Firewall by Eugenia Lovett West

Author:Eugenia Lovett West
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SparkPress
Published: 2019-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

When I returned to the anteroom, Genevieve Train was turning in her key. “A nuisance, but I suppose electronic things don’t work in these old doors. My concierge is waiting for us on the loggia. Her name is Rosa. She says she’ll lead us to some great bargains. We’ll give Anna a minute more.”

Several men were standing nearby, debating whether to make a quick trip to the Bargello Museum. Nathan Rennie detached himself and came over to us.

“Let me guess. You’re off to shop for shoes and table linens,” he said.

Genevieve laughed. “It’s easy to see why you’re the sharpest art dealer in town. Here’s Anna,” she said as Anna came hurrying from the elevator.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

“You didn’t. Off we go.”

Rosa was middle-aged, wearing the standard black concierge suit. Like schoolgirls on a field trip, we followed her along the narrow pavements, stopping as she held up her hand.

“Ladies, in 1325 a law was passed forbidding sewage to be tipped into the street. Before that, it was the custom to call out three times before emptying the pots.” As we emerged into a large square, Rosa stopped again. “We are now in what was once the civic center of Florence, the Piazza della Signoria.”

At this hour, the piazza was crowded with tourists. The outdoor restaurants were filled with people reading newspapers and eating as waiters darted between the tables. Rosa raised her hand again. “The building in the center, the Palazzo Vecchio, once belonged to the Medici, the great family of Florence. Across the piazza lies the stone where the monk Savonarola was burned at the stake.”

“Enough history,” Genevieve muttered. “If we weren’t in a hurry, I’d ask her where the man was stabbed in that movie.”

The sun was still hot. I took off the green suede jacket and let it hang around my shoulders. Nearby, a man was playing a violin, a battered hat lay on the ground for money. Two carabinieri strutted by, handsome in their polished shoes and uniforms.

Our destination, the Via de’ Tornabuoni, was lined with expensive shops. In one window, bedsheets were draped over an ornate table. Rosa halted.

“Are these to your taste, Mrs. Train? I know the owner. I assure you that here is the best value in town.”

“I’d better have a look. What about you two?” Anna and I shook our heads. They left. Anna laughed. “A nice percentage for our Rosa, wouldn’t you say?”

“Definitely, but our Genevieve’s no soft touch. I have a feeling she’ll give the owner a hard time.”

The next shop window displayed a collection of majolica plates, cups, and pitchers. “Those little pitchers would make good presents to take home,” Anna said. “Very Italian and they can be used for lots of things.”

“Let’s go in—oh my God.” I swung around. A few yards away, a woman had fallen facedown on the pavement. She was screaming loudly, clutching her head.

“The poor thing,” Anna said, raising her voice. “Should we do something?”

“I don’t think so. People are stopping.

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