Death of an Obnoxious Tourist by Maria Hudgins Page A

sister’s death had diminished her. She still wore the same flowered blouse and navy slacks I had last seen her in when she had stood at the elevator, sweating, muttering and swinging that pot of flowers by its rim. Lettie held out her arms and Beth moved into them, letting the tears fall on Lettie’s shoulder. I considered leaving the room because Beth, after all, was just a new acquaintance of mine, and I felt like an intruder on a private moment. But to announce that I was leaving would be an interruption, and to walk out without saying anything would be rude. So I stepped out onto the balcony. From the street below, lights were popping on in all shades, from the amber glow of the sidewalk lamps to the blue-white beam of a Vespa’s halogen headlight. But no neon. I wondered if they had a local ordinance that forbade neon lights, and my common sense said, “Of course they do.” In fact, it probably would be so unthinkable in this city that survives on its medieval heritage that they don’t even have to make it a law. Instant death for possession of a neon device.
    “I’m so sorry I have to rush off, but they called me down to the lobby right when you walked in,” I heard Lettie say. “Can we talk when they finish with me? I don’t think it’ll take too long.” She dashed out, leaving Beth standing there.
    I said, “I’m going up to the roof, Beth. Would you like to go with me? A little night air . . .”
    “Oh. Oh, yes, I’d like that. I didn’t know we had a roof that you could go out on.”
    Beth followed me onto the elevator, and I pushed the top button. I had decisions to make and make quickly. Should I mention Crystal finding the knife, and should I mention seeing our Gypsy friend in the lobby? In an official investigation of this sort, I knew it was crucial that witnesses not taint each other’s recollections. Things can get hopelessly bogged down if people start “recollecting” what somebody else tells them. That was obviously why they’d insisted on us all going to our own rooms earlier. But it was Beth’s knife, after all, and it had been found. Did Beth even know her knife was missing? And the man who almost certainly swiped her money and her cards—the man we had tried unsuccessfully to hunt down earlier—was downstairs, or at least had been downstairs a little while ago. Wouldn’t I be remiss if I didn’t tell her? I decided to err on the side of caution and not mention it. The knife and Beth’s other belongings would certainly be returned to her, anyway.
    The elevator opened onto a wonderful little patio, but I barely noticed it. For the moment, my breath had been taken away. The Duomo, floodlit from all sides, glowed like a huge Fabergé egg nestled in the carnelian tile rooftops of the city. Rooftops that by day were orange-red had deepened to a rich, dark wine. It was a sight I’ll never forget.
    Beth gasped. “Oh my.”
    We ventured over to the iron rail at the edge of the roof. Its bars slanted inward at about waist level, so it would be hard to fall off accidentally, and I imagined it was sufficient to thwart the gymnastic efforts of toddlers. At the back of the patio, near the elevator door, was a wet bar, closed down and padlocked. Several metal tables and chairs were scattered around; tables that had a hole in the center for the insertion of an umbrella. The umbrellas, apparently, were stashaway.
    “I’m still in shock,” Beth said. She curled her fingers around the protecting bars.
    “I’m sure you are. It was you who found her, wasn’t it?”
    She paused a moment before she answered. “Yes. It was awful. I just can’t describe . . .”
    I stayed quiet.
    “She was lying there, blood all over the wall, all over the floor . . . everywhere. Her throat was cut. It looked as if someone had tried to take her head off.”
    I shuddered and glanced toward Beth. Her eyes glistened in the reflected light of the Duomo. She quickly turned her head, and still I said nothing; I