Elegant Death, Page 2

  Fabbiola's chin went up. “I still say they're just plain white shirts.”

  Dorotea's gaze swept up and down Fabbiola's dress. “You might prefer the shirts from Camicie d'Oro, then.”

  Enzo put down his glass with such a quick movement that some of the wine spilled onto the white cloth. He grabbed Dorotea's hand and pulled her to the dance floor. “Come, dance with me, my dear.”

  She followed him without much enthusiasm.

  Fabbiola and Carlina stared after them.

  Fabbiola blew air through her nose with the sound of an exasperated bull. “What on earth does he see in that . . . that iceberg?”

  Carlina cleared her throat. “Opposites attract, mamma.”

  “Oh, dear.” Fabbiola shook her head. “I wanted him to settle down with a nice girl and have cute babies, but this . . . this Milanese fashion queen will never give him cute babies.”

  “She might give him beautiful babies, though. You have to admit she's gorgeous.”

  “Nonsense!” Fabbiola turned to Carlina. “Besides, she's much older than he is, in her mid-thirties or something!” She made it sound like a yogurt long past its shelf life. “And did you understand that thing about the Camicie d'Oro? Golden shirts? What kind of name is that?”

  “It sounds like another brand. Maybe a competitor? I'm afraid she didn't want to be complimentary.”

  “She's insolent, that one.”

  “Maybe she's insecure.”

  “Insecure? You're crazy. If she's really the head of that company, Camicie Di Silva, she's filthy rich.”

  “Even rich people can be insecure. More so, sometimes.”

  “Stop being philosophical, Carlina. I've been around a few more years than you, and I know a snob when I see one.”

  “I wonder why she goes out with Enzo. She doesn't seem to be much in love.”

  “Enzo is a good looking man.” Fabbiola sounded a bit insecure.

  “True, but he's not in the same league.”

  They looked at each other, then shrugged.

  Fabbiola sighed. “Love comes in all shapes and sizes.”

  Carlina frowned. “If it's love. I'm not sure about that.”

  “Here you are!” Stefano's voice came from behind her. “I've been looking for you.”

  Carlina's heart skipped with joy just to have him close again.

  “Would you come with me to the caterer? He's been asking me some questions I can't answer.”

  “Of course.” Carlina looked at Fabbiola. “I'll see you later, mamma. Don't worry.”

  Hours later, Carlina stood at the side of the festive room and looked over the dance floor that was still full with dancing couples. She felt too hot and exhausted from dancing and all the emotions and decided she needed a bit of a break. A glance at her watch told her it was three o'clock in the morning. Wow. Where had the night gone?

  She opened one of the glass doors that led outside and took a deep breath of the pine-scented air. Happiness flooded her. She was married. Nothing had gone wrong. Thank you, dear God.

  The sound of music was fainter here, so she could hear the leaves rustling in the trees. What a lovely night. The glass door behind her opened. Without turning around, Carlina knew it was Stefano.

  He put his hands onto her shoulders. “Happy, Caralina, my wife?”

  A tremor ran through her. She was Stefano's wife. With a contented sigh, she leaned against him. “As happy as can be, my dear husband.” It sounded delicious as she said it for the first time.

  His mouth was close to her ear. “I can hardly believe our luck. Nothing went wrong.”

  She chuckled. “My thoughts exactly. I'm so grateful.”

  “Can I entice you back inside, to dance the next song with me? It's a slow one.”

  “How do you know?”

  He smiled. “I asked for it.”

  They turned around, and just as they stepped over the threshold, a shot shattered the glass wall to their right.

  Chapter 2

  People screamed and jumped up. Carlina grabbed Stefano's arm. “What on--?”

  A second shot brought the big chandelier down onto the dance floor with a crash that made her ears ring, projecting glittering shards all over the legs and ankles of the many people inside the room. They turned away, shielding their faces with their hands, running toward the exits.

  Stefano stiffened. “It came from the garden.” He turned around and took off at a run.

  Carlina pressed her fists against her mouth, smothering a shout. Please don't go. She knew she couldn't say it. She had married a policeman, and she couldn't ask him to stop working in his profession just because she was afraid of what might happen to him. But the other guy was armed, and he wasn't.

  A high-pitched scream from inside made her turn around.

  “Oh, my God, she's dead!” It was her mother's voice.

  Carlina lifted her white dress and ran forward, slipping on the glass shards.

  Fabbiola stood next to the table where the family had been seated and pointed with a trembling finger at a figure that had slumped face-forward onto the table.

  A little hole in the back of the elegant white jacket was surrounded by a red stain.

  Carlina gasped. “It's Dorotea!” She ran forward and placed a hand on the woman's shoulder, then lifted her with care. The eyes were wide open, and the expression on the dead woman's face showed faint surprise. With trembling hands, Carlina placed the head gently back onto the table, then gathered her mother in her arms.

  Fabbiola sobbed into her shoulder.

  “Sshh.” Carlina couldn't think of a single comforting thing to say, so she just made soothing noises.

  Fabbiola murmured something she didn't understand.

  “What did you say, mamma?”

  “You . . . they meant you.”

  Carlina froze. “What?”

  “At a wedding, only the bride wears white. They wanted to shoot the bride.” Fabbiola hiccuped. “But they got the wrong woman instead.” She leaned her head back and put both hands against Carlina's cheeks. “Thank God she didn't stick to the rules. I was angry earlier; I thought she wanted to steal the show from you, as if she could do that, when you're so beautiful, but now, I'm glad, yes, I'm glad she did so. Otherwise, you would be there now, dead.”

  Carlina shook her head. “Mamma, that's total nonsense. Dorotea looks nothing like me. She's thin and tall and has long, dark hair. Nobody could possibly mistake her for me.”

  “She was wearing white. They must have thought she was the bride.”

  “Who's 'they' and why should they want to shoot me? What possible motive could there be?”

  Fabbiola lifted her shoulders in a vague movement. “Maybe a former girlfriend of Stefano, someone who's intensely jealous.”

  “I've never heard of any former girlfriends.”

  “Do you mean to tell me you're Stefano's first lover?” Her mother stared at her.

  “No, of course not! But he never said a single word about a former girlfriend who had an issue with jealousy.”

  Her mother moved her head from side to side. “He might not be aware of it. Where is he?”

  Carlina bit her lip. “He's out in the garden, looking for the murderer.”

  “Oh, Madonna. That's dangerous.”

  “Yes.”

  Carlina looked around. The few people still inside were huddled together in groups. In the far corner, she could see her sister Gabriella with her husband Bernando. Her niece Lilly was in Bernando's arms, fast asleep. Had the kid really slept through the racket?

  A bit behind them was Aunt Benedetta with her three grown children, Emma, Annalisa, and Ernesto. Her partner, the Frenchman Leo, had his arm around her shoulders, and Emma's husband, Lucio, was stroking his wife's back in a calming way. Emma was pregnant and had put a protective hand on her belly. Ernesto's girlfriend, Nora clung to Ernesto's arm, her face white.

  Carlina turned toward the band. Her formidable great-aunt Violetta stood next to the pia
no, the wheel-chair forgotten behind her. A bit to the side was her son, Omar, holding hands with Carlina's best friend, Francesca. Next to them was Uncle Teo, his white hair standing up.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. The family was accounted for. But then, a thought darted into her brain and made her weak with fear. Someone was missing. She looked at her mother. “Where is Enzo?”

  “Enzo?” Fabbiola lifted her head. “Oh, Madonna, Enzo. We'll have to tell him his girlfriend is dead.”

  Where was he when the shooting took place? Carlina wished she had looked around when the shot had come, taking note of everyone's position. Instead, she had only paid attention to her mother. Drat.

  “There he is!”

  Enzo came from the garden and stepped through the door where Carlina and Stefano had stood when the shot had sounded. He looked at the destruction all around him, his face incredulous. Then his gaze fell onto the silent figure at the table. He blanched and ran toward them, his feet making crunching noises on the glass-littered floor. “Dorotea!” He came to a sudden stop and stared at the red spot on her back. “Oh, no. She hates red.”

  Carlina and Fabbiola exchanged an incredulous look.

  “Is she . . . is she dead?” Enzo looked at his mother like a frightened little boy.

  Fabbiola nodded. “I'm sorry.”

  Enzo shook his head. “I . . . I don't believe it. She was indestructible. An icon.”

  Carlina grabbed his cold hands and led him to a chair. “Sit down, Enzo.”

  He obeyed without turning his gaze from Dorotea. Then he lifted his head and looked at Carlina, his eyes huge. “Who did it, Carlina? Who killed her?”

  “We don't know.”

  “They didn't mean her,” Fabbiola said. “They wanted to shoot the bride, and it was all a big mistake, because Dorotea insisted on wearing white.”

  Enzo's eyes got even bigger. “She always wore white. She didn't have any other clothes in her wardrobe.”

  Fabbiola sniffed. “So she told us. I guess anything's possible in Milan.”

  Enzo still looked at Dorotea as if he couldn't believe it. “And still, she spent hours color-coordinating her wardrobe.”

  Carlina blinked. “Because white doesn't equal white?”

  “Exactly.” Enzo had dropped his head into his hands. “Why am I talking about clothes?” His voice was muffled. “Dorotea is dead.”

  “Enzo.” Carlina put her hand onto his shoulder. “Where were you when the shot came?”

  Enzo didn't look up. “I was in the garden.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was so warm in here. And I . . . I wanted to think.”

  “What about?”

  He lifted his head. “Nothing. It doesn't matter anymore.”

  Carlina frowned.

  She looked up and saw Stefano standing at the other end of the room.

  Their gazes met. He slowly shook his head, then he came toward them, his focus riveted on Dorotea's still form. “Is she dead?”

  “Yes.” Carlina swallowed. “Shot from behind.”

  Stefano's gaze lifted to the shattered glass door. “He must have been right behind us.”

  “He wanted to shoot Carlina.” Fabbiola grabbed Stefano's arm and shook it. “You've got to look for someone who's got it in for Carlina.”

  Stefano stared at his new mother-in-law, his jaw slack. “Excuse me?”

  “Don't you see? Nobody wears white at a wedding but the bride. They wanted to kill the bride and made a mistake!”

  “But Carlina looks totally different from Dorotea. Are you telling me the murderer could discern colors but nothing else? Besides, she was much closer to the murderer than Dorotea.”

  “Oh, Madonna.” Fabbiola placed a hand over her heart. “How do you know that?”

  “Because the shot smashed the glass wall next to where Carlina and I were standing.” Stefano pointed in the direction of the door.

  Fabbiola blinked. “You . . . you were standing over there?”

  “Yes.”

  “A maniac!” Fabbiola crossed herself. “It must have been a maniac.”

  Stefano frowned. “I doubt that. A maniac would have killed off a few more people. He'd rarely get a better chance.”

  “But he tried!” Fabbiola pointed at the floor. “He shot down the chandelier. He could have killed dozens of people!”

  “He must have been an excellent shot.” Stefano rubbed his chin.

  Carlina felt cold. She slipped a hand underneath his arm and was glad when he immediately pulled her to him. She'd been afraid he would revert to his professional mode, becoming cool and distant.

  “What will happen now?” she asked in a low voice.

  “I'm waiting for Cervi.” They hadn't invited Stefano's boss because they'd decided they only wanted to celebrate with the people they loved. The relationship between Stefano and his boss could best be described as difficult, so he had been one of the first they'd crossed off the list. In fact, Stefano had not told him about his upcoming nuptials. He'd sworn Roberto, the pathologist, and Giorgio, the photographer, to secrecy.

  Giorgio came up at that moment. “Do you want me to take pictures of the scene, Stefano?”

  “You don't have your equipment.”

  “I do. It's in the car.”

  “In the car? Isn't that too risky?”

  Giorgio shook his head. “Nah. I had an extra box made that's welded to the car, with an extra strong lock. If someone breaks open the trunk, they'll still have to break open the box, and that's tricky.”

  “I see.” Stefano nodded. “Yes, indeed, it's a good idea to start taking pictures. Thank you.”

  Giorgio gave him a commiserating glance. “I'm sorry about that. At your wedding, and all.”

  Stefano pulled Carlina closer to him. “I'm just glad it happened this late in the evening. I'm safely married to Carlina, and that's all that counts.”

  Giorgio blinked. “Do you mean to say you expected a murder?”

  Stefano shook his head. “I expected a family emergency of some sort, not murder. But whatever it is, I'm just glad it didn't happen earlier.”

  At that moment, Eva Malintento, the owner of the location, came up to them. Her face was white, and she wrung her hands. “This is terrible, absolutely terrible. It'll ruin the Villa Vetrata.” She looked at Carlina. “Just think about it! I was so glad when you took the canceled slot, just two weeks before the wedding. And now this! I'm ruined. Nobody else will want to get married at a location where a murder took place.”

  “I wouldn't be too sure of that,” Stefano said. “There are enough ghouls around who'll even think it an added attraction. You might even start to do themed dinners – criminal dining, with a fake murder taking place.”

  She blinked. “That's an idea.” Suddenly, she shook herself. “I'm so sorry. I just blurted out the first thought in my mind. I shouldn't have done that. I don't even know who was killed. Please accept my sincere condolences. I'm very, very sorry about your loss.” She put a small hand on Carlina's arm.

  Carlina smiled at her. “You've been going through a hard time lately, so it's understandable that you're thinking of your own business first. The victim is Dorotea Di Silva. She's the only person at our wedding who I've never seen before today. She came with my brother, you see.”

  Eva's eyes widened. “Dorotea Di Silva? So it really was her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw her earlier tonight and thought she looked remarkably like Dorotea Di Silva, but then I didn't think it possible.”

  “So you knew her?”

  “Oh, no, not personally of course. But I've seen her pictures in the magazines. Whenever they launch a new collection, the fashion tabloids are full of her. Did you know she only wears white? They call her the Snow Queen. This January, she was nominated as Woman of the Year and Entrepreneur of the Year at the same time! She's a real celebrity.” She swallowed as horror dawned in her eyes. “Oh, Madonna, this is even worse than I thought. A
celebrity dying at the Villa Vetrata! The press will camp at our door-step for weeks.”

  Stefano frowned. “Well, whatever you tell them, make sure they know they'll have a law-suit on their hands if they mention the name of the couple who got married. Where were you when the shot came?”

  Eva wrung her hands. “I was backstage, in the kitchen, clearing up. I didn't even hear the first shot. They said there were two, right? I just heard a big crash, and when I ran out to see what was going on, the chandelier was in the middle of the floor, and people were running everywhere.”

  “Can you recall their exact positions?”

  Eva frowned. “The lady with the wheelchair was next to the piano with her son and his girlfriend. I remember being surprised because she wasn't sitting but standing. I didn't know she could stand.”

  “She can stand and walk if she wants,” Carlina said. “But usually, she finds it more comfortable to be driven around.”

  Eva blinked. “I see. I saw you running across the room. I didn't know then that someone had been killed. I thought it was an accident, and that the chandelier had come off all by itself. I was terrified, but when it seemed nobody was hurt, I mainly looked at the damage that was done.”

  “Didn't you see the body?”

  “No. She was surrounded by people, and she wasn't in the immediate vicinity of the chandelier, so I didn't make the connection.”

  “And you can't recall the position of anybody else?”

  “No.”

  “Was anybody with you in the kitchen?”

  “The head waiter was with me. He had just brought in some glasses.”

  “All right. If you should remember you saw anybody else in the room, let me know.”

  “But you still won't know who fired the shot, even if you know where everybody was inside the building when it happened, will you? The shot came from outside, didn't it? That's what someone said, and that's why my glass wall was shot to smithereens.”

  “True.” Stefano eyed her. “It's a process of elimination. Whoever was inside the building can't have been outside, doing the shooting.”