Claire Gulliver #03 - Intrigue in Italics Page 11

  Jacques just smiled and from George’s expression Millie guessed he had been one of the big losers.

  “I’ve decided to go to church this morning with Jacques. There is a Mass at eight-thirty he says, and the bus will leave a little after eight o’clock. Want to come, Millie?”

  Millie considered, thinking while in Rome... But then she shook her head. “I think I’ll take a walk. The fresh air will do me good before we’re cooped up in the kitchen again.”

  “That does sound good. Do you want company?” George asked tentatively.

  “Of course, love it.”

  They headed out through the gardens, admiring the profusion of healthy herbs and the row after row of lettuces. They found a path at the end of the vegetables just as the desk clerk had told them and followed along the vineyards as it sloped gently downward.

  At the fork they veered away from the fields and into the trees. Here the path led through a heavily wooded area. The cool dampness was wonderful; the air had an earthy smell. Shortly after taking this path they encountered Sam and LiAnn.

  “Good morning. Isn’t it a lovely morning?” Millie was enthusiastic; the walk had already perked her up.

  Sam nodded, LiAnn spoke. “How are you this morning? Have you had breakfast yet?”

  George nodded. “How’s the trail that way?”

  “Nothing much there,” LiAnn said. “But there is a little fork up ahead that might be interesting to explore.” She smiled her inscrutable smile. “We’re heading back for breakfast now.”

  Further down the trail George shook his head and said, “That LiAnn is something, isn’t she? She’s always moving around, poking her nose into everything. She can’t just be part of the group. And yesterday her insistence on that cake was annoying. I mean, it’s supposed to be a group process.”

  Millie nodded. “Well, you do know she is the revered matriarch of a very large family. And, as the Chinese traditionally honor their parents, I think she is law in the family and so she probably just expects the same from everyone.” Millie chuckled. “I’m sure it never occurred to her that others may consider themselves in charge. No, she is the director.”

  Then Millie laughed out loud. “Did you happen to see her face when she found out we would each have to make a set of desserts? I could see it was a struggle for her. Maybe it’s her age. God only knows how old she really is.”

  Millie thought a moment, then shook her head. “No, I think she usually gives the orders and then only directs the action. It was hard for her to actually make the dishes.”

  George nodded thoughtfully, agreeing with Millie’s conjecture.

  “And George, truthfully, the cake was very good. And it was attractive with the layered apples on top. And it went wonderfully well with the Ricotta and the Budino, so it was a very good choice.”

  “Ah, Millie, I expect you’re the peacemaker in your family. It was good and it did work well with the other desserts, but I can’t give her any credit for that as we hadn’t decided on the other dishes at the time she decided on the cake.” He smiled. “But I guess I’ll cut her some slack. You’re right. She is an old woman who has accomplished a lot in her lifetime. I guess she’s entitled to be a little autocratic.”

  Millie nodded, thinking George was a very nice person.

  “This must be the fork she spoke of. Want to take it, or go the way she did?”

  Millie looked at the fork and then shook her head. “It looks like it goes back up toward the vineyards; let’s stay on this path in the woods where it’s so pleasant.”

  They walked for another twenty minutes until George warned they needed to turn around or risk being late to morning class.

  The way back was almost like taking another trail as they saw different things coming from the other direction.

  “Oh look, George. Are those mushrooms?” The white fungi nestled among the tree roots in the damp earth.

  George looked at them closely then shook his head. “I don’t know. They look like mushrooms, but I wouldn’t want to be the one to try them. I’m afraid I don’t know enough to say.”

  “Well, they look beautiful, but you’re right. The safest way is to buy them at the market. You know I have a wonderful recipe for a mushroom medley I use with roasted meat and serve with polenta.” And they finished their walk talking about favorite recipes.

  “Hey, you two, look at this?” Marybeth Lewis called to George and Millie from the corner of the garden.

  They joined her and saw the profusion of zucchini flowers on the vines in front of them.

  “No wonder they had all those flowers available for us to stuff for appetizers last night. I thought we were just incredibly lucky.” She rose to her feet and dusted off her hands, looking around the garden. “Don’t you just love this? It makes my small herb garden look a little dowdy.” She pointed at another row of basil. “That basil makes me want to cry. I hope we’re going to use it today in our pasta class.”

  “Speaking of...” George looked at his watch.

  “Oh, dear, we’d better hurry.” Marybeth led the way.

  * * *

  The early morning fog had already dissipated by the time Kristen and Claire arrived at the waterfront. It took a while to choose from the bewildering array of pastries at the bakery and then they ordered coffee and orange juice from the café next door. They selected a table on the piazza in full sun, the umbrella still closed. The table sat invitingly just above the little strip of exposed wet sand. Today there were few boats sitting on the quay. Sunday was apparently not a day of rest for fishermen. Sitting back with legs outstretched to catch the warmth of the sun, they enjoyed their breakfast while they watched the drama of life in the village. Mass let out in the church at the water’s edge. Its doors opened onto the piazza and worshipers spilled out. Some clustered around the priest at the door, some moved in clumps through the piazza. Some were hurrying to begin their day, some were reluctant to leave, calling to friends, enjoying Sunday as a day of rest.

  Claire smiled at the nod from one of a group of woman who could have been cloned, they looked so much alike. She recognized one as the old woman who was the mother-in-law of their landlady. The black-clad women moved slowly, almost painfully through the piazza, chatting quietly amongst themselves, waving their hands in accompaniment to their words, only their eyes moving swiftly, darting here and there, absorbing everything.

  Claire commented to Kristen, “Did you notice their feet?”

  No wonder they appeared to walk painfully, their knobby toes and heels were bursting out of the cuts made in their low heel shoes to accommodate their misshapen feet.

  “Do you think that’s from a lifetime of climbing these hills?”

  Kristen shrugged. “Maybe, or maybe arthritis from the dampness of the sea. Or it could be from spending their youth cramming their feet into fashionable Italian shoes.”

  Claire shook her head, unable to imagine these traditional old women wearing short skirted garments and high heel shoes that were the fashion in the 40’s or 50’s.

  “Look at those day-trippers. Fashionable shoes will certainly never give them problems with their feet.”

  The group of five young people outfitted with backpacks and water bottles were clad in shorts and tee shirts, each with a sweater or lightweight jacket tied around their waist and all were shod in clunky hiking boots. They watched the group gaily tromp across the piazza and up the street, only to move purposefully between two buildings. It didn’t take long until they emerged above the buildings on the trail moving up the cliff on their way to the next town.

  At the same time Claire noticed people going behind the church and, by leaning way back, she could see there was another trail on this side of the piazza. She pulled the guidebook from her backpack and after a minute said, “The trail over there,” her head nodded toward the hill beyond the house where they were staying, “goes to Cornigia and is rated difficult. It takes two hours. But the trail up behind the church goes to Monterosso de
Mare and it’s only an hour and a half. It’s an easier trail. Or, if we wanted, we could take the train down to Manarola or Riomaggiore for lunch and take one of those walks back this way. They’re both rated easy and take less than an hour.”

  Kristen nodded. “Sounds like a good way to spend the afternoon. But let’s wait a while until I make my next call. We’ve got plenty of time and I’d like to check around here a little bit and maybe walk up to the top there.” She pointed to the other side of the piazza where a tower of some sort loomed high on the cliff overlooking the sea as well as the village.

  Claire looked at her with disbelief. “Up there?”

  Kristen nodded. “Sure, we could take our time. It can’t be too bad. There’s a restaurant up there. I bet it’s a gorgeous view.”

  Claire wasn’t convinced any view would be worth the climb, but she knew wherever Kristen went she intended to be right there with her until she had seen her transported to safety.

  But right now they weren’t going anywhere. Sitting on the piazza, breakfasting in the sun amidst other tables full of tourists she decided to have another Latte while she finished the last pastry. She could almost forget what had brought her here and just enjoy the day.

  Finally finished, they wandered around the village, peeking in the church and a few of the shops which were open for the tourists. The restaurant where they had dinner last night was closed, but their waiter was outside hosing down the cement under the tables clustered around the door. He recognized them and waved with a friendly smile when they passed.

  “If you’re serious about climbing up to the tower, let’s do it before the caffeine jolt wears off.”

  Kristen laughed and headed for the steep set of stairs narrowly cutting through the buildings.

  It wasn’t as bad as Claire expected, because the stairs twisted and turned constantly changing the view and even sometimes allowing tantalizing glimpses of the sea. When they arrived at the base of the tower they could see all the way down the coast.

  “Look, Kristen. That must be the trail I read about.” They could barely see the little figures moving across the jagged cliffs apparently heading for the next village which was hidden from them by the distance. Turning they looked across the piazza, but the coastal view that way was blocked by the large hump of land rising behind the church. From here the village looked unreal. They watched as people boarded a boat on the quay and it swung out of the small harbor heading north.

  “I didn’t know they had boat service here, did you?”

  Kirsten shook her head. “Maybe instead of taking the train this afternoon we should take the boat to one of the other villages. That would be fun and we’d get a different view.”

  When they headed back down they paused at the little restaurant, whose terrace hung over the point. It was up far enough to escape the spray of the waves and had an unobstructed view of the turquoise sea.

  “Let’s check the menu. This would be a great place to have dinner tonight and watch the sun set.” Claire, originally reluctant to come up, now found she wanted to come back. She wished she had her camera, but that wasn’t one of the items Kristen told her to put in her backpack. Then it occurred to her that she could buy one of those little disposable ones. She was sure they would have them in the little store they passed.

  Returning down the stairs Claire noticed how the stairway they were on connected with other stairways and paths snaking through the thick maze of buildings, some even heading up in the direction of the hill where they were staying. She resolved that when they went back up the hill they would try to cut through this way and see if they could find another way through. Maybe it would connect to that little train track they saw this morning on the hill. Their landlady had told them it was used during harvest time to transport the grapes from the vineyards on the hill. They hadn’t seen the vehicle but could imagine from her description the train-like motor, pulling a line of crates on wheels filled with grapes.

  When they reached the piazza again Claire headed for the harbor. “Let’s check on those boats.”

  Kristen followed willingly and after a long discourse with the man at the ticket booth she made a purchase.

  When she joined Claire again she said, “We could leave on the next boat but I really need to call in before I do anything else. So I couldn’t get a ticket until two-thirty. I guess on Sunday this is a popular excursion. But, we’re on it for Riomaggiore, we can have a late lunch there and then walk as long as we like. We’ll just take the train back when we’ve had enough, okay?”

  After eating all those breakfast pastries Claire was willing to wait for lunch. They came to the little shop she had seen. “Wait a minute. I need to buy a bottle of water. And maybe I’ll get one of those disposable cameras. If we walk on one of the trails I think I’d like to take a few pictures.”

  The little shop seemed to be crammed with a little bit of everything, so when Claire emerged she had both her water and a camera. She blinked in the bright light noticing a train had just stopped on the platform up the hill. They watched it disgorge its load of assorted people. The day-trippers were easily recognizable by their hiking clothes and boots. The family groups, dressed in Sunday best, were probably coming for lunch, or maybe they had relatives in the village. And the tourists were struggling with their baggage while consulting their maps and books for directions to the pensions. Amongst the few other people, who looked as if they were residents returning from somewhere, were two men, who didn’t look as if they belonged.

  Claire reached out and grabbed Kristen’s arm, dragging her into the shadow of the building they were passing.

  “Kristen, it’s him!”

  “Him? Him, who?” She stretched her neck to see.

  “No, no stay back. It’s the man I followed in Florence; the man, who had the large box strapped to the back of his bike; the man who parked his bike behind the art store!”

  Kristen sucked in a mouthful of air, then said, “Are you sure? Where?”

  “He just got off the train. See there? He’s with that guy in the red jacket.

  “And, yes, I’m sure. Do you think I would mistake that suit? I’m sure it’s a one of a kind. He was wearing it that day of the bombing.”

  Kristen studied him, taking care to keep well back in the shadow. The taller of the two men was wearing a brown suit of some kind of shiny material that flashed green when the light hit it. He was way overdressed for the sleepy fishing village. Even from this distance he stood out from the others. The second man, shorter, more square was wearing casual clothes with a red, light-weight windbreaker over his shirt. He looked like a day-tripper or even one of the locals dressed for his day off. The two men conferred, took a long look at the down side of the village, then went down the stairs, under the tunnel and up the hill.

  “They’re looking for us, aren’t they?” It was a rhetorical question. Kristen knew the answer.

  “I think they’re going to start at the top and work their way down.”

  “Oh, no, I’ve really got us in a pickle. We’re trapped. There won’t be another train for an hour, but there’s no way we can get on a train without them seeing us. And the boat has already gone. Damn, I wish we had been on it.”

  “No, that wouldn’t have been good either. We’d have come back at the end of the day and walked right into them,” Claire told her.

  Kristen’s voice quivered slightly, the only sign of her fear. “I need to make my call. We need help.”

  She moved furtively across the street to the pay phone fishing in her backpack for her phone card while she watched up the street in case the men started back down their way. She had inserted her card and was just poking in a series of numbers when Claire reached over and pushed down the connector, cutting her off.

  “No! Wait! Don’t call. Don’t you see? They know we’re here. They didn’t just accidentally arrive in Vernazza. They’re here looking for us. They must know we’re here.”

  Kristen’s eyes widened.

/>   Claire continued. “But how could they know we were here? How did they know to look for us in Sienna yesterday? For that matter how did they find you in Florence?

  “You’ve used different passports. And you look so different I can hardly recognize you. There is no way they could have known where we were unless someone told them.”

  Kristen turned so white her freckles once again popped out like polka-dots. Claire put out her hand to grab her, thinking she might collapse.

  She whispered, “Me? You think I told them?”

  Claire nodded. “Not intentionally, but it’s the only way. No one knows who I am or my connection to you. They can’t be following me. So it has to be you. It’s you they want. And you have been calling in each day to dutifully report where you are. And then the next day that guy shows up and someone gets killed.”

  They stared at each other with horror.

  “Did you tell them you changed your hair?” The guilty look on Kristen’s face was all the answer Claire needed.

  “But that can’t be. These are the people who are trying to keep me safe. They need me to help them convict Sonny.”

  “Apparently not all of them are. Trying to keep you safe, I mean.”

  Claire’s words were too much for Kristen. Her knees gave out leaving her clutching the post supporting the telephone. She lost her composure, wailing, “But I have to be able to trust them.” She looked at Claire, tears in her eyes, suddenly calm again. “You’re right! How else could these guys be tracking me?”

  She took a deep breath, panic close to bubbling over. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  Kristen’s fear was contagious. Claire’s own heart was beating so hard that for a moment she couldn’t even hear the noise around them. She took three deep breaths.

  Breathe in deeply, hold, release. Breathe in deeply, hold, release. On the third release her heart was no longer pounding in her ears and she had remembered something.

  “Kristen, what is the code we have to use for a call to the States.”