“Well-” I said. But where to start? Looking around I was relieved to see that we were almost alone in the bar, and that the other customers were absorbed in conversations of their own. It occurred to me that here was the opportunity I had been hoping for ever since Malèna’s mention of the Marescotti family the day before.
“Did I hear you correctly-” I began, taking the plunge before I could change my mind. “Did you say your name was Marescotti?”
The question had Malèna break into an ebullient smile. “Certamente! I was born a Marescotti. Now I am married, but”-she pressed a hand to her heart-“I will always be a Marescotti in here. Did you see the palazzo?”
I nodded with polite vigor, thinking of the rather painful concert I had attended with Eva Maria and Alessandro two days earlier. “It’s beautiful. I was wondering-someone told me-” Grinding to a halt, I could feel embarrassment rising in my cheeks as I realized that, no matter how I phrased my follow-up question, I would be making an ass of myself.
Seeing my fluster, Malèna fished out a bottle of something homemade from beneath the counter-she didn’t even have to look-and poured a hearty slug into my water glass. “Here,” she said. “A Marescotti special. It will make you happy. Cin cin.”
“It’s ten o’clock in the morning,” I protested, feeling very little desire to taste the cloudy liquid, never mind its ancestry.
“Bah!” she shrugged. “Maybe in Firenze it is ten o’clock-”
After dutifully gulping down the foulest concoction I had tasted since Janice’s attempt at brewing beer in her bedroom closet-and hacking out a compliment, too-I at last felt I had earned the right to ask, “Are you related to a guy called Romeo Marescotti?”
The transformation in Malèna when she registered my question was almost uncanny. From being my best friend, leaning on her elbows to hear my troubles, she snapped upright with a gasp, and brusquely corked the bottle. “Romeo Marescotti,” she said, taking away my empty glass and wiping the counter with a whiplash swipe of a tea towel, “is dead.” Only then did she meet my eyes, and where there had been kindness a moment ago, I saw only fear and suspicion. “He was my cousin. Why?”
“Oh!” The disappointment fell heavily through my body, leaving me oddly light-headed. Or maybe it was the drink. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have-” Now, I thought, was probably not the time to tell her that my cousin Peppo had suspected Romeo of being behind the museum break-in. “It’s just that Maestro Lippi, the artist-he says he knows him.”
Malèna snorted, but at least she looked relieved. “Maestro Lippi,” she whispered, circling a finger around her ear, “talks to ghosts. Don’t listen to him. He is…” She searched for an appropriate word, but found none.
“There’s also someone else,” I said, figuring I might as well have it all shot to pieces once and for all. “The Head of Security at Monte dei Paschi. Alessandro Santini. Do you know him?”
Malèna’s eyes widened briefly in surprise, then quickly narrowed. “Siena is a small place.” From the way she said it I knew there was a smelly rat buried somewhere in all this.
“Why,” I went on more quietly, hoping that my questions would not further rip open an old wound, “do you think anyone would go around saying that your cousin Romeo was still alive?”
“He said that?” Malèna studied my face intently, more incredulous than sad.
“It’s kind of a long story,” I said, “but the bottom line is that I was the one asking about Romeo. Because… I am Giulietta Tolomei.”
I was not expecting her to understand the implications of my name in conjunction with Romeo’s, but the shock on her face told me that she knew exactly who I was, ancestor and all. Once she had processed this little curveball, her reaction was very sweet; she reached out to pinch my nose.
“Il gran disegno,” she muttered. “I knew there was a reason you came to me.” Then she paused, as if there was something she wanted to say, but which she knew she shouldn’t. “Poor Giulietta,” she said instead, with a sympathetic smile, “I wish I could tell you he was alive, but… I can’t.”
WHEN I FINALLY LEFT the espresso bar, I had forgotten all about Janice. It was therefore an unpleasant surprise to find her waiting for me right outside, leaning comfortably against the wall like a cowgirl killing time until the saloon opens.
As soon as I saw her standing there, beaming with triumph because she had tracked me down, it all came back to me-motorcycle, letter, tower, argument-and I sighed loudly and started walking in the other direction, not really caring where I was headed as long as she didn’t follow.
“What is it with you and Yummy Mummy in there?” Janice was nearly tripping over her own feet to catch up. “Are you trying to make me jealous?”
I was so sick of her at this point that I stopped in the middle of Piazza Postierla and spun around to yell at her, “Do I really have to spell it out? I’m trying to get rid of you!”
During all our years together, I had said plenty of nasty things to my sister, and this was nowhere near the worst. But perhaps due to the unfamiliar turf it hit her right between the eyes, and for a brief moment she looked stunned, almost as if she was going to cry.
Turning away in disgust I resumed walking, laying some distance between us before-once again-she came stumbling along in my wake, her stiletto boots twisting this way and that on the irregular stone pavement.
“Okay!” she exclaimed, arms flapping for balance, “I’m sorry about the bike, okay? And I’m sorry about the letter. Okay? I didn’t know you’d take it that way.” Seeing that I neither replied nor slowed down, she moaned and kept going, still not quite able to catch me. “Listen, Jules, I know you’re pissed off. But we really have to talk. Remember Aunt Rose’s will? It was bo-ow!”
She must have twisted something, for when I turned around to look, Janice was sitting in the middle of the street, rubbing her ankle.
“What did you say?” I asked warily, walking back towards her a few steps. “About the will?”
“You heard me,” she said glumly, inspecting her broken boot heel, “the whole thing was bogus. I thought you were part of it, and that’s why I was lying low, trying to figure out what you were up to, but… I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
IT HAD NOT BEEN a good week for my evil twin. For starters, she told me, limping along with an arm around my neck, she had discovered that our family lawyer, Mr. Gallagher, was not, in fact, Mr. Gallagher. How? Well, the real Mr. Gallagher had shown up. Secondly, the will he had shown us after the funeral had been nothing but fiction. In reality, Aunt Rose had had nothing left to leave to anybody, and to be her heir would have meant inheriting nothing but debt. Thirdly, two police officers had arrived at the house the day after I left, and they had given Janice hell for removing the yellow tape. What yellow tape? Well, the tape they had wrapped around the building when they had discovered it was a crime scene.
“A crime scene?” Even though the sun was high in the sky, I felt a chill. “You mean, Aunt Rose was murdered?”
Janice shrugged as best she could, struggling to keep her balance. “God knows. Apparently, she was covered with bruises, even though supposedly she died in her sleep. Go figure.”
“Janice!” I barely knew what to say, except to chastise her for being so flippant. This unexpected news-that Aunt Rose might not have died peacefully, the way Umberto had described-closed around my throat like a noose, almost choking me.