Chapter 3 - THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH|
The police arrived twenty minutes later, and for the first time in five years, I watched strangers enter the Moretti mansion without asking Luca's permission.
Detective Maya Torres was a woman in her early forties with sharp brown eyes and the patient expression of someone who had heard too many convincing lies.
She listened as Luca explained what we had discovered.
Then she asked him to place the letter and recipe book on the counter.
"Nobody else touches either item," she instructed.
Vanessa stood beside the window with her arms crossed.
"This is an embarrassing misunderstanding."
Detective Torres looked at her.
"Then answering a few questions shouldn't be difficult."
I nearly smiled.
Nobody had spoken to Vanessa like that since her wedding.
The detective photographed the scorched book, documented where it had been found, and arranged for both items to be collected as evidence.
She questioned me separately in the breakfast room.
I told her everything.
I described Vanessa ordering me to leave the book in the fire.
I described the damaged leather cover, the folded letter, and the look on Vanessa's face when she realized Luca had found it.
I also explained that Mrs. Elena had taught me to recognize her handwriting.
"Did Elena ever tell you directly that she believed someone was poisoning her?" Detective Torres asked.
I looked down at my hands.
"No."
The answer hurt.
"She told me she didn't feel safe, but I thought she was afraid of getting sicker."
"Did she mention Vanessa?"
"Not by name."
I remembered something I had tried not to think about for almost two years.
"She once told me that people who smile while taking something from you are more dangerous than people who threaten you openly."
Detective Torres wrote it down.
"Can you identify the date?"
I shook my head.
"Not exactly."
"That's all right, Claire."
Her voice softened.
"Being honest about what you don't remember matters just as much as remembering what you do."
When I returned to the kitchen, an elderly man was standing beside the fireplace.
Frank Moretti.
Luca's father.
He had arrived from the small guesthouse on the property, wearing a gray cardigan and the expression of someone who had already heard the worst news of his life once before.
He looked at the empty counter where the recipe book had been.
"Where is Elena's book?"
"The detective has it, Dad," Luca answered.
Frank closed his eyes.
"Thank God it survived."
Luca studied him.
"You knew there was something hidden inside."
His father didn't answer.
The silence between them was almost unbearable.
Frank moved to a chair and lowered himself slowly.
"Your mother was afraid during her last month."
"Afraid of what?"
Frank rubbed his forehead.
"Dominic had been handling the foundation's accounts, and Elena discovered money was missing."
"How much?"
"I don't know."
"Dad."
Frank looked up.
"She believed it was millions."
Luca stepped backward.
Millions.
The foundation had been Mrs. Elena's pride.
She had sold jewelry, donated her inheritance, and spent years convincing wealthy families to help finance free meals, emergency groceries, and housing assistance.
The thought of somebody stealing from that money made me physically sick.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Luca asked.
Frank's eyes filled with tears.
"Because Dominic told me you were already facing trouble with your business, and another scandal could destroy you."
Luca stared at his father.
"You believed him?"
"I wanted to."
Those three words seemed to age Frank another decade.
"Elena asked me to support her, and I told her she was worrying too much."
His voice broke.
"I thought I was protecting our family."
I watched Luca's hands curl into fists.
Then Frank whispered something that silenced him.
"Three days before she died, your mother asked me to take her to another doctor."
Luca went completely still.
"Did you?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Dominic had arranged for a specialist to examine her the following week."
Frank began crying.
"She never lived to see that appointment."
For a moment, Luca looked like he might break something.
Instead, he walked to the far end of the kitchen and pressed both palms against the counter.
I had seen him threaten powerful men without raising his voice.
I had seen him return from dangerous meetings with blood on his cuff and refuse to explain.
But I had never seen him look helpless.
Frank reached into his cardigan pocket.
"There is something else."
He removed a small brass key attached to a faded ribbon.
"Elena gave me this the night before she died."
Luca turned.
"What does it open?"
"She told me it belonged to the old supply cabinet at the Open Table kitchen."
"Why didn't you use it?"
Frank looked at the floor.
"Because Dominic told me the building had been emptied and sold."
I stepped forward before I could stop myself.
"Sir, that building wasn't sold."
Both men looked at me.
"I went there six months after Mrs. Elena's funeral to deliver some clothes."
I swallowed.
"The kitchen was still operating."
Luca's face darkened.
"And who was running it?"
"A woman named Rosa Martinez."
Frank covered his mouth.
"Rosa was Elena's closest friend."
Suddenly, footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Gabriel appeared in the doorway.
"Mr. Moretti, your uncle is at the front gate."
Luca didn't move.
Gabriel hesitated.
"He says he knows you've found Elena's letter."
The detective had told everyone present not to discuss the evidence outside the house.
And yet Dominic already knew.
Luca looked toward the window, where Vanessa stood pretending not to listen.
Then he turned to his father.
"That key," he said, "is the first thing in this house I know I can trust."
Frank placed it in his son's palm.
May you like
And as Luca closed his fingers around it, I realized that whatever Elena had hidden at the Open Table kitchen had frightened Dominic enough to make him return to the mansion.
A man who had spent two years pretending the past was buried was suddenly desperate to keep us from digging.
