The calls with Brigitte, Shalon and Gary completed, her duty done, nothing else remained for Ike but to return to the hotel. For a moment she hesitated, wondered whether she should play the white woman and take the metro. Since the Stella del Monte hotel sat outside the city centre—on top of yet another hill—taking the tube to return to the place she temporarily called home involved a humid twenty minutes spent underground with tourists, muggers, butt-pinchers and potential killers, followed by another harrowing journey by bus.

"No way, José," Ike muttered under her breath, swung around and headed for the taxi rank at Rome's central train station that loomed behind her. Seated inside a dented Alfa, she then inched her way through Italy's capital quietly seething at the cacophony of horns outside and the reek of garlic coming from the driver.

At least the bloke didn't chat her up and, as a bonus, he soon sneaked out of the blockage and zipped through a maze of back alleys filled with pawnshops, hairdressers and corner bars. Above them, the star-speckled sky flowed like a dark river, banked in by the apartment blocks that soared on both sides of the street. Ike, her head leaning against the cold window of the car, figured the recent rain must have washed away the pall of pollution and was content to stare into the velvety canopy that widened as the taxi sped uphill.

When she had clambered out of the Alfa to pay her driver, a lungful of cold, moist and earthy air spread more balm on her overwrought nerves, enabling her to face the final hurdle for today: the farewell dinner.

The endless evening was made halfway bearable by the hotel's excellent food. The bits Ike got to eat. A lot of her time was spent apologising to her tourists for a shocking accident that really wasn't her fault, taking tons of photos, shaking plenty of clammy, callused or soft hands, confirming tomorrow's arrangements at least ten times and finally wishing everybody a safe journey home. When the last guest had left the dining room, Ike breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"Cripes, I'm bushed." She let her head sink onto her soiled and crumpled napkin.

Boris, fed up with lying peacefully under the table put a paw on her shoe.

Time to move.

"Fancy a glass of something alcoholic?" Brigitte asked, amusement in her voice.

"Just one?"

"Well, I've got to ferry our guests to the airport tomorrow. Those who have booked the transfer."

Ike lifted her head and regarded the lanky figure of her colleague, dressed in an ankle-length black skirt made of glossy material instead of her usual skinny jeans. Brigitte seemed to share Ike's dislike of pumps and wore a pair of purple half boots with soles thick enough to kick a mule.

"True. Forgot about that. I like your shoes. New?"

"Si Signora. I decided after today I deserved a treat. Can give you the address of the shop if you like. Not expensive either."

"You deserve more than just one treat. That was some nifty driving you did there. As for shopping, I intend to make full use of the free days before the next group arrives. Nothing like a bit of retail therapy. Though these are new and I've got plenty of pairs." Ike regarded the golden slippers adorning her feet with proprietary fondness.

"Ah bah. A woman can never have enough shoes. As to that glass, shall we go to Mario's or stay in?"

"In, if you please. Unless the bar is chock-a-block with tourists," Ike added post-haste.

"If we spot a tourist, we run for the hills. But they'll be packing."

Brigitte was right, and the bar with its ceiling-high shelves filled with a rainbow parade of bottles only hosted a table-load of businessmen boosting their expenses with bowls of peanuts.

The LiteraTours ladies made a beeline for the corner table, tucked away well out of sight at the far side, and with a grateful sigh, Ike arranged her limbs on the leather settee that stood with its back to the room. Brigitte wove around the upturned and polished root that served as a table and claimed the second settee as her own. For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, interrupted only by canned music diffusing from the speakers and raucous laughter from the businessmen.

The waiter knew what they wanted and brought the white wine, served in chilled glasses with condensation beading on the outside. The first sip went down without words, but then Brigitte placed her drink on her metal coaster with a determined clink.

"So, what does Gary say?"

"Well, what do you expect? His lordship is as unamused as he is fast. He's already called in the relief troops."

"As in . . . "

"As in Aline, Lorna and that copper friend of his. My lord wasn't too happy when he learned about the sabotage. Should have told him earlier. But who would have thunk things would get that bad?"

"Should have stuck to my motto. Expect the worst and be prepared for things to go downhill from there," Brigitte said. "But the whole affair started off in such a stupid fashion. I'm not even sure the disaster with the dinner is even related. It was the first evening. People, especially those arriving from far away, are tired and might not cope so well with foreign food."

Ike pointed her glass at the Frenchwoman. "I wasn't coming from afar, and I cope well with any form of food. Well, apart from putting on the odd kilo but that's neither here nor there. I tell you, I felt rather queasy after eating the fish course."

Brigitte did that Gallic shrug thing. "Me, I did the same, but it could all be owed to the stress."

Boris growled.

Air escaped from Ike's nose with a snort. "Come on. You don't believe that yourself."

Brigitte shoved the sleeves of her dove-grey cardigan back up her skinny arms, for a moment exposing the scars on her wrists. "No, I don't. And that incident in the villa was not an accident. Oh, by the way, Mrs Dee told me she noticed somebody in the bushes behind the statue."

"And?"

"Well, she thought he was a gardener."

"Was the person she saw a man? That would already be a clue."

"Hm. Sounded like it. Maybe the good lady expected a man, so she saw one. But even if somebody WAS back there, it doesn't explain how one makes the head of a statue come off?"

Boris woofed.

Ike sipped her wine and rolled the cold fluid on her tongue. "Yes Boris, we'll go walkies. Just not right now. Eh—where was I? Ah. I wouldn't be able to tell you. I'm not in the habit of beheading statues."

"Somewhere I read about a whole marble torso falling over in the Forum Romanum."

"Yes, but that was during the recent mini earthquake, wasn't it?"

"Ah bah! Me, I dislike people who shoot down my theories." A smile was crinkling Brigitte's eyes, belying her serious tone.

"You might still be right. The head could have come loose in the quake. But then, somebody would have had to know about it."

"A local, then? Somebody for sure is well informed about our programme. Those brakes were fine this morning. I tested them. The sabotage must have happened at the last place where we parked. We should check it out tomorrow. Just in case. And then, of course, the death in the catacombs."

Ike took another sip. Her glass was half empty. Such a shame but it wasn't fair of her to tipple on when Brigitte couldn't. She sighed. "Yes, the poor woman. I must admit, I'm in two minds about what happened there."

"Because the tourist didn't belong to our group? Or because Commissario Guidetti already arrested the husband?"

"Yes. To both. Without the arrest and the crap that's been happening, I would have thought we're dealing with a genuine accident. Not something orchestrated."

"Unless the husband is our saboteur."

"The detective seemed to think along the same lines when I mentioned our little problem. It makes no sense though. I've never seen the guy before. And why would he off his wife in such a stupid way? He couldn't know she would crash into a tomb, could he?"

"Not really. Well, no matter why she did it, climbing over that barricade was an idiotic thing to do."

Ike wondered how she would have acted if plagued by an overactive bladder. The answer was obvious. Admit defeat and ask a guide to take her back up to the loos in the ministry.

Perhaps, the problem had been too pressing for a logical approach?

Ike grabbed a toothpick, reached for the bowls the waiter had delivered with the wine and speared a black olive, rolled in garlic and Mediterranean herbs. "Mh. It's all rather odd. And my brain is shutting down."

As if on cue, Brigitte gave a super-sized yawn. "Strenuous day."

Boris rose and shook himself, giving Ike the soulful look of a dog who needed to raise a leg.

"Just a moment. I assume your coach at least is back among the living?"

"Yes. At first, I thought we wouldn't make it for tomorrow," Brigitte said. "The insurance bloke raised a big fuss, claimed he needed to examine the vehicle, said he had no time for that in the next five days, and wanted to check the police report. Which I didn't have. But the boss of the garage is great. He rang up somebody else, and that person was okay with just the photos and his expertise. Basically, it's a case of yes, the brakes had been tampered with and no, nothing was otherwise wrong with the coach. I've told them the police have been informed. Now, my coach is locked up at night and either I stay with it during the trips or we find somebody who does."

Ike fiddled with the green brocade of her evening jacket. "Might work. Let's hope Guidetti delivers. Until I know the identity of our anonymous menace, I feel rather—shall we say exposed?"

"Hah! So, we wait until the cops either prove the husband is behind it or find that idiot?"

"Nothing of the sort. I want to sort this out myself. Fast. Before the next load of tourists arrives. We can't risk any more 'accidents'."

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.  

The image is by ponce photography from Pixabay