I thought I'd share the 1st chapter of my latest release, and a little bit of Venice with you.
It is truly a magical and mystical city.
Chapter 1
The stars seemed to follow the black
gondola as it flowed along the
Grand Canal, and in the distance,
a dark and narrow passage beckoned
for a romantic interlude.
Iridescent
shards glistened in the moonlight. The golden glow and
the ripples in the water reminded
Minola Grey of Shelley’s poem
Love’s
Philosophy. “And
the moonbeams kissed the sea.” As the
gondola glided along the canal,
the old palazzos, one building after
another, appeared to sway with
the hushed tones of the lapping water.
Peter Riley had wanted some peace
and quiet and asked the
gondolier to choose a less
travelled way along a narrow and more
intimate path.
“Welcome
to Venice, Miss Grey.” Peter’s finger traced the line of
her cheekbone and then her neck.
“I'm very much in love with you,” he
whispered in her ear and felt her
lean into him. This was the way it
should be, just the two of them
together. Alone. Nothing stood in their
way. They were in Venice for a
wedding. Theirs. Minola loved glass
and art. Because of the Biennale
Art Festival and Murano, another
island world-renowned for blown
glass that was only fifteen minutes
away by water taxi, they had
chosen Venice as the perfect destination.
Minola
Grey turned toward him and brushed her lips against his,
the touch whisper soft. “I’m very
much in love with you, too.
Anywhere with you is romantic,
but Venice is magnificent.
Incomparable,” she purred like a
contented kitten, nestling deeper into
his arms and gazing across the
canal.
He
was completely absorbed in the peaceful moment, until Minola
tilted her head away from him and
murmured in his ear, “Peter. Isn’t
that strange?” She pointed above
her head at the pier and stared at what
seemed like a mound of
multi-colored mosaics. From her vantage
point, the glass appeared to be a
colorful blanket. “It’s like a sculpture,
sort of.”
“Miss
Grey, may I remind you we’re in a gondola in Venice. The
moon is shining.” He ran his
fingers over her cheek once again, his
touch firm and persuasive. “I’m
caressing your face. We’re together.
You, Love of my Life, should be
looking at me, not glass. I know, after
our visit to Murano, you have
glass on your mind, but really, where is
your sense of romance?”
“Peter,
I’m sorry. I am romantic. You tell me I'm romantic when we
make…”
“Love?
Yes, you are. Passionate and romantic, you turn my world
upside down, and not just when we
make love. However, now would be
a good time to slip into that
romantic mood again.” His lips curved up
in a smile. He couldn't help
himself. Everything she did made him
smile, with the exception of
getting into trouble and endangering her
life. She had an uncanny talent
for finding bodies, and the end result
terrified him.
They
had met in Paris. He was with Interpol, and his money
laundering case almost cost
Minola her life. In Bath, her life was
threatened, and worse, he
couldn’t control her impulse to help. Peter
loved his work—he excelled at
it—but now he focused on keeping the
woman sitting beside him safe
from harm. That was not as easy as it
appeared. She was a remarkable
artist who knew how to get into
trouble and could never deny
anyone’s cry for help.
“But,
Peter, it’s unusual. I know we’re on the Grand Canal. Well,
we turned and are now on this
lonely, dark, narrow, and romantic
canal—okay, sort of an alley,
except that this is Venice and it is a canal.
Just take a peek…” Minola Grey
would not let go and pointed again to
the glass enclosure when she
heard Peter groan.
“I'm
sorry. But…but…” She stuttered.
“Minola, what am I going to do with you? We
have moonlight, a
dark intimate canal in front of
us, a lantern, and a gondolier who is not
going to sing to us. A perfect
setting.”
“Perfect
setting? For what?” she asked, still captivated by the
colorful display on the pier, and
she moved closer to the edge of the
gondola so she could see better.
“You’re
going to reduce my vocabulary to Arrgh.” Peter’s voice
sounded resigned. He motioned to
the gondolier. “Roberto, please bring
us closer to that pile of glass,
whatever it is.” Peter watched as the
gondolier expertly used his foot
and a wall to push off so he could
maneuver his gondola as close to
the pier as possible, allowing Peter to
step out. “Stay put,” he ordered
as she tried to follow him. “I mean it.”
He
gazed back at her and frowned. “Stay.”
Minola
bristled at the order. “I'm not a doggie.” She glanced at his
resolute expression and
grudgingly replied, “Fine. I won't budge.”
Minola settled back in the
gondola and saw Peter bend down.
Tiny pieces of glass were molded
together to form what appeared to
be a blanket for whatever was
underneath. The center was well-crafted,
and the colors brilliant. The
edges, not finished well, were sharp and
haphazard. Suddenly, he felt
those goose bumps on the back of his neck
that told him more than just
glass rested on the secluded dock.
“I
have a bad feeling about this,” he murmured.
“Peter,
did you say something?” Minola raised her voice to be
heard. She rarely shouted and
found the sound unpleasant. Her
preference lay in peaceful
contemplation and quiet conversation. Loud
noises did not appeal to her
gentle soul, and she avoided situations that
involved screaming and throngs of
people. Even her art exhibits were
tempered, and Peter made sure she
was protected at all times. He
understood her and would do
anything to keep her from harm.
Anything. She appreciated that,
but often did not agree with his
assessments and his need to
shield her.
“Stay
put. I’m going to be a little longer.”
“Nooo…
not without me. I’m not staying in the gondola alone.”
“You’re not alone. I’m right here, and so is
Roberto.” Peter stooped
down and viewed the bizarre
sight. The flashlight on his cell helped
him to see the blood around the
base of the glass. He pointed the light
toward the edge of the pier and
saw the blood trail lead to water.
Peter tried to lift the hefty
glass, and using both hands, he could
hardly budge it. Straining hard,
he lifted the mound a tiny notch,
enough to tell him all was not
well. The familiar stench that reached his
nostrils caused him to
instinctively control his breathing. He'd
recognize the odor of a
decomposing body anywhere. The sweet acrid
smell, the reek that defies
description but lingers long after, told him a
body was hidden underneath the
glass sarcophagus. He turned, quickly
stepped down, and boarded the
gondola before calling the police.
Peter’s
bleak expression told her all she needed to know. “Peter,
that’s a body covered by glass,
isn't it? A dead body?"
“Are
there any others?” he quipped, running his hand down her arm
for support. “The police are on
the way.”
“What
would it be doing there? This is Venice. A piece that large
had to come from a big furnace.
Are there large furnaces in Venice? I
thought they all moved to Murano
centuries ago.”
“I
don’t know. You’re the glass expert. That is why we spent so
much time in Murano, isn’t it?”
His voice was short. He was in
unfamiliar territory, and at the
moment, he had no contacts in Venice.
None that would allow him access
to this investigation.
“No,
we came here on vacation, to be together, visit a friend, a few
galleries, and see Murano,” she
spoke softly, afraid she ruined their
time together. “We came here to
be married.”
“So
far, we haven't spent much time together. You've been busy.” A
muscle flickered in his jaw, and
he felt himself tense. “And now we
won't have much peace.”
“I
know. I'm sorry. I wanted to visit the Castigli family. They are
friends, their furnace produces
exquisite glass, and Jennifer needed to
talk.” She saw his reaction and
bit her lip until she tasted blood, a habit
indicating her nerves. Licking
her lips and swallowing, she looked up
and found Peter's gaze focused on
her mouth.
“Yes, I know. I was there…with you. How
quickly you forget.” His
reply was curt. Nothing good was
going to come out of this.
“I
didn't forget. Peter, I'm sorry.” She bent her head down to hide
the sorrow. She’d hurt him,
something she never wanted to do. “I
always know when you're with me.”
She took his hand in hers and
touched his palm, hoping to erase
the pain she caused. “Peter, I always
know.”
“You
might want to let me know once in a while.” Peter looked out
to the Grand Canal and the narrow
canal where they now found
themselves docked, gazing at the
beauty surrounding them. The various
lanterns and lit homes that lined
the Grand Canal reflected a burnished
glow in the water as a vaporetto,
the typical utilitarian mode of travel
used by locals and savvy tourists
alike, sped by. Even the standard
public transportation was
romantic.
He
raised her hand to his lips, the embrace as soft as a gentle
breeze. Above all else, he loved
the woman sitting next to him. His life
changed for the better when they
met in Paris after she became
involved in a murder
investigation. His murder investigation. She
bloody well wrapped herself
around his very soul and very nearly died
in the process. It must not
happen here. She would not become
involved. Despite his firm
resolve, he knew she would help, and he, in
turn, would follow her anywhere
to keep her safe.
“Always.
I promise. Peter, you do know that I'm in love with you.
That I'm yours and always will
be.” She brushed her lips against his
cheek. The touch was at once
gentle and erotic. The spark against her
fingertips as she touched him
reminded her of their first meeting, and
her volatile and intimate
reaction to him. She would later learn he had
an English and an American
education. He could read people well, and
that made him excel at his job.
“That's
better.” Once she allowed him into her life, he never
doubted her love and commitment
to him. His always savage response
to her when they were together
was tempered by her gentleness. He
wanted her at all times,
something he never imagined possible. The
more he knew her, the more he
loved and the more he wanted. How is
that feasible?
“Peter,
you don’t think this is connected to the missing master glass
blower or the problems at the
Castigli Furnace, do you?” The words
slipped before she had a chance
to stop them. During their earlier visit
to the Castigli furnace, her
friend Jennifer had been distracted. One of
her employees had not shown up
for work for over a week, and Jennifer
knew he wouldn’t leave without
saying a word. They were working on
a project together, and Minola’s
inquisitive nature just couldn’t let go
of the mystery. “We're not in
Murano, and I'm imagining things. There
are many furnaces in Murano.” A
shadow of alarm touched her face.
“No,
this is Venice. This is where I wanted a romantic gondola ride
with the love of my life. This is
where I wanted to…Damn it; you just
had to find a body,” he groused.
“This
is where you wanted what?” Minola asked.
“I’m
not going there now. We’re waiting for the police, and we
have to tell them we found a
body. We’re out of our element here, Miss
Grey.”
“Why?
You’re Interpol-that means International Police. Venice is
international.”
“Not
funny, Miss Grey.” He shook his head and replied smoothly,
“I
have no contacts here at this time.”
“Shouldn't
you have international contacts?” Her voice was fragile,
uncertain. She didn't want to
inflict additional strain on their
relationship and hoped they had
come to terms with his obsessive need
to always protect her.
“I
do, just not in Venice, not at the moment.” He sensed her
disquiet as they sat in silence
and waited for the carabinieri to arrive.
Peter was quite familiar with
their history. They were the national
military police of Italy,
formally known as Arma dei Carabinieri—
loosely translated as Arm of the
Police or Militia. Policing both
military personnel and civilians,
their past was long and involved.
“Minola,
this will not be easy. The carabinieri are not just a police
force. Do you know they were
originally the police force of the
Kingdom of Sardinia? They are not
to be trifled with.”
“That
means they realize what needs to be done and will work with
Interpol—that’s you.”
“Hardly.”
Peter comprehended their mission, and that they took it
seriously. They had a unit that
could defend Italy, plus another unit that
focused and dealt with organized
crime, terrorist, and subversive
activities. They did their job
well, understood the criminal mind on all
levels, and did not trust easily.
He
watched the gloomy gondolier sit down and rub his hands
together. He seemed nervous as he
shoved his hand through his hair, a
sure sign of agitation. Peter
didn't blame him. Roberto, like many other
Venetians, was trying to eek-out
a living as a gondolier in a difficult
economy, and now he was stuck
waiting for the police. Peter turned
toward Minola and saw her looking
at him.
“Peter,
were you able to see anything?”
“Minola,
it’s dark. I couldn’t lift the glass, far too heavy, and
besides, if I were the local
police, I’d be angry if someone interfered
with the crime scene. I’m a cop
and should be well versed in police
procedures, no point in ruffling
feathers. Especially carabinieri feathers.
We’ll just have to wait. All I
can tell you—we have a body.”
“Dead?”
She whimpered, still hoping it was not so.
“You
didn’t just ask me that?” He smiled in spite of the difficult
circumstances.
“Well,
yes, I did. Wasn’t thinking,” she replied sheepishly.
“I
see.” His lips curved up a little. “Until we know more about the
body, we’ll refrain from
discussing the issues at the Castigli furnace.”
“Why?”
“When
you spoke with Jennifer Castigli, did she mention police
involvement?”
“No,
she just indicated Julio was missing, and they had issues with
the glass blending formula or
something like that. They were going to
handle it internally. I didn’t
ask any questions. She wanted to talk, and
then she didn’t. She was
concerned, and I didn’t want to push her.
Didn’t see the point at the
time.”
“Maybe
we should pay another visit,” Peter suggested
“I
think so, too, and we have an excuse. Should anyone ask, they
are friends who are making the
vases for the wedding. She had her
glass pieces exhibited at the
Standish Galley in Chicago. That is how
we met. She’s a talented glass
blower, and I’ve always had a thing for
glass. We kept in touch.”
“A
thing for glass, Miss Grey?”
“Yes,
I love it. Sort of like a thing for you. I love you. Deeply.” Her
lips touched his neck, and she
felt a brief shiver ripple through her
body. It would always be like
this with him. He was her everything.
“Thank
you for that caress. You always know what to do.” He
gripped her hand in his and
smiled. “Now you're bringing romance into
the picture, while we’re waiting
for the police and a body is keeping us
company. There is something to be
said for your timing, my love.
Jennifer. Tell me more about
Jennifer. I need to keep my mind off your
body and the things I'd like to
do with you, and to you,” he whispered
in her ear then took a deep
breath.
“Stop
right there or I'm going to be in trouble.” A tingling settled in
the pit of her stomach. Every
time he looked at her, her pulse
quickened. He’d unlocked her
heart and soul. “Jennifer. Right,” she
sighed and continued. “Well, she
went to Murano about three years
ago, just for the summer. She
returned to Chicago, did some amazing
blown glass. The colors were just
unbelievable. They seemed to glow
and float, one color next to the
other. I’ve never seen anything like it. It
reminded me a bit of the Tiffany
colors, but the glass was more
translucent instead of Tiffany’s
opalescent and iridescent styles. I have
a piece. Becky is storing it for
me.”
“Storing
it for you?”
“Yes,
when I left Chicago, I literally left with just the clothes on my
back and the necessary art
supplies. Well, I did take the few vintage
clothing pieces I owned. I
scoured countless consignment stores for
them, spent a lot of time finding
my treasures, and I wasn’t about to
leave them. Anyway, Becky stored
the few pieces of art I owned, and
the rest went to charity. When I
make a break, I make a clean break.”
Her decision to leave home had
been quick and matter of fact. What
she’d thought was a relationship
did not exist, and she learned the hard
way to distrust men in general. Peter
had his work cut out for him, but
he stuck around.
For
that, she was profoundly grateful.
“I
see.” He chuckled softly. She wanted a full partnership in their
relationship, and his gripping
fear for her security led them along a
stormy path that only recently
had calmed. He hoped. Peter knew well
that the criminal elements at the
international level had a long reach.
Being with Minola Grey in the
public eye did not give him any peace
of mind. He could be hurt through
her.
Minola
was not immune to violence. Attempts on her life had been
made before, leaving Peter unable
to focus on his job. Their issues
revolved around his lack of
communication, as she put it, and her
determination to lead a normal
life amidst threats and danger. He
understood the criminal elements
and the danger they posed, while she
lived an innocent life and had
believed in the goodness of others, until
she met him.
“How
did Jennifer wind up living in Murano?” he asked.
“She
fell in love with Antonio Castigli and decided to move
permanently to Murano. He was a
master glass blower and may still be
blowing glass. The family goes
back centuries. Jennifer once told me
he was a master at design and
blowing. That is an impressive
combination. We haven’t really
kept in touch until recently. They were
married a couple of years ago and
seemed very much on love.”
“If,
and it’s a big if, that body is the missing glass blower, we have
a problem.”
“Just
one?”
“For
the moment,” he replied with quiet confidence. He knew the
carabinieri would not play nice.
Their turf, and they protected it well.
“How
will we know who it is?” she asked quietly.
“I
assume, more like hope against hope, the local police might
extend a courteous hand to
Interpol. If not, someone in the London
office might have a connection.
Things are a bit difficult between
Interpol and the local police
here. We’ll worry about that later. Now I
think you need to call Jennifer
and have a chat.”
“Why would we believe it’s Julio?
It could be anyone.” Minola was
afraid for her friends.
“Yes,
it could. But somehow, I doubt it. We have a coffin made of
glass, a missing master glass
blower, and a recent visit to Murano. Not
to mention, you made the news,
and so did I as your lover.” He looked
down at their intertwined hands.
His grip tightened, and he continued.
“Isn't
that how the papers described me?”
“Peter,
does it bother you?” she asked in a broken whisper.
“To
be your lover? No. That is what I am and always will be.” His
fingers touched her collarbone,
lingering there intimately. “But the
publicity and your safety, yes,
you know I'm bothered a great deal by
any risk to you.”
“I
didn't say anything to the press. It was supposed to be a quiet
vacation. I don't know how they
found out about us.”
“Well,
for one, you are here during the Biennale Art Festival.” He
knew she wanted to see the
world-renowned festival that dated back to
1895, held every other year. The
modern art exhibition turned many
unsuspected nooks and crannies
into temporary galleries. “You're a
known artist, fresh from a murder
investigation in Bath and a
successful showing in London. We
have been together since Paris.
Need I say more? And I have been
with you every step of the way as
your lover. They are right.”
“Peter,
I'm so sorry.” She swallowed hard and bit back the tears that
threatened to fall. He cherished
his privacy as much as she did, yet her
profession somehow threw her into
the public eye, along with Peter.
“Nothing
to be sorry about. This is our life, and I wouldn’t change a
thing. We’re together. That is
all that matters.” His voice was calm, and
his gaze steady on her face.
Above all, he wanted to reassure her that,
no matter what, they belonged
together.
“Thank
you for understanding,” she whispered. “When I call
Jennifer, what do I tell her?
That you found a body and it could be
Julio? Why upset her before we
have concrete information? Maybe we
can identify the shards of glass
as belonging to a specific furnace.
Wouldn’t that be a start?” Minola
asked.
“I’m
going back to take a few pictures.” Peter stepped out of the
gondola, reached into his pocket,
took out his cell, and then walked
over to the glass display and
snapped about a dozen shots. He put his
cell away, stepped back into the
gondola, and saw Roberto was quietly
and unobtrusively watching him.
Taking out his identification, he
showed it to the gondolier.
Roberto nodded and lowered his head in
acknowledgement.
Waiting
in silence, they saw the police boat smoothly maneuver
around the traffic on the Grand Canal
and turn the corner alongside
their gondola. The flashing
lights added another sparkle to the lively
water traffic. He remembered
Minola comparing the Grand Canal to
other grand avenues in Paris, New
York, and Chicago, except this one
was wet. Peter stared in the face
of the agility of the boaters to
maneuver around tight corners and
other boats, a well-choreographed
dance on water.
Peter
helped Minola step out of the gondola. He thanked the
gondolier and asked him to take
them back to the hotel after the police
were done, with a promise of
additional compensation. Peter watched
as the police questioned the
gondolier. They were short and precise. An
effort was made to establish
their time of arrival at the intersection and
why they stopped. Roberto answered
succinctly and did not offer
anything else. The police then
turned their attention to Captain Peter
Riley, Interpol, and Minola Grey,
American artist. Roberto maneuvered
his gondola against a wall and
waited.
“What
made you go there? Isn’t that a little insolito—eh—unusual
for a turista?” the first
officer asked.
Taking out his identification,
Peter introduced Minola and himself.
“Miss
Grey noticed the glass and was curious. We stopped so that we
could see it better.” Peter did
not elaborate further. He didn’t have a
warm and fuzzy feeling about this
interrogation.
“Interpol?”
the officer snorted. “And what did you find?”
“I tried to lift the glass, and I was able to
identify the smell easily
enough.” Peter was surprised at
the ease with which the officer spoke
English.
“I
see. Who noticed the glass?”
Peter
wanted to be snippy. He already told him it was Minola.
What, did they think that in the
span of a few minutes his story would
change?
Minola
quickly replied, “I did. The moonlight reflected the colors
brilliantly. So much
color—unusual, vibrant…strange,” More than a
little nervous, she continued.
“So vivid and beautiful.”
“What
else can you tell me? Did you know what it was?”
“Well,
no. I saw it from a distance, and in the moonlight, it
appeared to be a huge piece of
art…because of all the many different
colors, I thought maybe a
mosaic,” Minola advised quietly.
“How
did you know what it was?” the officer persisted.
“I
didn’t. From afar, it might have been a sculpture. I wanted to see
it a little closer.”
“I
ask again, why, Miss Grey?”
“Because
I’m an artist and was curious,” she replied simply.
“What
do you know of Venetian Glass that you would be so
curious?”
What
she wanted to do was tell him that she didn’t need to know
anything about Venetian glass, or
any other glass, to be curious and
acknowledge its beauty, but
instead she replied in an even voice, “I
didn’t know it was Venetian. It
seemed intriguing and quite beautiful.”
“You
had to satisfy your curiosity,” he insisted.
“No,
I did not. Captain Riley went to do that. The pieces seemed to
be shard leftovers from a
furnace.” Minola bit her lip when she realized
she’d said too much.
“How
would you know that?”
“I’m
an artist. I paint,” she repeated. “And I also love glass. I
visited Murano today and know
that the shards are often reused, kept in
a bucket and eventually wind up
in smaller jewelry pieces or glass
bricks. They are sharp, therefore
kept in containment for safety reasons.
Outsiders have no access. Out of
courtesy, I was given a private tour. I
just wondered what it was and why
it was left on the pier. I was
curious. That is all.” She took a
deep breath and literally could have
kicked herself for allowing him
to get the upper hand. She knew better.
“As
an artist and a tourist, you visited a furnace in Murano?” he
emphasized.
“Yes,
like all the other tourists and artists who visit Murano, I did
the touristy thing and saw a
couple of furnaces. That is why I wondered
how such a huge sculpture was
just sitting on a secluded pier. We
turned from the Grand Canal into
this small canal, and I…It does look
like a sculpture.” She glanced at
the pile and shuddered. “The fact that
it resembled a sarcophagus seemed
bizarre. Rather striking if you don’t
think about what it covers…don’t
you agree?” She tended to babble
when nervous, and this was no
exception. She reached toward Peter and
knew he'd be there to support
her, and he didn't disappoint. He wound
his fingers around hers.
“That
seems to be sensate… reasonable explanation,” the first
officer nodded and turned toward
Peter. “Captain, where are you
staying? I would recommend you do
not leave town.”
Peter smiled at the
pronouncement, giving them the name of the
hotel and their length of stay.
“Are
you here on holiday?” the second officer asked, addressing
Peter.
“Yes,
we are. As stated before, Miss Grey is an artist, and we came
to enjoy the Biennale.” Peter
wasn’t about to share the more intimate
reason for their visit. It would
most probably have to come out, but as
far as he was concerned, at this
time, there was no incentive to divulge
anything remotely personal. They
already had more than enough
information.
“We
will wait for the…medico legale to arrive, but you may go.
We know how to reach you,” came
the warning. At least Peter took it
as a warning. Do not leave
town.
“Is there a possibility that we can find out
the identity of the victim?
As a police officer, you
understand…” Peter let the request trail, and
watched as the scene was
photographed from every angle.
“Yes,
of course, unfinished business. Common courtesy would
signify that we notify you of the
victim’s identity.” The officer’s reply
was terse and non-committal.
“Thank
you.” Peter felt effectively dismissed and wasn’t sure if he
would ever find out who the victim
was, certainly not from the police.
They didn’t even promise anything
that vaguely resembled a courtesy
call. Peter asked Roberto to take
them back to their original destination.
No point in pursuing a romantic
rendezvous with the image of a body
still fresh in their minds. Peter
watched Minola’s silent retreat. The
horrific mound of glass so
starkly visible in the moonlit sky was
hauntingly beautiful.
The
big question was why dump the body and cover it with what
was essentially a work of art?
The piece was stunning. The various
earthy colors were uneven and
most likely discarded pieces. Such a
large piece took time to create.
Was it a work of art that was meant to
be used elsewhere, or was it
specifically designed to become a casket?
If so, the murder had to be
premeditated. Why use the remnants of
glass? Or was the piece already
made and only used as a coffin at the
last minute? Was it commissioned?
If so, would it be missed?
“Minola,
the composition of the shards, the colors used, it must
have been somehow relevant to the
crime. If it is indeed Julio, then how
he was killed and covered must be
significant. Something so elaborate
can’t have been just a body
dump.”
“I
thought the same thing, but only Jennifer can tell us. Good thing
you took all those pictures.
Hopefully, she’ll know if it came from her
furnace,” Minola replied.
“I
think the death is somehow related to the furnace, and the
missing person.” His instincts
never failed him; he’d been in the
business too long to take things
at face value.
Peter wondered what they had
gotten themselves into. He was a
seasoned cop, and he didn't
believe in coincidences. If the glass was
from the Castigli furnace, Minola
was once again in the middle of a
murder.
He’d
met Antonio Castigli briefly on their earlier visit to the
furnace. Minola introduced them,
and they also met a family friend and
member of a competing furnace,
Pia Deniccali. The striking, self assured
woman, who Peter felt sure would
demand to be the center of
attention in any gathering, left
him untouched by her cold and
calculating beauty. He was all
too familiar with the type.
Peter remembered that, after the
introductions were made, he found
Pia Deniccali staring at him as
if she were appraising his worth, or
maybe something else. He couldn’t
understand her fascination with him
and felt uncomfortable with the
scrutiny, but he thought maybe she
wanted his help. Odd that Minola
did not matter to Pia. She glared at
him. He’d heard the expression man-eater
before, and she fit the
description quite well.
So
far he’d met some interesting people, and a fascinating mystery
beckoned. In this case, Peter had
no contacts, unless he ingratiated
himself with the local police,
and the carabinieri did not seem too
receptive. In fact, they seemed
downright hostile.
Cheers,
Margot Justes
www.mjustes.com
