All For A Fistful Of Ashes: Tour Director Extraordinaire Series, #2

By R. Ann Siracusa

Travel through Italy with tour director, Harriet Ruby, and handsome spy, Will Talbot, pursuing a lost grave, an assassin, and a healing and once-in-a-lifetime love.

I'm Harriet Ruby: Tour Director Extraordinaire. At least, I thought I was worthy of that title, until...

My first mistake: Agreeing to conduct a private tour of Italy. Fourteen Italian-Americans from New Jersey? All family, for three weeks, with four teenagers? What was I thinking? Fate responds to my engraved invitation by placing one of the family under surveillance as a suspect in an assassination plot, and who is assigned to the case? None other than my favorite drop-dead-gorgeous spy, Will Talbot.

My second mistake: Allowing Will to coax an invitation from the family matriarch to join the tour.

And that was just the beginning. The matriarch, searching for the unknown location of her mother's grave so she can bury her brother's cremated ashes (which have been smuggled into Italy wrapped in Cuban cigars), and her quirky family members sweep through Italy leaving chaos, hilarity, and danger in their wake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. Ann Siracusa
• Release date: Aug 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386743170

Book preview

Chapter One

Nothing had happened—yet—but I knew in my bones that accepting this tour had been a terrible mistake.

It was all Will Talbot's fault.

Guiding any private tour is questionable, but directing a jaunt around Italy with fourteen Italian-Americans from New Jersey? All family, for three weeks, with four teenagers?

What was I thinking? Agreeing to the tour was worse than tempting Fate. It was sending an engraved invitation.

Even though my name is Harriet Ruby, I'm part Italian myself. Believe me, I know what these family trips are like. My father, the self-proclaimed non-Italian half of my heritage, likens any event involving my mother's relatives to a train wreck. Actually, he's part Italian too, but he would gargle with razor blades before admitting it to anyone.

Despite my intention to turn down the assignment, there I sat outside the customs area at Malpensa Airport in Milan, Italy, holding a sign with Vita Spinella and Family printed on it.

A cold shiver skittered along my spine. My skin puckered like bubble wrap and all the fine hairs on my body stood at attention.

Within sixty seconds, the airport speaker system emitted a burst of static.

"Signorina Boobie. Would Miss Harriet Boobie please report to the Drogana—to the Customs area?"

Jeez, ever since my first stint as a tour director, people have been mispronouncing the name Ruby.

I gathered my things together and hurried up to the policeman in full regalia, guns and all, by the Customs' exit.

"I'm Miss Ruby, I told him in Italian. They called me over the public speaker just now."

Go in, please.

I jogged down the hallway ramp. Rounding the corner at the bottom, I skidded to a stop to avoid colliding with a nondescript man wearing an Italian Customs uniform, his face pinched with displeasure and his eyes radiating panic.

Are you from Adventure Seekers Travel? he asked in a loud, agitated voice.

Oh, boy. I knew it. Yes. What's happened?

No need to ask. Shouting in English and Italian drew my attention to a group of people gathered around a nearby(and rather foul-smelling) Customs station. Most of them were waving their hands and yelling.

Two white-haired old ladies dressed in black and four teenagers stood to one side. The girl with long bleached-blond hair watched the fracas with heavily made-up eyes and a pouty-lipped smile. The pretty brunette talked on her cell phone while she took a bottle of water from her backpack. The two boys—one with a wool beanie pulled down to his eyes, the other with spiky green hair—had iPods plugged into their ears and didn't appear to notice anything amiss.

Beside them, the old women watched in grim silence. One scrunched in a wheelchair, appearing as withered and brittle as an old branch, a heavy wooden cane across her bony knees.

Vita Spinella and family.

On a high counter, three suitcases sat open and a large pile of luggage waited to be examined. Beside it, a well-dressed woman in her forties struggled with one of the Italian Customs officials.

Give me those! She gripped his upper arm and swiped at his face with her free hand.

The man held a small box out of her reach. A fat, red-tipped cigar hung from his lips. Yuck. No wonder the place stank.

When another official reached for the woman from behind, a short stocky man in a suit pushed him back.

No, you don't, pal. He looked like a bulldog, and his deep, gravelly voice sounded mean.

Take your hands off me! the fortyish woman screeched even though she hung onto the official’s arm, not the other way around.

They're ours. Another woman who’d been in the milling crowd tried to grab the box. Give them back.

The man who had met me on the way into Customs grabbed my sleeve. Do something!

Why are you yelling at me? I pulled away from him. "Who are these people?"

They're your tour group. You must stop this at once.

Who, me?

"I'm supposed to break this up? I don't even know them. Why don't the police stop it?"

Before he could answer, the fragile old lady leaped out of her wheelchair, sidled between the other members of her family, and gave the man holding the box a horrendous blow across the ribs with her cane.

I swear I heard bones crack.

Aiii! he cried in pain, spewing the cigar out of his mouth. The box flew out of his hand and sailed through the air.

With a triumphant cry, the tiny woman, who could only be Vita Spinella, tossed aside the cane, sprang for the flying object, snatching it out of the air like a wide receiver and hit the ground running—as agile as one of the NFL's finest.

Stop her! the man beside me shouted.

A police officer standing two or three feet away, shook off the amazement that had frozen him into immobility and grasped the old lady's arm as she whizzed by.

She screeched and whacked him with the box.

The policeman raised his arm to protect his face and hit the box as it came down a second time. The lid flipped open, scattering a couple dozen brown cylinders across the floor.

I stared at the now-empty container.

Cigars? Oh, boy.

Wailing with distress, the other old woman threw herself to her knees and began scooping up cigars. The stocky man joined her and both of them scrambled about the floor, picking up the pieces.

Other policemen rushed forward to pull them away and trampled the cigars underfoot. Tobacco leaves and white powder mixed with little dark-colored chunks of something were scattered everywhere.

At that point, all the adults shouted, swore, or wept.

In case you didn't know, we Italians don't have much in the way of volume control.

The bored-looking teenagers lounged against the counter and ignored the scene. Now, both girls were talking on their cell phones.

I'd been so intent on watching the show I paid no attention to anything else until I smelled something burning. I shifted my gaze to tendrils of smoke rising out of one of the open suitcases on the counter where, apparently, the official's lit cigar had landed.

At the same time, someone hollered, Get a fire extinguisher!

A general cry went up. While the airport staff scurried, the brunette teenager, without a twinge of expression or any hurry to her pace, clicked off her phone, sauntered up to the counter, and emptied the contents of her water bottle into the smoldering suitcase.

Sizzle. Pop.

As if by magic, the boy in the beanie came out of his trance. His eyes widened and his mouth tightened into a thin line of anger as a final burst of steam hissed out of the open luggage.

What'd you do that for, bitch? He dashed to where the brunette stood and punched her in the shoulder.

Hey, stop it! She dropped the backpack she held by its strap and threw the empty plastic bottle at him.

The kid deflected it with his arm, and it bounced away. I had my PSP in there, dammit.

Oh, shut up, asshole.

As the girl bent to pick up her bag, the youth pushed her. She stumbled backward into the policeman still crouched and moaning from Vita's blow. His hand splayed on the floor, and she stepped on it.

"Ahi, mannaggia!" As he jerked his hand away, his fingers snagged onto the strap of her backpack.

She tottered, then pulled back, jerking the bag with her. Get your hands off me, you dirty old man. Mm-other, Tony's hitting me again!

Without realizing I spoke aloud, I said to the policeman, Please, shoot them. Now! You'll be doing us all a favor.

He grinned and gave me a thumbs-up.

*****

The Italian Drogana officials locked us in a conference room while they consulted, presumably, with the police and perhaps someone from the American Consulate. No point in my worrying about it.

I sat down at the head of the table. I'm Harriet Ruby from Adventure Seekers Travel Agency, your tour director. I flashed a sweet smile in case I'd put too much emphasis on the last word. This family clearly needed some direction. I doubted any of them could make it to the bathroom without a brouhaha.

All Italians, at least the ones in my extended family, were flakes when it came to making group decisions.

Would you all please sit down? I'm going to hand out name tags for you to wear for a day or two until I can put names with faces.

One of the men slammed down his fist. Name tags? What kind of shit is this?

The matriarch, cane still in hand, shot him a silencing glare so hot it would wither a rock, and took the chair on my right. She plunked the four boxes of Cuban cigars in front of her. The shrink-wrap had been pulled off one, but the others appeared to be intact.

One by one, the others deposited the remains of the crushed cigars beside the boxes and sat with a lot of chair scraping and discussion about who should sit where.

All this over cigars? Oh, this trip is going to be fun.

When they settled, I tapped my pencil on the table. I don't know if I can be of any help, but will someone please explain what happened in there.

A brief moment of silence ensued. I looked from one startled face to the next.

Oh, no, we can't, murmured the woman who'd battled the Customs agent for the box.

The other old woman in black gasped. Not in front of the children.

A chic, good-looking blond at the other end of the table wrinkled her nose in disdain and tapped her fingernails impatiently on the table next to her cell phone.

The tough-looking guy in the suit seated on my left, rose and leaned into my face. This is none of your business, young lady.

Mental sigh of relief. Well, then, I don't see any point in my staying. I stood and handed him my business card. Call me at this number tomorrow morning, and we'll adjust the tour itinerary.

If you're not in jail. I can hope, can't I?

Wham. The cane smashed across the table, missing my hand by inches, and nailed the man's fingers.

Yeow! He yanked his hand away and shook it as he let out a string of swear words. "Gesù Cristo, Zia, what's the matter with you?"

Vita rose, although her diminutive height made it hard to tell if she was sitting or standing. The loose flesh of her wrinkled face pulled tight. Her dark eyes flashed. During her earlier NFL debut, strands of white hair had pulled loose from the bun at the back of her head and now stuck up in all directions as though her coiffure had been styled by Don King.

Sit down and shut up, Carmelo! She shook her head with disgust. "You always were a whiner."

Then she tapped the cane a few times. "Hey, ragazzi ... you kids. Move to the end of the room and plug yourselves in."

The youth with the green hair looked up and nodded. "Okay, Nonna." The four teens shifted as if they were used to this, setting off another rotation of the adults. Only Vita and the blond woman remained in position. The rest of them wanted to distance themselves at least two cane-lengths from Grandma. I couldn't blame them. My own grandmother had a long reach herself.

Now, listen to me. The old woman spoke in a quiet, but intense and commanding voice. Carmelo, tell this nice young lady what this is about. Let's see if she can help us.

The mean-looking man with the smashed fingers and a name tag reading Carmelo Mazza nodded meekly. It's like this. When my old man, ah ... my father ... died a year ago, his last wish was for my aunt, he indicated Vita Spinella with a dip of his head, to take his ashes to Sicily and bury them with their mother.

His ashes? Oh, I couldn't wait. This was going to be good.

I pictured a family tree in my mind. This man, the son of the other old woman, Graziella Mazza, resembled an older and skinnier version of Carmelo. Most of my tours required I learn twenty to forty names, but not a lot of complicated family relationships.

"You know. Ashes ... as in cremated remains, he rasped in an irritating voice. Getting a permit to bring them into Italy requires the name and address of the final resting place, and we don't know where my grandmother is buried."

Vita cut in. You see, my mother died when the Americans were bombing Sicily toward the end of World War II. Afterward, the government collected all the dead bodies and dumped them in a mass grave somewhere.

My brothers and I were adopted as war orphans by an American-Italian couple and left Italy without ever knowing where they buried her. Vita waved her cane for Carmelo to continue.

Yeah, we tried to find out, but no one will give us a straight answer. So, we want to locate the rest of my father's family in Sicily and see if they know how to find my grandmother's grave.

Whew. A rescheduling nightmare in the making. Not good news in my book.

I did the grimace squint thing. Why didn't Vita tell us this when she booked the tour instead of describing it as a family vacation to expose her grandchildren to their Italian heritage?

Acting on those instructions, I'd planned a routine tour starting in Milan, their port of arrival, to visit the usual sights and places of cultural interest. Changing reservations and travel arrangements to accommodate their quest to find a lost grave would be difficult during the tourist season.

I'm glad to know what your plans are, but I'm not sure I get the connection between this and what happened in Customs.

Carmelo Mazza's face flushed, and he sneered at me. Are you stupid or something?

Whap went the cane across the tabletop. I must have levitated three feet.

Carmelo!

"Okay, Zia, take it easy. He grimaced and turned to me. It's like this, lady. We couldn't bring cremated ashes into Italy without a permit, and if we declared them, the authorities would turn 'em over to some mortician to handle. We don't trust the Italian government to carry out my father's wish, so... He paused, flicking his gaze toward his aunt. Vita nodded, and he went on. So we hid the ashes inside these Cuban cigars. Legally, each adult can bring two boxes into Italy."

You smuggled cremated ashes in cigars? I drew in a slow deep breath and glanced at the trampled pieces beside the boxes. The bigger picture emerged.

I might be a non-smoker, but even I could see these were professionally wrapped, banded and packaged, probably in Cuba. Certainly no amateur job.

Who are these people? Maybe I am stupid.

In cigars? I asked again, incredulous.

Vita shrugged. My brother, my father and his father were all avid cigar smokers. It seemed fitting.

That idiot Customs man took the boxes out of our suitcases and opened one of them. The middle-aged woman spoke in a high unsteady voice. I read her name tag—Mela (Carmela) Alessi—Vita Spinella's oldest daughter. Bianca Schultz was her other daughter.

All Vita's blood relatives bore either Carmelo or Carmela as part of his or her name. I'd give a hundred to one Vita's mother bore the name Carmela. Italians cherish family names.

When he brought the boxes back, Mela continued, "he had one of the cigars in his mouth. He was smoking my uncle!"

While she sobbed, Carmelo Mazza's wife, Teresa, took the lead. Not only that, but he complained they didn't taste good. 'You go all the way to Cuba for these pieces of shit?' he said. Tears filled Teresa's eyes, too.

Carmelo poked a finger into my shoulder, his bulldog face a choleric red. None of this is gonna be repeated to anyone, right? He looked like a gangster, and I didn't doubt for a minute I'd better keep my mouth shut.

Besides, who could I tell? Their voices were so loud the Customs people and half the population of Milan had probably heard the whole conversation.

Well, then... I stared at the pile of broken cigars a.k.a. Carmelo Mazza, Senior. For lack of something to say, I picked one up and sniffed it, then studied the others.

Some of them appeared to be made with real tobacco leaves, others were leaves wrapped around something else. While I had no idea what cremated ashes were supposed to smell like, the cigar in my hand had a distinct tobacco odor. Were all the cigars packed with, ah, sacred remains?

Vita shrugged and shook her head. You know how it is. He was a little man.

Oo-kay. Do you have any idea how many were real cigars? Three of the boxes weren't opened. Why don't you see how much, hmm ... how much of him you got back?

The adults stared at me like I was an escaped lunatic. All except the blond, who concentrated on filing her fingernails.

I cleared my throat. I could use a little help here. I mean, if there are enough ashes left to bury, then I'd suggest you pay the Customs fee and not say anything more.

Silence fell with a thud, then...

We can't!

Are you crazy?

After what they did?

Up went Vita's cane. The mood changed abruptly.

Vita's son-in-law, Antonino Alessi, Mela's husband, pushed back his chair and stood. Good idea.

Vita's instrument of torture disappeared beneath the table.

Antonino dragged the remains across the table toward him and Carmelo Mazza. Without further discussion, the two men examined each broken cigar and sorted them into piles.

They can forget the one the official smoked. I mentally crossed off smoking cremated ashes from my future to-do list.

After five minutes, Carmelo sighed with relief. Only two whole cigars and pieces of five more are missing.

That'll do. Vita turned to her sister-in-law for confirmation.

Graziella Mazza, Carmelo Senior's bereaved widow, lifted her nose in the air and sniffed. I am a good Catholic, and we do not believe in cremation.

Carmelo growled under his breath, shaking his head. Oh, c'mon, Ma. You know Father Rossi said cremation is okay with the Catholics now.

"If you say you've got enough to bury, it's fine with me. Graziella stabbed her forefinger at Vita. He asked you to do this. His sister, not his wife. It's on your head."

Vita scowled at her sister-in-law. "Are you still bitching about that, Graziella? She shook her head, sending her loose hair flapping. You were always a whiner, too. I guess that's where your son got it."

*****

Eventually, several officious-looking men came into the room and demanded we pay an outrageous fine in the guise of a customs fee. Carmelo shelled out the money without a squeak. The bureaucrats glowed with satisfaction, mentally dividing up the windfall, and released them into my custody.

Whoopee!

By then I'd convinced them to keep their mouths shut—well, maybe Vita's cane did the convincing—and we left as quickly and quietly as possible. What remained of the deceased Carmelo Mazza, Senior, left with us in three cigar boxes and a gallon-sized zippered freezer bag.

Using my cell phone, I called my bus driver, Mario Pellicci, and told him to meet us with the van in front of the terminal. I'll explain what happened later.

Mario and I had worked together on several tours, including my first ill-fated Spain-Morocco trip. He knew what to expect. Being a patient and gracious man, he never rubbed my nose in it, no matter how bizarre things got.

Tony and Jennifer Alessi, the battling beanie-boy and brunette sister duo, dawdled along behind the others. Finally, I herded them out the door and pointed to the large van where Mario and the baggage handlers were loading the luggage.

Over there, please.

Still standing inside the terminal with one hand on the door, I prepared to push it open, when an intense shiver skittered up and down my spine. I tingled all over and heat zinged to my erogenous zones, a sure sign of Will Talbot's presence in the airline terminal.

I hadn't seen him, but I didn't have to. When we're in the same space, he and I exchange a flow of energy, and my body's reactions said it all. We had a way of speaking to each other without talking.

Will's my ... well, he's ... hmm. Now, here's the thing. Will Talbot and I had this incredible, overpowering physical attraction and a no-strings agreement to get to know each other better and see if the rest of our relationship could catch up with our lust.

Since he lived in Spain and I resided in Rome, we only got together every two or three weeks. We hadn't progressed much beyond the lust stage of getting to know you, but there seemed to be a lot of other stuff going on between us, which neither of us had figured out yet.

Excited, I opened the door and stuck my head out. I'll be there in a few minutes, Mario, I yelled, my voice tinged with anticipation, trying to keep an eye on the terminal at the same time. Please, people, get on board. Thanks.

He cocked an eyebrow and grinned. Mario knew about Will and me and, like I said, nothing surprised him.

Stepping back inside and away from the entrance, I closed my eyes and waited. I sensed Will's approach and the closer he got, the more my girly parts tingled with anticipation.

Even though I expected it, I gasped when he placed his warm hands on my shoulders and turned me around to face him.

Wow! As drop-dead gorgeous as ever. Tall, trim and well-muscled, dark hair in a military-cut-gone-spiky with a touch of gray around the ears. Ex-military, Special Forces. So hot he could melt butter at the South Pole in the dead of winter.

He held me at arm's length, not letting me close the distance between us and slobber on him. He was on the job being a spy. No, I mean it. He's really a spy. Officially, his title is Europol Special Agent, but the things he does—the ones I know about, anyway—have international spy written all over them.

Will looked at me and shook his head with resignation. I might have known this is your group. He rolled his brilliant blue eyes upward. Give me strength.

Since I couldn't kiss him or have sex with him right there in the airport lobby, I waved my hands and got nasty instead. "I knew you were here, Will Talbot. Things like this never happen to me unless you're around. It's your fault my karma has gone bad."

Will wrapped his hands around mine and forced them down to my sides. "Signorina Boobie, may I have a word with you in private?" His low sexy voice smoldered.

Even my teeth ached for him. "Do not call me that." The Hairy Boobies nickname, a remnant from my first experience as a tour director when Will and I met in Morocco, will haunt me forever. I wanted to be annoyed with him for bringing it up, but  my real interest focused on being alone with him.

I sidled closer and gazed up into his hypnotic baby blues. In private? How much in private? Yum. He smelled so delicious, all musky aftershave and Talbot testosterone. I wanted to bite him.

Not the kind of private you're thinking about. His tone warned me to behave. With purposeful but unhurried strides, he escorted me away from any place where there could be eavesdroppers or bugs. When he worked in his official capacity as Special Agent, he carried plenty of spy equipment.

Off duty, he ... well ... had his own equipment.

He let me go and stood about two feet away, not touching, but close enough for us to hear each other. My knees weakened at the look he gave me. Sparks of energy shot back and forth, and I thought we might spontaneously combust.

Anxious, you might say. Actually, horny would be a better description.

Why didn't you tell me who was on this tour?

I blinked at the hint of annoyance in his voice. "I'm thrilled to see you, too. I did tell you. When we talked on the phone I told you, a woman named Vita Spinella and her family. She's the spokesperson, and it's her show."

The feisty one with the cane?

Merely envisioning the woman made me grin. She's the one. He'd obviously either seen or heard about the recent events in Customs.

He shook his head, his lips compressed into a thin line. Spinella. No wonder I didn't put it together.

Didn't put what together?

His frown formed a deep crease between his brows, which I adored. I told you I 'd be working a case in Italy.

I know. I accepted this gig, against my better judgment, I might add, because you encouraged me to take the assignment.

Encouraged you? How?

Nearly five weeks without seeing each other is a long time for us, I pointed out, trying not to look down at the rather obvious evidence his male parts didn't need reminding. You didn't think I'd take the risk of being sent somewhere else while you were in Italy, did you? What's the problem?

You're stepping on my assignment again.

Your assignment? My jaw dropped to flycatcher mode. "You mean my tourists have something to do with the case you're investigating? How was I supposed to know? Why didn't you tell me?"

I can't discuss it. My investigation may or may not have anything to do with your tour.

Oh, man. Were we back to the need-to-know rule again? My shoulders twitched with annoyance. I thought by now he trusted me with at least some information.

Hmm, so you mentioned it to remind me you can't tell me anything? I planted my fists on my hips, attack mode. "You always say the same thing. I hope this time your case really doesn't have anything to do with me, because, quite frankly, I don't think I can deal with a repeat of the Spain-Morocco trip."

One of Will's eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. Meaning?

I cleared my throat. "Don't go postal on me, here. I don't mean you or the part in bed. I'm up for repeats of that any time. But I didn't like the terrorist part, and I didn't like getting kidnapped. I paused and took a deep breath. And I didn't like it when I thought I'd be killed before I found out who the hell you really are."

Chapter Two

Will didn't say anything, just nailed me with his electric blue gaze. I sizzled with desire. Every nerve ending in my body tingled, and my undisciplined hair crackled and frizzed out like a halo.

Well, it's been nice seeing you again. He causally extended his hand.

Puzzled by the sudden change, I wiped my palms on my thighs, then realized he suspected someone watching us.

Yes, an unexpected pleasure. I took his hand and shook it. He passed me a piece of thin plastic, like a credit card. I palmed his room key card and slipped it into my pocket without taking my eyes off his or letting go of my frozen smile. If he had one of my tourists under surveillance, he would be staying at the same hotel.

I let my breath out slowly and lowered my gaze to let him know I understood. Then I coughed so I had an excuse to put my hand over my mouth in case our voyeur could also be a lip-reader.

You're watching someone in my group, aren't you? I whispered between my fingers and hacked a few more times. I'm not going to be taken hostage again, am I? Is anyone going to be murdered?

I had no desire to step on his assignment, as he'd put it. I didn't want to do anything to alienate him, but without meaning to, I always found a way to mess up his case.

No emotion showed on his handsome face, nary a flicker of interest, but his eyes darkened a shade. I knew I'd guessed correctly, at least about the watching part.

Someone in my tour group? Did we need to talk, or what?

Remember Will’s eyes? I just mentioned them. They are the most incredible brilliant blue. When I look into them, I forget everything—even the rest of him, which is pretty amazing in itself. You know. Windows to the soul and all that.

But I've learned while I can read his reactions through his eyes, he can use them look right inside me and see, just as clearly, what I'm thinking. Quid pro quo. "Well, I have to run. My group must be hungry. They've been