TREACHERY IN TUSCANY

TREACHERY IN TUSCANY

A Jordan Mayfair Mystery

Chapter 1

Sunday morning, my first glimpse of Florence since I was twenty-one. Sunday morning in the spacious piazza, quiet, except for the chime of church bells from an ancient bell tower. My jet-lagged brain tried to take in everything, all at once. No sign to identify the Convento di Santa Francesca Firenze, but the GPS on our rental car had directed us to the imposing fifteenth-century convent. A white Alfa Romeo with a blue stripe and the words “Polizia Municipale” along the side pulled away from the curb as we took our luggage from the trunk of our Fiat. A waif-like teenager standing some distance away waited until the police car had departed before she came closer to us.

“Convento?” I said.

She said something in Italian, to which I could only reply, “Non capisco.”

“Sí. It is the convent,” she said.

So my Italian left something to be desired.

The girl gave the stark terra cotta façade a measuring gaze, then darted us an uncertain smile, hitched up her rucksack on her thin shoulder, and headed through the arched entrance. At the double wooden doors, she pushed a buzzer, and a loud click announced the door was unlocked. We filed in behind her, pulling our luggage-on-wheels.

“Exactly as I imagined,” Alex declared.

I was traveling with Alex, my uncle, as I had done twice before. Travel-writer Alexander Carlyle was in Florence to research his third book, and I was here to keep an eye on him.

Not exactly as I had imagined, but it was a convent, after all, not a Ritz-Carlton.

We entered a grand space that brought to mind the nave of a cathedral but without any adornments. Gray tile floor, beige plaster walls, table with a faded cloth on it, scarred wooden bench, frayed chair. Alex’s travel guides would always direct tourists to unusual places like the convent, in the not-so-touristy district called Oltrarno. Apparently, the nuns, the Franciscan Missionaries of Mary, rented rooms to help pay for their missionary work. Clean, safe lodging. Nothing fancy.

From an anteroom that appeared to be the office came an anxious voice. A statuesque nun in full gray-and-white habit, with a silver cross hanging from her neck, leaned toward a young woman seated at a computer. Her gestures were as animated as her speech, and I was reminded of Catholic school, where I was scolded regularly by the nuns. But the office worker didn’t appear threatened. She nodded agreement and contributed a phrase here and there. The undercurrent of worry in the Sister’s voice was unmistakable. Several times she said something about the polizia before she realized we were waiting, and exited through a side door.

Our new acquaintance was quick to approach the counter, but it was apparent from the exchange—not angry, but rapid-fire Italian—that there was no hurry. Her room was not ready. Nor were our rooms ready. I asked how long it would be. The answer—“Soon”—did not give comfort to this weary traveler.

“If you wish to get food, you may leave your luggage with me. Piazza Santo Spirito is not far. Or you can wait in the gardens. In the hall you will find cappuccino, coffee, many choices in the machine.” The young woman was trying. And her accent was delightfully musical.

Alex and I agreed we weren’t ready to be out and about. I remembered our car. With elaborate gestures, the young woman told me where to park, down a side street, then turn back behind the gardens.

Alex went with me, though I told him I could manage by myself. Sometimes I look after him, and sometimes he looks after me.

A stone wall covered with greenery obscured any view of the gardens, just the tops of a few trees. Several other cars were parked in the tiny gravel lot. A good thing we were in a Fiat, not an SUV. Alex pointed out the building adjacent to the parking area, speculating that it was probably where the nuns resided. Much more recently than the fifteenth century, the smaller structure had been built with materials and architectural elements similar to the building that housed our rooms. My attention was drawn to the windows, bordered with intricate stonework, while Alex talked about the nuns—only twelve left, he had read, while once there had been fifty.

We walked back around the convent and pushed the buzzer. Inside, I peeked in the office and told the young woman we would wait in the gardens. She directed us down a long hall.

Leaving the building through French doors, I had to catch my breath. The gardens were impeccably landscaped, with cobblestones marking a path through the grass, flowering bushes, gently-bending trees, and hedges that formed a maze. Soft breeze. Floral fragrance. The focal point was a large fountain with water flowing from the mouth of a lamb, its sweet face upturned.

Curled up on her side on one of the stone benches, her head resting on her rucksack was the girl we had met, her name yet unknown to us. Her dark curly hair was tangled. Low-slung jeans and cropped top revealed a belly button with a ring that matched the ring in one eyebrow. Her blue rucksack was too clean, too new-looking for a runaway who had spent time on the streets—and she did, apparently, have a reservation here. In sleep, her face could have passed for a young child’s. A butterfly swarmed around her and settled on her knee, where a hole in her jeans showed her skin.

And that was how I would think of Sophia Costa—Sophie—even when nightmares blurred my memories. . . .

pgallaher@copyright2019

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