No Stone Unturned: A Lexi Carmichael Mystery, Book Eleven Page 28

  Completely unnerved, I shrieked and fought the sheets like I was Lara in the Tomb Raider game. Slash came running into the room dripping wet, holding a towel around his waist.

  “Cara!” He stretched out a hand and extracted me from the bedding. I scooted back against the wall. “What’s wrong?”

  “Dead. Rat.” I gasped and pointed at the bedding.

  “Where?”

  “In there.” I pointed to the sheets again.

  Slash shook the bedding until the rat fell onto the floor with a splat. I pressed harder into the wall, wishing the room had another six hundred feet of width. “See, I told you.”

  “How did a rat get in here?” he asked.

  At that moment, Principessa strolled into the room with a haughty look at both of us. I pointed at the cat. “She did it. Yesterday a potato, today a rat. She’s escalating.”

  “Principessa? It wasn’t there when I got up an hour ago. She’s never done anything like that before. Why would she do that now?”

  I was going to start rethinking this marriage thing if he sided with the cat one more time. “To scare the crap out of me, maybe?”

  Slash considered. “Or maybe she was bringing you a present. A peace offering, perhaps?”

  “I am not impressed.” I shuddered. “Can you get it out of here?”

  Slash reached down and lifted the rat by the tail, taking it out of the room. I exhaled and then hugged my knees, glaring at the cat. “Seriously, a rat? That is so not funny.”

  To my surprise, Principessa strode over to me. I held up my hands, ready to protect my face if she came at me clawing and spitting. Instead she brushed against my leg once and then stalked out of the room.

  It wasn’t exactly a friendly gesture, but at least she hadn’t attacked me.

  I slipped on my cotton sundress, thankful we had clean clothes. I didn’t think I could survive another day of jeans in the southern Italian heat.

  I’d pulled my hair into a ponytail and was putting on my sandals when Slash strolled in, dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and light khaki pants. He had shaved, and looked and smelled like a male model for Gucci. Other than the bruise on his jaw and the small red split on the corner of his mouth, he looked perfect.

  “That’s not fair.” I put my hands on my hips and regarded him critically. “You got beat up yesterday. You’re supposed to have the decency to look injured or scruffy.”

  “Scruffy?” He sounded insulted.

  “Yes, you know, like the punches hurt or something.”

  “They did hurt.”

  “Then why do you look like you’re ready to stand on a balcony and blow kisses to thousands of adoring women below you?”

  “I only blow kisses to one adoring woman.” He lifted his palm and kissed it, blowing in my direction.

  “Very funny.” I tried to smack his arm, but he pulled me into him and started nuzzling my neck.

  “Stop that,” I said. “You’re distracting me. Why did you take another shower?”

  “I went for a run this morning. I needed some time to clear my head.”

  “You went running? With bruised ribs?”

  He ruffled my hair. “I didn’t run that fast. I promise.”

  I knew a lie when I heard one. “What if those guys came back?”

  His smile faded. “They aren’t coming back. They got what they came for.” He took my hand. “Come on. Nonna has breakfast ready. I already briefed her on the rat. Let’s go eat something and then go through the data of our overnight searches.”

  It was a good plan, so I pushed aside the rat and cat issue. We were leaving shortly, so I didn’t see the point of belaboring it. We ate a light breakfast of coffee, hot milk and biscuits and chatted with Nonna. Slash and I were doing the dishes when there was a knock on the front door.

  Slash went to get it. I heard him speaking Italian for a minute and then the door closed and he returned to the kitchen. He had a thoughtful look on his face.

  “Who was it?” I asked.

  “A messenger. We’ve been summoned to the Vatican for a private audience this afternoon with the pope.”

  What the heck? Why in the world would the pope summon us to the Vatican? “This afternoon? How did he know we were here?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have my suspicions.” He quickly translated for Nonna, who gasped and pressed a hand to her breast.

  “Is it normal to be summoned for a private audience with the pope?”

  “No, it’s not. Especially on such short notice. We were offered a driver, but I told him we’d manage on our own. I was told the reason he wants to see us is that he wants to personally thank us for saving the people in Salerno.”

  “Oh.” I thought that over. “Can’t he just send a thank-you note?”

  “Cara.” He gave me a warning look.

  “Fine.” I held up a hand. “I didn’t intend to be rude. I know it’s an honor to be invited. But first the Mayor of Salerno and now the pope. All this meeting and greeting famous people is stressing me out. Besides, I didn’t pack the right clothes to meet the pope.”

  “We’ll do a quick shopping trip here in Sperlonga and buy you a knee-length, black dress. I have a jacket and tie I can pull out, and we’re good to go.”

  I glanced uneasily over my shoulder. “Slash, I’m really nervous about this.”

  “Why? You met him before, last time we were here.”

  “Yes, but I was coached by the monsignor in charge of protocol before we met him. He gave me detailed instructions on social expectation, requirements for genuflection and a list of topics on what I can and can’t talk about—all of which I immediately forgot because I was so nervous. Then I blabbered like an idiot.”

  “You don’t need the monsignor to tell you what to do. You’ve got me this time.”

  “Well, even you can’t make me stop acting like a dork.” It was the sad truth.

  He rolled his eyes. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Easy for you to say. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he won’t remember me.” I sounded overly hopeful even to myself. “He meets thousands of people every year, right?”

  “Right. But don’t worry. He’ll remember you.”

  I sighed in exasperation. “You do realize that’s not helping, right?”

  “It’s the truth. You saved the Vatican millions of euros. Besides, he gave you something the last time you met, didn’t he? He rarely gifts people anything.”

  I reached into my purse, unzipping a top pocket, and carefully pulled out a small crucifix on a silver chain. The back of the crucifix was silver, and the front was wooden.

  Slash glanced at me in surprise. “You brought it with you?”

  “Of course. I always carry it in my purse.”

  He held it between his fingers, examining it for a moment. “Put it on. He’ll appreciate the gesture.”

  I slipped it over my head and the crucifix fell above the swell of my breasts. “I still don’t know why he gave it to me.”

  “The pope has his reasons for doing what he does. He is guided in ways we don’t understand. According to the messenger, the pope has also asked us to bring our medals from Salerno.”

  “Why?”

  He gave me that look which meant I should know better. “One does not question the pope. However, I think we might be expected to stand for more photos.”

  Groaning inwardly at the thought of more photos and smiling, I pulled the medal out of my purse and put it on. Grumpy or not, I could be a team player when required.

  We finished our breakfast and said goodbye to Nonna. She kissed both my cheeks, took one long last look at the engagement ring, before giving me a squeeze that made me wince.

  Principessa strolled into the foyer as Slash brought our suitcases down. I knelt on one knee and pulled off a small pink fuzzy ball I had on my ke
ychain. I scooted it across the floor a couple of times before she jumped on it, flicking it back and forth between her paws.

  “It’s yours,” I said. “I owe you for helping me and Nonna in the kitchen. But don’t get too excited. It doesn’t mean we’re buddies or anything. Consider it a peace offering.”

  Principessa remained focused on the pink ball, so I rose and lifted my purse on my shoulder.

  “So, you’re friends with the cat now,” Slash said.

  “No. We are not friends. We were momentary allies. There’s a difference.”

  “If you say so. Let’s go.”

  I gave one more hug to Nonna, and she squeezed my cheeks hard and said something to me.

  I looked at Slash. “What did she say?”

  “She told you to keep taking good care of me.”

  I gave her a thumbs-up. “Don’t worry. I’m on it, Nonna.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Lexi

  Before we left Sperlonga, we stopped at a boutique clothing store. I had nothing suitable with me to meet the pope, so Slash picked out something for me to try on. It was a simple black dress with a crew neck and a flared skirt that fell well below my knees. Simple but elegant. We added a black cardigan and a pair of medium heels. I wore the outfit out of the store and we were ready to roll in less than thirty minutes. That was good because I hated shopping almost as much as I hated small talk.

  The drive from Sperlonga to the Vatican took us a little over two hours. Slash expertly managed the typical Italian traffic, zooming into the city, hugging the curves and going up side streets at what I personally considered an alarming speed. Everything seemed much closer together than in the States. The roads were smaller and tighter, but the cars didn’t seem to slow as they passed each other with mere inches to spare.

  Slash drove directly to the Vatican entrance. He provided our names and we handed over our passports. The guard stepped into the security house and came back to check inside our car and trunk. Satisfied we were not carrying any weapons or bombs, he provided us with special tags and told us where to park and check in with the next round of security.

  Slash drove to where the guard had instructed and parked the car. We got out and Slash opened the trunk, pulling a sky-blue tie and a dark sports jacket out of his duffel bag. While he put on his tie, I carried my sweater over my arm for the time being because it was still hotter than a fifty-percent-off sale on the newest iPhone.

  Slash knew where to go, so I followed him as he strode toward the entrance of a building where more security was stationed.

  “What’s this building?” I asked as we approached.

  “The Apostolic Palace,” he answered. “It holds most of the Vatican administrative offices. It’s called a palace, but it’s more like a series of small buildings within a building, all arranged around the Courtyard of Sixtus V. I don’t know exactly where we’re meeting the pope, but we’ll present ourselves and be escorted to the proper location. We’re a little early, so we may have to wait.”

  “Okay. I hope I don’t throw up.”

  He tucked my arm into his elbow. “You’ll be fine. Let me do the talking.”

  “That’s not going to be a problem.”

  “Good. Remember to refer to him as Holy Father.”

  “Holy Father. Got it.”

  We were met by security and escorted through what Slash called the Portone di Bronzo, a large stone arch with an iron door at the entrance of the Apostolic Palace. The Swiss Guards, the pope’s personal security, were stationed at the entrance dressed in their full regality, including the colorful striped pantaloons and berets.

  I searched for a familiar face. “Is Tito working today?”

  “Maybe. We might run into him.”

  We had to relinquish our passports and cell phones at another station, went through a magnetometer at another and had a final pat down before we were waved through with our escort.

  After talking to someone on a phone, our escort indicated we were to follow him. As we walked, I put my sweater on. We entered a side door into the palace and walked down a long, marbled corridor with cool floors and high ceilings. We took a couple of turns down a few long hallways before he stopped at a door and knocked. A priest dressed in a black cassock and clerical collar answered, spoke briefly with the escort, then dismissed him. He introduced himself as Father Vestini and ushered us into a small reception area. He said something in Italian to Slash and disappeared.

  “He told us to take a seat,” Slash said, motioning to a fancy, embroidered armchair with gold and red threads. He looked remarkably calm, whereas I felt ready to barf. I perched on the edge of the chair, reciting Fermat’s Last Theorem in my head to calm myself.

  The priest returned a few minutes later and asked us to follow him. We walked deeper into the palace, our footsteps echoing in the mostly empty corridors. We entered another reception room, a larger one, not unlike the one I was in the last time I’d met the pope. It could have been the same one for all I knew. The rooms were all beautiful, but similar in presentation. Cavernous ceilings, marble floors, scarlet drapes, and golden-trimmed wainscoting and sconces. There were three more priests here, rushing around, arranging three chairs, presumably for us to sit in. We stood in the corner, waiting while another priest walked in with a camera and began testing his camera and fixing the flash attachments.

  A few minutes after that, the pope entered the room. He looked shockingly frail and used a cane to walk slowly. His arms were shaking from the effort. Two of the three priests walked nearby, presumably to catch him if he fell.

  The pope was wearing a fully buttoned white cassock, sash, red slippers and white skullcap. His face lit up when he saw Slash. The last time I’d seen them together, the pope had hugged him, eliciting surprised gasps from all in the room. They obviously had affection for each other, and some sort of history, but I didn’t know any details.

  He motioned us toward him. We approached together and Slash knelt to kiss the Fisherman’s Ring. I knelt beside him, which wasn’t easy in a dress and shoes with a heel, but at least I didn’t topple over. The pope touched my head gently, made the sign of the cross over both of us and said something quietly in Italian to Slash. Slash responded and rose. I did, too.

  So far, so good.

  In accented English, the pope urged us to move toward the chairs. We fell in behind him as he shuffled slowly, leaning heavily on his cane.

  The photographer ran around us snapping pictures like crazy. It made me increasingly nervous, since I was certain I had my eyes closed for most of them.

  Once the pope was seated, the priests indicated we should also sit. We obliged, and the pope leaned forward. “Thank you both for coming on such short notice. I was delighted to hear you were in Italy.” I appreciated the fact that he spoke English to include me in the conversation.

  “It is an honor to have the opportunity to speak with you, Holy Father,” Slash said quietly.

  “Oh, I assure you, the honor is all mine. I understand you are the new Saviors of Salerno. You’ve created quite a sensation and now the news is racing across Italy. I assure you, it’s all anyone could talk about at the Vatican this morning.”

  I blushed, but I kept my eyes on the floor, trying not to draw attention to myself.

  “We were fortunate to be in the right place at the right time,” Slash said lightly. “Lexi was the one who first spotted the fire and tried to separate the propane tank from the food cart.”

  I glanced up to see the pope looking at me, his brown eyes assessing me carefully. “So, it was her. Extraordinary.”

  It wasn’t me who’d been extraordinary. “Slash did all the heavy lifting,” I countered. “Without him, we would have had a real problem on our hands. He got the propane tank free and threw it in the manhole. He’s the real hero.”

  “It was Lexi who thought of using the man
hole to limit the blast,” Slash interjected smoothly.

  The pope beamed in delight. “Oh, you both are extraordinary. How wonderful.” A twinkle came into his eyes as he pointed at my medal. “So, what do you think of your new elevated status, Ms. Carmichael?”

  I looked down at the medal and tried to think of an appropriate response. The problem was I was coming up blank, so I blurted out the first thing on my mind. “Does this put Slash and me halfway to actual sainthood?”

  To my surprise, the pope laughed. “Indeed, it does.”

  I glanced at Slash and saw he, too, was smiling, so maybe that hadn’t been a bad answer after all.

  After a moment, the pope drummed his fingers against the wooden hand rest on the chair and turned his attention back to Slash. “I desire a firsthand account of what happened. Will you oblige me, please?”

  “Of course,” Slash said. He briefly explained what had happened in Salerno, sticking to the facts and continuing to downplay his role.

  The pope listened intently, asking several questions. When Slash was finished, the pope sat back in his chair, placed his fingers in a steeple and looked back and forth between Slash and me.

  “I never cease to be amazed by the way God works in our world. He has such beautiful, wondrous, mysterious ways.”

  It wasn’t a question and he didn’t seem to be inviting comment, so neither Slash nor I replied. The pope lifted his hand and waved the photographer over. He spoke for a minute, the photographer listening intently. Slash apparently knew what was going on, because he rose and held out a hand to me. I took it and stood, wondering what was going on.

  “The Holy Father would like to take a few official, staged photos with us,” Slash explained. “Our assistance to the people of Salerno is a feel-good story for the Vatican, and quite timely given the current candidates for sainthood.”

  I wanted to get my photo taken as much as I wanted to spend two weeks debugging a new Microsoft patch. But sometimes we do what we have to do.