Free The Body in the Piazza by Katherine Hall Page

very expensive ones at that?
    She sat back on her heels to think about what this lack of information might mean. Both the room and now his suitcase were devoid of receipts, stamps, a souvenir postcard, letter, crumpled note on the hotel stationery, not even a used biglietto for the bus, although she and Tom had been surprised to see that no one ever used these tickets, hopping on and off without stamping one in the machine. Even a nun! Stefano, the taxi driver, had told them the widespread practice was putting him out of business.
    Carolina had said there was just the one item. Faith would have expected a computer case or an electronic notebook in the suitcase. Freddy was a writer. Surely he didn’t create entire books using only the small notebook he carried.
    There were two choices in cases like this—the conscious obliteration of one’s tracks. Freddy didn’t want his movements traced, either because he was a good guy—or a bad one.
    There was a book at the bottom of the case, but it was not his notebook. It was the Graham Greene he’d been about to read when Faith met him on the rooftop terrace. The End of the Affair .
    She took it with her.
    T om was still asleep. There was no need to wake him. The train didn’t leave for hours. Paolo had put a basket of small pastries, biscotti, rolls, butter, and jam on the tray with the tea. She had not thought she would ever be hungry again, but she was. She filled a napkin with some biscotti, buttered a roll, and took a bottle of water from her bag. Then, slipping quietly out of the room, she climbed the stairs to the roof. Tom would know where she had gone.
    She assumed the terrace would be deserted and so it seemed. The hotel guests would be making their ways to Vatican City, the Capitoline Museum, or other parts of Italy, having “done” Rome. Faith sat on one of the small chairs next to the jasmine-covered trellis that hid the swing she’d thought she and Tom would have shared. Another time. Yes, they would come back.
    She spread her small feast on the table and broke off a piece of biscotti. It was going to be another glorious day, the sky already an intense blue and cloudless. The sun felt good.
    â€œThis is a fine time for you to be getting scruples.”
    The woman’s voice was so close that it startled Faith and she dropped the cookie. There were people on the roof and they were on the swing, out of sight, but only a scant few feet away. What to do? Cough? Leave?
    â€œJust because you’re paying me doesn’t mean you own me!” a second woman said angrily.
    They were speaking English, but their accents were purely American. Americans who had grown up or spent a great deal of time south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
    This wasn’t friendly girl talk, so one or both was likely to get up and leave at any moment. There was only one thing to do if Faith wanted to find out who the women were. She gathered up the remains of her snack in the napkin and her water, retraced her steps on tiptoe, then came back, selecting another chair farther away and noisily scraping it against the concrete. From her new spot, she couldn’t hear anything, but a face peered around the trellis and seeing Faith gave a little wave.
    â€œ Buon giorno, ” she said.
    Faith half expected the greeting to be followed by “y’all.”
    â€œ Buon giorno, ” she said, recognizing the woman from breakfast yesterday. She’d come in as the Fairchilds were finishing. She appeared to be in her thirties, and even at the early hour was in full makeup. Her deep auburn hair, lacquered in place, was styled as only big hair can be. An older woman with the same grooming regimen had accompanied her. They had made a beeline for the coffee.
    Faith returned to her snack, eating slowly, and stared at the tops of the palms. It wasn’t long before both women emerged from their jasmine tent and nodded to her as they passed.
    Not a moment too