“Coincidence?” Gideon offered weakly.
Caravale snorted. “God doesn’t like coincidences like that.”
That was pretty much what Gideon thought too. “Tullio, if he was really murdered, and it was because of what he said at the
“You’re seeing it the same way I am.” He suddenly banged his desk with the side of a hammy fist. “I should have interviewed him right away. I never should have put it off.”
Gideon shook his head. “I don’t see how you can fault yourself for that. There was no way of knowing what was going to happen to him. We were talking about a crime from ten years back. Who could guess somebody else was going to be killed?”
“All the same...” He leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Listen, my friend, it’s almost dinnertime. What would you say to a glass of wine and some
“No, sir!” Gideon said firmly. “This is your case, not mine. I’ve done my job, I’m out of it. My head hurts. I’m going back to bed.”
Caravale shrugged good-naturedly. “As you like. I’ll give you a lift.”
THE following day, Monday, was the final day of the Pedal and Paddle Adventure. At 7:30 a.m. the bus for which the ever-efficient Phil had arranged arrived at Lake Orta to pick up the members, most of whom were showing serious signs of having been cooped up too long with the same small group of people, and to take them to Milan’s Malpensa Airport. Gideon, who had intended to go along to help out, overslept—something unusual for him —and went down to the breakfast room with mixed feelings of relief (Paula Ardlee-Arbogast no longer clouded his horizon) and guilt (had he purposely, if subconsciously, overslept to avoid her?). Liberal helpings of ham, brioche, and soft Bel Paese cheese from the buffet table took the edge off his guilt, however, and the usual enormous serving of caffe latte, with the coffee and the hot milk brought to the table in separate steaming pitchers, left him feeling quite fine. The fact that he would soon have Julie back to himself undoubtedly had a lot to do with it too.
After a walk around the town—the lakefront promenade didn’t appeal to him this morning—and a stop to pick up some fruit at the GS
Phil and Julie, both looking frazzled, showed up at 3
p.m. Phil went up to his room to nap (“Call me when it’s time for dinner”), and Julie announced that she was in extreme need of three things: a truly scorching shower with water that would stay hot for more than three minutes at a time; a chance to buy some new non-camping–style clothing, preferably involving a skirt, and shoes that didn’t take laces; and a decent meal in an actual restaurant that served things on nondisposable plates. ln that order.
Gideon returned contentedly to his computer, having only briefly considered offering his assistance, if needed, in the shower. She had been pretty explicit in her priorities, and right now it was more than enough just to have her around again.
At five thirty, with Julie looking splendidly dewy and fresh in a crisp, new, just-above-the-knee sleeveless dress and new sling-back, open-toed, leather-weave sandals, they met Phil in the lobby of the Primavera.
“Where to?” Phil said. “There’s a great pizza place right around the corner—What?” He had caught Julie’s grimace. She looked from Phil to Gideon and put on her wistful
face, the one with the pouty lips and the puppy eyes. “Could we eat someplace—no offense, Phil, I enjoyed all those stews and pizzas—but do you suppose we could eat someplace really nice? You know, with actual courses?”
“Oh, jeez,” muttered Phil.
“Having thoroughly researched the matter,” Gideon said, “I know just the place. You’ll love it.” He turned to Phil. “But you’ll need to get some long pants, buddy.”
Phil glowered at him. “You’re kidding me.”
“There’s a nice men’s shop up the block at Via Roma,” Julie told him.
“And you probably ought to wear a shirt with a collar,” Gideon said. “I can lend you a shirt with a collar.”
Phil looked wildly around the lobby, as if for help, found none, and gave in, letting his shoulders sag in utter dejection. “What I don’t do for my friends.”
EIGHTEEN
DURING his morning walk Gideon really had researched the town’s restaurants, and it was to the Grand Hotel des Iles Borromees that he brought them. The graceful, wedding-cakey Belle Epoque pile had been open for business since 1863, with a well-publicized celebrity guest list that had included the usual European royalty, plus Mussolini, the Rothschilds, Clark Gable, and ambulance driver Ernest Hemingway, who had recuperated there from his wounds in the First World War, and had later used it in
They had before-dinner drinks on softly padded Empire-style chairs in a gleaming lobby with gilded wall and ceiling sculptures, huge chandeliers, and terrazzo floors ornamented with Oriental carpets. Naked marble infants—
“It’s wonderful,” Julie sighed as her Cinzano was set down on a low marble table. “Just what I had in mind.” She rubbed her bare arms. “I feel so
As expected, Phil didn’t agree. “I think I remember this place. My grandfather used to take us here for lunch sometimes, in the days when he still went off the island sometimes. I always felt like I didn’t belong.” He held up the glass of Beck’s beer he’d ordered and shook his head. “Seven bucks for a beer, and you don’t even get the bottle. Sorry, folks, but this place is not going to make it in the
