Page 27 of Bloodlines and Birthright

“So we report them to the Carabinieri in the morning,” I announced.

“No,” both Oscar and Miss Wheeler said.

“We find the killer ourselves,” Oscar added. “Only then do we go to the Carabinieri. It’s the only way to ensure we’re not arrested on sight for breaking and entering at the very least. Murder at the worst.”

“If we uncover sufficient proof.” Miss Wheeler’s grim tone held as much hope as I felt.

Only Oscar seemed confident of success. “We should begin by finding out who the victim is. Get some sleep and we’ll meet again in the morning. Miss Wheeler, can you avoid Defoe?”

“I’ll tell him I’m following you two all day. He’ll agree to that.”

We parted in the hotel foyer. Oscar and I continued on to our rooms. Neither of us spoke until we reached his door. As he inserted the key into the lock, I placed my hand on the handle to get his attention.

“Gavin? What is it?”

“Is your motive for staying in Monteoro really to uncover the murderer? Or is your true purpose to retrieve Signore Scala’s spell and exchange it for information about the location of the book with the tattoo spell?”

“There’s a third option.” At my frown, his lips twitched with his half-smile. “Do I simply want to spend more time with Miss Wheeler? May I go to my room now?”

I released the door handle and moved aside.

He unlocked the door and stepped into the room. “Perhaps it’s all three.”

Nothing seemed amiss the following morning. The Carabinieri weren’t waiting for us in the hotel foyer and guests ate their breakfast in cheerful ease. I suspect the terrible news of a murder in the neighboring village would be kept from the tourists. The last thing the businesses of Monteoro wanted was their greatest economic resource leaving in panic.

“There, you see?” Oscar said to me over a full English style breakfast of eggs, sausages and toast . “All is well.”

I leaned forward so he could hear my whisper. “A man is dead.”

He lowered his cup of coffee. “You’re right. I’m sorry for being glib. I’m just relieved we can investigate and search for the spell without the police watching our every move.”

“We may not need to investigate. Perhaps they’ve caught the killer.”

Oscar’s gaze shifted to a point beyond my shoulder. I turned to see Miss Wheeler enter the dining room. She sat at a table with Mr. Defoe who’d arrived ten minutes earlier. She gave us both a nod of greeting.

I nodded back and turned to Oscar again. “We can trust Miss Wheeler when she said she won’t tell Defoe about our agreement with Scala, can’t we?”

“I believe her,” Oscar said. “You must come to your own conclusion.”

I wanted to believe her, too. I considered the dilemma as I finished my breakfast and decided it didn’t really matter whether she told Mr. Defoe about our agreement with Signore Scala. We would find the wood spell, we would be the ones to return it to him, and he would then tell us who he’d sold the books from the abbey to. Even if Mr. Defoe knew, there was nothing he could do about it.

After breakfast, Oscar and I left the hotel and headed out of Monteoro. At the fork in the road, well out of sight of the village, we waited for Miss Wheeler to catch up. Dressed in pale cream and light blue, with a matching parasol in one hand and guidebook in the other, she looked like a tourist out for a stroll. Other tourists were out, too, so we greeted her with formal nods and pretended to inspect the guidebook together before taking the road down to Pecco. Since Miss Wheeler tended to draw gazes wherever she went, it would seem as though we were all out sightseeing.

“Did Defoe suspect anything?” Oscar asked.

“Give me some credit, Mr. Barratt. I know how to handle my employer.” With that, she angled the parasol to block out the sun and tucked the guidebook back into the bag hanging from her wrist by a leather strap.

Did Oscar notice that she had not answered his question? Going by the look of admiration he gave her, I didn’t think so.

Seeing an officer of the Carabinieri stationed outside the boatbuilder’s shed made me feel oddly relieved. A part of me had been worried that the proximity to the tourist hub of Monteoro would encourage them to sweep the murder under the carpet. His presence meant they were looking into it.

The rest of the piazza was eerily silent. Most of the boats we’d seen moored the previous night were no longer there. Several women spoke in hushed tones, crossing themselves as they cast furtive glances at the boatshed and the adjoining house. They didn’t stop going about their business, however. Life in Pecco continued as usual. The fishermen still had to earn a living from the lake and the women still had to feed their families, a pattern that had probably been the same every day for hundreds of years, perhaps thousands. Not even death altered it.

Under the guise of asking for directions, Miss Wheeler approached the officer, guidebook at the ready. He ordered her back with palm forward in a stopping motion.

He shook his head. “No.”

Miss Wheeler switched to Italian. After a brief exchange, she translated for us. “He says there has been a death and that we are not to come any closer.”