Free The Da Vinci Cook by Joanne Pence Page B

simply moving into my place?”
    Bianca came him a sidelong glance. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
     
    Flora Piccoletti’s home was on Vallejo between Polk and Larkin, at the foot of Russian Hill. It consisted of two flats over a garage. They walked up the stairs and looked at the large brass numbers on the doors. Paavo rang the doorbell. Bianca stood smoothing her jacket and picking off minuscule pieces of lint.
    When there was no answer, he pounded hard on the door. A lot of older people, some young ones as well, didn’t open the door unless they were expecting someone. Between solicitors, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and people coming to case the place and rob you, he could understand why they didn’t. “Mrs. Piccoletti?” he called. “Are you in there? Open up. Police.”
    He knocked again.
    “Look under the flowerpot near her door,” Bianca said.
    At the top of the stairs, against the walls of the entryway, were two large cement flowerpots filled with fake nasturtiums, one beside each door. “You’re kidding, right?” he said. “That’s a cliché. Nobody would leave a key there.”
    “Flora would.”
    He tried it, and sure enough, found a key.
    He unlocked the door. “The police can’t go searching someone’s house for no good reason,” he said, eyeing Bianca.
    “Oh? Okay.” She took a step forward, but he grabbed her arm, stopping her.
    “You’re worried that she didn’t answer,” he prompted.
    Bianca formed her mouth into a big O, then nodded. “Go.”
    He entered a long hallway. Just past the front door was the living room. He looked inside and saw that cushions from the sofa and an easy chair were on the floor, drawers opened, and a few books and papers strewn on the floor. “Wait here,” he said to Bianca.
    She inched toward the living room, her eyes wide. “Oh, my God, look at this—” She reached for a pillow on the floor.
    “Don’t touch it!” Paavo ordered. She snatched back her hand.
    He went down the hall to the kitchen, which was also torn up, but empty. A bathroom came next. Empty.
    When he reached the bedroom, he found that the room had been torn apart worse than the others. But that wasn’t what caused him to freeze in the doorway.
    He didn’t need to check to see if she was dead. Rigor had already begun. Her lips and skin had a bluish-white tinge, and her opened eyes were unfocused with the strangely sightless lucidity of the dead.
    She lay on the carpet, papers strewn around her. Her nightgown was twisted around her body and had ridden high on her thighs. Her legs were skinny, the skin sagging as if she’d started to shrink within her own body. A pale blue terry-cloth strip was around her neck. For a moment Paavo wondered what it was, until he noticed the bathrobe tossed on the foot of the bed. The sash from her robe had been used to strangle her.
    That meant that whoever came here might not have planned to kill her. If they had, they would have taken something to do the job, and not relied on what was available.
    Her sheets and blankets were half off the bed and on the floor, as if she’d grabbed them as she was being dragged.
    “What’s wrong, Paavo? Why are you just stand—”
    He turned as the sound of Bianca’s voice came closer, and as he did, he no longer blocked the view. From the hallway, she could see into the bedroom.
    All his life he’d heard the expression “her eyes bugged out of her head,” but he’d never seen it so completely as with Bianca. He moved toward her, to turn her around, get her away from the crime scene, when suddenly she let out the most bloodcurdling yell he’d ever heard. Her whole body went stiff, her bulging eyes rolled back in her head, and she began to topple like a statue.
    Somehow, he managed to catch her before her head hit the floor.
    And, he thought, she’s the calm, cool, collected one.

Chapter 12
    Via Porta Cavalleggeri had been bustling with cars, taxis, and people when Angie and Cat arrived at the restaurant, but now