sometimes a little anchovy, coarsely chopped and mixed together, but it takes an hour. There is also a fashion now in Italy for making Mexican
crostini
with a kind of Italian guacamole. You can put anything you like on top of the bread!”

She looked over at Faith, and Faith knew Francesca was thinking of the first time she'd had the south-of-the-border avocado spread—at a restaurant in New York City when her boss had finally been able to get the young girl to reveal her real reason for coming to the States. So many years had gone by. It had been another century and another life.

Faith was in a group with Olivia, Sally Culver, and Len Russo. They were going to be assembling
crostini
topped with thinly sliced fennel, olive oil, and salami that Gianni told them came from a nearby farm. Once they started, Len was taking so many “just a little tastes” of the meat that Faith was afraid they wouldn't have enough, but it was soon clear that it didn't matter. He was having a good time, as it seemed the rest of the room was, and she had to remind herself she wasn't on a job. Although she added a bit of fennel frond to each
crostini
as a finishing touch.

It soon become obvious that Olivia had worked in a restaurant, and perhaps attended some sort of culinary institute. She was all-business, which Faith had been expecting. What she hadn't been expecting was the way Sally handled a knife. Someone in the bayou had taught the woman well, but when Faith asked how she'd learned, she flushed and said she watched a lot of cooking shows on cable. It seemed to Faith that she slowed down after that, even fumbling twice. On purpose?