Caged: Pietrowski Family Saga, #3

By Jeanette Scales

On his honeymoon in Canterra, Italy, American writer Paul Pietrowski is wrongfully imprisoned for a local murder. His family enlists Boston Private Investigator Charlie Wallingford to redress the injustice and set Paul free, but Charlie is obstructed by the local police and challenged by the Canterran townspeople. Meanwhile, Paul’s fragile psyche stretches thinner each day he’s behind bars. Charlie determines the only way to free Paul is to unmask the killer himself.

Who has a secret so heinous they’d kill to keep it buried? To convince Charlie to go home, the killer goes on the offensive hiring Roman thugs to attack him and staging a situation to shame him in front of the woman he's become irresistibly attracted to. Charlie responds by devising a hazardous plan to expose the real killer, or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeanette Scales
• Release date: Apr 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386855101

Book preview

CAGED

Jeanette Scales

Table of Contents

1 - Murder on My Mind

2 - Cry for Help

3 - Briefing

4 - Visiting Day

5 - A Gilded Cage

6 - Interrogation

7 - Looking for Help in All the Wrong Places

8 - Passeggiata

9 - A Tuscan Family Dinner

10 - A Mortal Secret

11 - Summer Storm

12 - Angelina’s Kitchen

13 - Brainstorm

14 - Roman Holiday

15 - Rift

16 - Cultural Crossroads

17 - Ousted

18 - Albergo Terra Rossa

19 - Jail Break

20 - Hearing

21 - A Dog’s tale

22 - The Hunt Is On

23 - Trapped

24 - The Hero Returns

25 - The Powers That Be

26 - Regroup

27 - Cosmo

28 - Impact

1

Murder on My Mind

Friday, 6/18/1965

FOR OVER A WEEK, I had waited for the perfect moment to kill Antonio. It was maddening. Each extra day that he enjoyed life tormented me. An angry heat flushed my face whenever I heard him laugh at a joke or flirt with the women customers at the restaurant. But when I clenched my fist, the one that would hold the knife, and practiced the move that would end his life, I calmed myself.

He left me no choice but to kill him. He threatened to destroy my Tuscan way of life, and we both knew he had the power to do it.

I was ready. I’d wrapped the stiletto in a white handkerchief and buried it in my pocket. The razor-sharp blade would feel like a paper cut on his neck. Nausea, wooziness, blackness would happen in twelve seconds. Death would be swift and silent. But waiting was unbearable. What if the ideal time never came? Maybe I should just pick a night and do it.

Then the argument between Paul and Antonio tumbled from the kitchen. All the early-morning regulars at Angelina’s Restaurant heard it. First Paul’s voice, quivering, deep. No! I’ve told you before. Keep your hands to yourself.

Then Antonio’s high-pitched, laughing, retort. "No inglese! No capisco!"

But Antonio didn’t need to speak the language to know Paul’s meaning. Everyone who heard, and anyone who knew Antonio, understood exactly what Paul was saying. Back and forth, English and Italian, the crescendo accelerated in pitch and volume, one voice crashing into the other, until a shattering slam of the back door ended the commotion.

I couldn’t have staged it better if I’d written the opera myself. The question was, which one of them left the kitchen?

A giggle strained to escape my throat; butterflies gathered in my belly. I strolled toward the vegetable garden behind the restaurant. Inside the wire fence I saw . . . Antonio. He crouched on one knee, cursed as he swiped his pen-knife across the Italian parsley and chucked handfuls into a shallow basket.

I slid inside the open back gate of the garden and screened myself behind the mature Tuscan Blue Rosemary bush, not three feet from Antonio’s back. I hardly dared to breath. My heartbeat throbbed in my ears. The bouquet of fertile loam and pungent rosemary blossoms closed around me like a familiar cloak, a sign, compelling me to do what I must.

2

Cry for Help

THE TONE RANG persistently in Dave’s dream. He woke enough to realize the sound was real and reached for the phone. But it wasn’t there.

Oh, yeah, the phone was on my side when we were at Susan and Max’s house. It’s on Maria’s side in our house. Must be something bad if the station’s calling me in the middle of the night when I’m on leave. Whoever you are, you’d better not wake the baby. Sorry, honey. He reached over his wife, picked up the receiver, and whispered, Dave Lawton.

Dave, It’s Emily. I know it’s before dawn there and I’m so sorry to wake you but I didn’t know who else to call. Oh, God. Her voice broke into wrenching sobs.

He sat up straight. Emily. What’s wrong, honey? Don’t cry.

What is it? Maria asked.

He raised an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders. Tell me, Emily.

Paul’s been arrested . . . for murder. The police took him to prison in the old castle. I don’t know what to do. They wouldn’t let me go with him. I’m at the restaurant with Angelina and her kids, and her friend Nico. They’re incredibly kind, but I’m so scared.

Okay, slow down. Why do the police think Paul committed a murder?

Maria gasped. What did you say?

He raised both brows and nodded.

They say they have proof he did it. Everyone here knows he and Antonio hated each other. If the cooking course weren’t nearly over we’d have left, but Paul wanted to finish it. Oh, God! What’ll I do?

Take a deep breath, Em. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Probably have a better chance to catch a quick flight to Rome than Florence. Stay with the people you mentioned. I’ll call you from the airport when I get to Rome.

It’ll be another four hours to Canterra.

Right. I should get there tomorrow afternoon, about three p.m. your time, if I’m lucky. Stay calm, honey. Until I get there, gather your thoughts about what led the authorities to such an outrageous conclusion. Make a list of whatever proof the police think they have. We’ll take care of this, okay?

Thank you, Dave. Hugs to Maria and Laura. See you tomorrow.

He hung up. We have a problem, honey.

My little brother’s in jail for murder? This is crazy. He picks spiders up from the floor and puts them outside rather than hurt them.

It may be crazy but it’s real. Can you and Laura stay with Max and Susan for a short time? I don’t think this should take more than a week or two. It’s clearly a mistake that needs to be sorted out.

We should go with you. My baby brother’s in trouble. Emily must be a wreck.

For your first trip to Italy I’d rather it be a vacation than whatever this is. I’ll go first, have a look. If I think it’ll drag on, then I want you to come. But I’ll come back to get you so I can manage Laura. I don’t want you to juggle your cane and the baby.

Will I ever be finished with that accident?

Don’t have to be. We’ll handle it. I might as well get up and call for a flight.

Dave threw off the blanket, walked around the bed, and sat on the edge by Maria. I wish Charlie Wallingford would go with me. I’d never have figured out how he found the bastard’s other victims for your rape trial. He clinched it with his ‘creative investigation.’ This may be more than I can handle on my own.

Call him. He went way out of his way to help me get my memories back after the accident, and his cop instincts are impeccable. He’s not technically family but he’s a true friend and that makes him a member of our tribe. I bet he’ll go with you.

Dave called Charlie at eight a. m. Sounds serious, Dave. And hard to believe. I can’t imagine Paul doing anything violent.

None of us can. It’s obviously a gross mistake.

I’d like to help, but I don’t see how I can. I’d be a fish out of water. I don’t speak the language and I have no clue about how the Italian judicial system works. I think you’d be much better off hiring a local guy when you get there. Someone who knows the ropes.

I understand Charlie, but I hope you’ll change your mind. In case you do, there’s a ticket to Rome waiting for you at the Alitalia counter at Logan. Flight’s at eight-twenty tonight. Otherwise, can I call if I need advice?

Absolutely. Keep in touch.

Maria took his hand as he hung up the phone, Don’t despair, honey. He has hours to think about it.

***

Charlie was torn. He owed Maria a huge debt for helping his daughter Celia recover her speech after the stroke, and he couldn’t bear the injustice of Paul’s situation. But all his cop skills from thirty years at the Boston PD won’t help him learn to speak Italian or decipher a complex judicial system instantly. He’d better let Dave handle it with a local investigator.

He opened the appointment book for Charles Wallingford, Private Investigations and turned to the page for Tuesday, June twenty-second. But he couldn’t get Dave’s call off his mind. He phoned his old chief and mentor, Tom O’Brien. Hey, Tom, how’s retirement going?

Charlie. Good to hear from you. Retirement’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I’m with my grandkids a lot more, and Sadie and I take more trips, but I miss having a reason to get up in the morning, besides taking the dog out. It’s been three years and I’m not used to it yet. What’s up with you these days?

Need some advice. Charlie explained Paul’s situation hoping Tom would have the definitive answer.

You’ve made the right decision, Charlie. You’d be useless there, out of your element. Better to stay where you have clients that need your attention, people you can help who give you a good reason to get up in the morning. Who knows how Italians work their system. You may do more harm than good. If Dave needs help, he’ll call.

Charlie thanked Tom for his advice and settled into his schedule of appointments.

***

Dave heard his flight number called as he reached the Alitalia gate at Boston’s Logan International Airport. He joined the line of boarding passengers. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around and grinned.

Offer still stand? Charlie asked.

Absolutely! Glad to see you Charlie. Maria knew you’d come.

It may not make sense for me to go. I might not be as much help as you expect. Closest I’ve been to Italy are the restaurants in the North End. But I couldn’t let Maria down. I don’t believe Paul could hurt anyone and I can’t resist scratching this itch for justice whenever someone’s been victimized. I guess that’s left over from my days as a cop.

He grinned. And you and I did make a good team catching the louse who hurt Maria. So, I called Celia to let her know where I’d be, closed the office, and we’ll see how it goes.

They boarded the plane and found their seats. Charlie put his bag in the overhead bin and rubbed his palm across the back of the seat. Nice digs.

Yeah, first class were the only tickets available on short notice. Lots of leg room.

When they were airborne, Charlie asked, How’s the new house?

"Great. Jack did an amazing job on the renovation. He created a comfortable apartment for Emily and Paul, kept the main house for Maria, Laura, and me, and from the outside you’d never know it’s been changed. I’m grateful we could live with Max and Susan when we were first married, but it’s nice to have our own place. As long as Maria needs help with the baby, and really as long as they want, Emily and Paul will have their own wing in our house.

I’m taking leave from the force for the month of their honeymoon to be home with Maria and Laura, but this incident may throw a monkey-wrench into that plan.

Speaking of the Oakhill Police Department, I hear you’re chained to a desk now.

"Yeah, that business in Canada of my using what they call ‘excessive force’ when we arrested Maria’s rapist put a black spot on my record. I have my badge back and I’m carrying again, but I’m answering phones and pushing papers all day. Necessary work but not my idea of being a cop.

Desk Duty for officers is usually when they’re coming back from an injury, a temporary thing, but I can’t be sure of that. I am sure there’s no chance of ever becoming Chief now. Truth is, I’m not built to sit behind a desk. I hate it.

Think you’ll leave?

I haven’t reached that point yet. Depends on whether or not they let me go back on the street. How’s your business? Lots of interesting cases?

I’m busier than last year, and the cases are more complex. Can’t talk about them, of course, but being a PI is getting to be more fun. I might even get out of my dungeon, get a brighter office. Maybe at the waterfront. Wouldn’t mind an ocean view.

Dave glanced out of the plane’s window and marveled at the turn his life had taken in the past few months. Only last November he was single, an Oakhill police officer hoping to be chief one day. Then he lost control arresting Maria’s rapist. Instead of a medal for making the arrest, the police department suspended him for three months. But he won a much dearer prize.

He hugged his arms around his chest and thought about his bride. In May he married Maria Pietrowski, the love of his life, adopted her daughter Laura, and became an official member of the Pietrowski tribe. What a whirlwind. Sometimes he supposed he’d died and gone to heaven. He gazed at the bank of clouds outside his window and grinned at the thought.

Charlie interrupted his daydream. I wonder how Paul got mixed up with a murder. He’s the last person I’d expect to find in this kind of trouble. Doesn’t make sense for Paul the poet to be involved in anything violent.

"Yeah. I can’t imagine how their trip could have taken such a dark turn. This was to be their adventure of a lifetime. A honeymoon in Italy. Paul made the plans as a surprise for Emily. She’s wanted to go since she read The Agony and the Ecstasy, so Paul bought a tour called the Soul of Italy, from Rome to Canterra in Tuscany, and then to Florence.

"And the group had a bonus. The owner of Angelina’s Restaurant in Canterra invited everyone on the tour to enter a contest for two extra weeks free to learn how to make authentic Tuscan dishes. Paul was the only person in his group to enter. He’s so passionate about cooking good food, this may have been the highlight of the trip for him. It all sounded perfect.

Another issue scares me. Do you know about Paul’s psychological problems?

Uh, oh. That sounds serious.

"It is. He was about nineteen when he lost most of his childhood memories. Between being caught in the factory explosion and living with his father’s abuse, doctors said his memory loss was caused by persistent exposure to violence. Psychogenic Amnesia they call it. He’s handled it well, but I worry this experience may trigger a setback.

We’ll get the whole story in ten more hours. Hey, time for dinner. Looks pretty good.

***

The bus-ride from Rome to Tuscany seemed to Charlie like a voyage back in time from the renaissance to medieval days. Only a few miles out of the city, the scenery changed from commercial buildings and Roman ruins to velvety green fields and rolling hills. He could see for miles. Statuesque, nearly black cypress trees, their tips bending with the breeze, traced serpentine roads. Fields of dazzling-yellow wild sunflowers raced past the bus. Terraces of olive groves climbed the hills that had been on the horizon only a few minutes before.

He didn’t remember dozing off, but he woke to the clang of the bus driver blasting the horn three times. The massive vehicle turned, and turned again, until they had negotiated a steep, hairpin climb. Guess we’re in the Tuscan hills. No wonder the driver had to honk the horn. This monster would eat alive any vehicle coming in the opposite direction.

I’ve never seen a road so narrow with turns so tight, Dave said.

The bus climbed and twisted two more times before approaching Canterra. Dave winked at Charlie. Good thing we didn’t rent a car. Only a native could maneuver these roads.

Sultry summer heat accosted them as they and one other passenger stepped from the air-conditioned bus. Four o’clock on a June afternoon is no time to be exposed to the sunshine in the Etruscan town of Canterra. The breeze added another level of warm. Charlie took his jacket off and glanced at the stone arch. Wonder why the gate’s built at an angle to the road like that.

They passed through the shade of the massive arch in the town’s stone wall toward the sun-filled main square. When he emerged on the other side, Charlie’s jaw dropped. Amazing. The wall, the streets, the buildings, everything’s made of stone. The magazine article on the bus said Canterra’s at eighteen-hundred feet elevation and the wall, and most of the buildings, are two thousand years old. I can hardly fathom it.

Buildings around the square were constructed of limestone blocks so closely aligned Charlie could hardly see the seams between them. Colors ranged from light gray, to tan, to a deep peach where the Tuscan sun hit. Red terra cotta bricks framed the arch of a door or the rectangle of some windows, and many buildings had hefty stone-block corner details. Rows of curved red clay tiles covered the roofs. Patches of a building’s weathered or missing stucco revealed scars from ancient battles, heightening the feeling of endurance.

Dave peered to the top of the three-story building on their left. This building behind us with the bell tower must be the town hall, and that’s a hospital across the square with the Red Cross banner. Here’s a church to the left, but I can’t decipher the hexagonal one attached to it, or the others. But they all look official, like fortresses. Even the small shops on the square are stone. No wonder they’ve survived two-thousand years.

They left the shadow of the town hall and stepped into the blistering Tuscan sunshine of the stone-paved square. Following the bus driver’s instructions, they crossed the square and climbed the hill beside the hospital to find Angelina’s Restaurant. Every road from the square went up a hill. Pretty soon, the driver had told them, you’ll be there. Can’t miss it.

Both sides of the steep road were lined with three-story buildings like stone canyons that climbed and turned and blocked the view ahead. The street was so narrow the sun couldn’t penetrate to the road between the houses. Red, pink, or yellow blooms reached for sunshine in upper-story window boxes.

The buildings make the street level nice and shady, Charlie