Chapter 19
Arianna stood on tiptoe outside the ice cream parlor, using a pole to push the awnings shut as Bastian, Whitby, and De Luca approached.
“Hello, dear,” Bastian said, aiming for cheerful, even though his body felt tight with tension.
Arianna could be the killer. She could be a vampire.
Bastian thought he had heard her heartbeat when they first met, but he could have confused it with De Luca’s.
And perhaps, like him, she could endure daylight if she was careful.
And the olive oil kept the thirst at bay—until it spectacularly didn’t.
“Oh hello,” Arianna said, her tone as sour as it had been during their first encounter. “I’m just closing up for the afternoon.”
“Understandable,” Bastian said. “Vampires need a break from the sun every now and then.”
“Wow, Bastian, subtle,” Whitby said, hopping onto one of the tables.
Arianna looked at Bastian, those big brown Disney eyes really popping. Then she frowned. “Sorry, I don’t think I get the joke?”
“The olive oil from Kerstin’s grove, it’s to stop the thirst, isn’t it?” he said, folding his arms, though he was prepared to give chase if Arianna fled. People generally didn’t like being confronted with their sins.
Arianna released the awning and stood with the pole. She looked baffled, saying nothing.
“Are you receiving treatment from Kerstin Gronberg?” De Luca asked, voice gruff.
He was stiff as a mannequin again, his shoulders high, adorable jaw tense, those beautiful eyes fixed on Arianna, glinting like slivers of ice.
What was it with them? Bastian was desperate to know, but they had more pressing concerns.
At mention of treatment, understanding dawned on Arianna’s face.
“Oh, that. If you must know, I’ve been suffering from insomnia, and she gave me an aromatherapy treatment. It’s helped. It’s why I sell her olive oil, to send more business her way.”
Bastian studied her, trying to figure out if she was lying.
If she was a liar, she was a good one. Her explanation was delivered with brusque clarity.
He could attempt to extract the truth from her the way he had with Emilio, but that would require her to trust him, and, honestly, Bastian was more likely to sprout wings and fly circles around the moon than suddenly gain the trust of the gelato girl.
Then he heard it. Her pulse. Just a regular human pulse, steady as the slow beat of a drum. Frustration thudded in his temples.
“She has a heartbeat,” he said, massaging his forehead. “She’s not a vampire.”
“Of course I’m not,” Arianna snapped. Her hand went to the cross necklace that glinted against her breastbone. “What’s this about?”
“We’re trying to catch the killer, dear,” Bastian said.
“And you thought I…” Arianna didn’t finish the thought, instead shooting an angry glare at De Luca. She said something in Italian that Bastian didn’t understand. De Luca replied, and the sound of him speaking his language did something funny to Bastian’s legs.
He felt lightheaded again. Giddy.
“I’ve been working the case all day,” De Luca told Arianna in English.
Her chin jerked at Bastian. “Yes, I can see that.”
“Listen, if you know something—” Bastian began, but De Luca cut him off.
“We should talk inside,” he told Arianna. “Alone.”
She shrugged and went into the shop.
“De Luca,” Bastian said, but the inspector spoke over him again.
“Per favore, let me handle this.”
Bastian was taken aback by his pleading tone.
And damn him for wielding the Italian language like that.
He felt warmth at his arm and realized De Luca’s hand rested there.
Whatever was going on with the inspector and the gelateria owner, De Luca wanted it to remain private.
Bastian supposed he should respect that.
He nodded and took hold of De Luca’s arm.
“If the killer isn’t Arianna, and it’s not Kerstin,” he said, “I think we should seriously consider the mayor. She has a stash of human blood in her office, she’s involved with L.O.V.E., and now we find out she’s a fan of some dubious olive grove remedy. It doesn’t feel right.”
De Luca frowned, appearing torn. “I hear you, but she’s been so good for this town. I just can’t see her doing anything to jeopardize the safety of Vernazza, or her position as mayor, let alone kill anybody.”
He seemed so certain and, damn, he was cute when he was earnest.
“Nevertheless,” Bastian said, “we can’t ignore the big red flags waving above her head.”
Not to mention that goblet full of blood.
“What about the commissario?” Whitby suggested.
“What?” De Luca asked, shock in his eyes.
“He wrote a false witness statement that purposefully twisted the facts,” the cat said. “Maybe he did it because he hates vampires and wants to remove any doubt of Bastian’s guilt, or maybe he did it to protect Matteo, his son.”
“Or he could have done it to cover his own tracks,” Bastian added. “Let’s not forget he was on the beach last night, too, when we found Luna’s body.”
“Merda,” De Luca breathed. “But why? Why would he kill them?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.”
“Going after the commissario would be just as dangerous as going after the mayor, though,” Whitby said. “He already hates us. And we’re supposed to be—”
“I know, under house arrest,” Bastian said. “But we have to consider it. Right?”
De Luca bit his lip, then nodded, though he clearly didn’t like the idea.
“I’ll make some calls,” he said. “But first…”
He stepped past Bastian and into the shop.
“What do you think is up with them?” Whitby asked. “Ex-lovers?”
“He already denied that.”
“When?”
“In the boat.”
The giddiness returned as he thought about the kiss.
He smiled as he squinted up at the sun. It stung his eyes, but the rest of him felt good.
Light. Sunlight warmed his skin and he almost wanted to twirl in its rays, but he stopped himself, knowing Whitby would grouch at him.
She might even make him go inside again, and he couldn’t do that.
They had to keep going. If Arianna wasn’t the killer, they had to regroup.
Come up with a new course of action. His life depended on it.
“What else happened in the boat?” Whitby demanded. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that little touch on your arm just now.”
He touched his lips. “Mind your own business. And shhh, I’m trying to listen.”
Standing at the door, he turned his ear, trying to pick up the voices within.
De Luca and Arianna must have gone into the back of the shop, though, because their speech was muffled, and they spoke rapidly in Italian.
Bastian caught only snatches, and even those he couldn’t be sure of, because he was struggling to focus.
He thought he heard the words for care and ungrateful, but then more words piled in, and his head got in a muddle.
“Perhaps he blabbed the secret ingredient around town and she’s upset,” Whitby suggested.
“Secret ingredient?”
“In the gelato.”
Bastian recalled the poster by the counter, which claimed their selection of ice cream contained a special ingredient kept secret by the family for generations.
“I get the feeling it’s more serious than that,” he said, straining to listen again.
He tried to concentrate, even though the urge to tap his feet and twirl was overpowering.
He swore he felt the sun in his veins. On the table beside him, Whitby whispered something in Latin, which only added to the confusion.
“Please, Whitby, I can’t hear with you doing that.”
“I’m trying to help you hear better.”
Another incantation.
“It’s not helping.”
“Just give me a moment,” the cat said, and Bastian felt a judder of worry for her.
Whitby kept trying, but her conjurations never conjured anything.
He didn’t want to ruin her attempts to learn witchcraft—if nothing else, it gave her something to focus on—but what if the delusion backfired?
What if it got in the way of their investigation?
Or worse. What if she thought she could save herself from a speeding scooter using magic…and failed?
Finally, Bastian heard footsteps approaching on the other side of the door, and he leapt into one of the chairs, crossing his legs and lowering his shades, facing the street.
“Let’s go,” De Luca said, voice gruff.
“Oh,” Bastian said in mock surprise, peering over the rim of his Wayfarers. “That was quick. I was just enjoying the sun.”
“You need to be careful, Bastian—” Whitby began, but Bastian hushed her and hurried after De Luca, who strode stiffly down the street.
“Is everything okay?” Bastian asked.
“It’s fine.”
“Were you arguing?”
“Just leave it, Bastian.”
Hearing De Luca say his name made Bastian’s stomach spin with delight, but his terse tone dulled the sensation. He wanted to hear that laugh again. That silky, carefree laugh.
Bastian stumbled over a cobble that jutted up from the road.
“Who put that there?”
He peered at the apartments above them, admiring the sunlight as it sparkled against the windows. It looked magical. Vernazza was magical.
Bastian smiled. Despite the tension with De Luca, he felt…good.
He felt free.
He had a vague sensation that he was supposed to be worried about something, but he couldn’t think what it was. Probably nothing important. He felt like a battery charging in the sun. Powering up. Wanting to move. Wanting to dance.
They passed a street corner where Bastian spotted an old piano outside a restaurant. He rushed to it and bent down to tinkle a couple of notes. The sound stirred colors in his mind. A shimmering rainbow that rippled through him.
He began to play Tears for Fears, a jaunty version of “Everybody Wants to Rule the World,” and the sensation of the keys beneath his fingers was wondrous.
“Isn’t this just the best song?” he said, feeling the music flow through him, the air crackle as the tune charged the atmosphere.
Faintly, he heard Whitby saying his name, but it mustn’t be important, because she sounded far away. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice told him he shouldn’t do this, but the voice sounded serious, and Bastian was getting tired of serious. He’d just play one song.
“Bastian,” De Luca said at his shoulder, and there was warning in his tone, but then an elderly man in an apron emerged from the restaurant, and he was beaming.
“Bravo!” he cried, clapping his hands, and Bastian grinned. He sang a couple of lines, feeling the song, bringing it to life, and the restaurateur tapped his foot and kept clapping and cheering.
De Luca said something in Italian, but Bastian couldn’t hear him over the music.
He winked at the inspector, flashing his most charming smile while performing an improvised flourish to the song.
De Luca’s eyes sparkled, bluer than ever, and even though his brow was pinched, Bastian was sure he wanted him to keep playing.
“Encore! Encore!” the restaurateur cried.
“Well, if you insist,” Bastian said, before laughing at De Luca’s glare and straightening. “Just teasing. I wouldn’t want to be accused of hogging the mic.”
“We need to get you inside,” Whitby said as Bastian felt himself being tugged away from the restaurant. “You’ve been in the sun too long.”
“I’m fine, darling. We need to keep searching for the killer.”
“You’ll be toast before that if you’re not careful, Bastian.”
“No, I just need—” Bastian tripped again. This time he went to his knees.
“Bastian!” Whitby leapt to his side, her whiskers trembling as she looked him over, yellow eyes sharp with worry. “We need to get you back to the apartment. I’m serious, Bastian.”
Bastian watched the cobbles spin and put a hand to his head.
“Yes,” he said. “I think maybe—”
He broke off as he sensed movement. A group of men and women had appeared. They strode purposefully down the middle of the street toward Bastian, Whitby, and De Luca, their faces set in furious scowls.
A groan rose up from the depths of Bastian’s throat.
It was Matteo and his gang.