Free Italy to Die For by Loretta Giacoletto Page A

scarf I’d decided my sister didn’t deserve. Maybe I’d give it to her after all, what with Margo so tormented in Florence over her break-up with Giorgio and me having such a marvelous time in Monterosso without her. But wait, something was missing—Lorenzo. I turned and scanned the crowd until I found him nearby, leaning against a post while reading the newspaper. I walked over and stood beside him. There, on the lower corner of the front page was a photograph of Monterosso’s beach and several policemen searching the area.
    “What’s the story?” I asked .
    “The body of a woman was discovered some nights ago,” he said, pointing to the accompanying article. “The carabinieri suspect she may have been murdered. They are undertaking a complete investigation, which is one reason for my staying in Monterosso. I want to help in any way possible. This type of publicity has a negative effect on Cinque Terre.”
    “To say nothing of the poor woman who died.”
    “But of course, si … Elena. It was not my intention to appear unsympathetic.”
    I smiled. “I’m teasing, Lorenzo. Coming from a country that thrives on the rewards of capitalism, I have no business criticizing your concern for a murder that affects the local economy.”
    “We should speak of topics more ple asant,” he said, closing the newspaper. “Perhaps you would like to see the Church of San Giovanni Battista before we stop for lunch.”
    “Later, if you don’t mind. What I c ould really go for would be some wine and pizza.”
    “I know just the place,” he said, once again taking my arm.
    ***
    Pizza margherita just didn’t get any simpler or better than tomato sauce, olive oil, and basil topping a crisp crust that surpassed any I’d eaten in America. It must’ve been the flour or the water or a combination of both. Lorenzo chose a local wine: a dry white that slid down my throat with such ease it left no aftertaste.
    After lunch we resumed our walk and hadn’t gone far when Lorenzo stopped to confer with a gray-haired man he didn’t bother introducing to me. I strolled ahead, making my way down a side street without tourists, or for that matter anyone else, that is, until a man and woman approached me from the opposite direction. Both were dressed in the casual wear of tourists—light-weight T-shirts and slacks, open-toed sandals. The woman, something about her struck a jolting chord, her determined walk and full lips projecting a smile that wasn’t really a smile. As we came face to face, she removed a pair of oversized sunglasses, revealing one brown eye and one blue eye. What … no way, but yes, this way, right in front of me, that horrible gypsy from the Autogrille here in Monterosso of all places. She crossed those mismatched eyes and expelled a sly laugh, as did the man with her.
    I clutched my handbag with one hand and with the other, transformed my index and pinky fingers into the horn of a bull. I pointed my horn to the ground, just as my defender at the Autogrille had done. The female gypsy laughed again, this time resulting in a chicken-like cackle.
    “The signorina now walks with a limp,” she said in broken English. “It serves her well and is well-deserved.”
    The man spoke with an accent too, perhaps Eastern European. “This woman has the years of a signora, but lacks the wisdom of one. Nor is she accustomed to the rough waters of our sea.” He smiled, showing off a front tooth covered with gold. “Perhaps a special charm to ward off the zingaro spells ….” He held out his palm containing an amulet similar to mine. “For you and only you I make a special price—ten euros.”
    “Not today,” I said.
    “What? No money, did you lose it all?”
    F orcing my eyes away from the woman’s, I walked past both gypsies and kept walking until I reached the bottom of the street. Only then did I stop and look back. The gypsies were nowhere in sight, nor had I expected otherwise. Seconds later Lorenzo came hurrying