The village inn was loud, filled with the sounds of clinking glasses, heavy footsteps, and loud voices. But for Moira, all the noise seemed to fade away. The only thing she could see was Isabella’s cold, perfect smile.
Isabella stood across the room. Her dark blue velvet jacket looked elegant, but the missing silver button on her right sleeve was a loud warning. It matched the button sitting deep in Moira’s pocket. The button that had been dropped inside her quiet tea shop.
Isabella slowly raised her glass of red wine. She kept her eyes locked on Moira. The actress did not look scared. She looked like a cat playing with a mouse.
“Do not look away,” Altea whispered. Her raspy voice was low and firm. “If you look away, you show her you are afraid.”
“I am afraid,” Marisa admitted softly. She pulled her pristine white coat tighter around her shoulders. “She is the smiling serpent. And she knows we are watching her.”
Moira forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. The smell of roasted meat and spilled wine in the inn made her feel slightly sick. She lifted her chin and stared back at Isabella. She did not smile. She only watched.
After a long, tense moment, Isabella turned away. She laughed at a joke Marcello, the sweaty director, made. The spell was broken.
“We need to leave,” Moira said. Her voice was quiet but clear. “We cannot talk here. We need the safe room.”
They stood up together and walked out of the heavy wooden doors of the inn. The autumn night air hit them like a splash of cold water. It felt clean and sharp. The sky over Speranza was black, filled with bright, tiny stars. The cobblestone streets were empty and quiet.
They walked fast. No one spoke until they reached the stone archway covered in thick green ivy. Moira pushed open the dark wooden door with the small iron sign:
La Pagina che Fa le Fusa.
Stepping inside was like getting a warm hug. The air was heavy with the good, familiar smells of antique paper, crushed rosemary, and sweet chamomile. The soft, yellow light from the table lamps made the room glow.
From the top of the tall wooden bookshelves, Toe, the sleek black cat, meowed a greeting. His green eyes shone in the low light. On the slightly worn, bordeaux velvet armchair, Ashwaganda, the large ginger cat, did not even open his eyes. He just purred a deep, happy sound.
Moira locked the heavy door behind them. She walked behind the massive oak counter and placed the silver button on the wood. It gleamed in the lamplight.
“So,” Altea said, taking her usual seat. She pulled an unlit cigar from her pocket and rolled it between her fingers. “The lead actress. Why would she kill her leading man?”
Marisa sat down neatly, careful not to wrinkle her coat. “I have heard things,” she said slowly. “In my chocolate shop, people like to talk when they buy expensive sweets. They think I am only listening to their orders.”
Moira started to prepare a pot of tea. The simple steps helped calm her mind. “What did you hear, Marisa?”
“Isabella and Marco were not just actors,” Marisa explained. “Isabella used to own the whole theater group. It was her family’s company. But Marco was very famous, very loved by the crowds. He started taking control. I heard he was going to force Isabella out of the group completely. He was going to take her life’s work and leave her with nothing.”
Altea nodded. “A very strong reason for murder. Marco steals her company, so she steals his life.”
“But why poison?” Moira asked. She brought a tray with three small porcelain cups and a steaming teapot to the table. “And why try to frame Anna at the Coffee Taverna? Why use the cheap mint wrapper to frame you, Marisa?”
“Because she hates this village,” Altea guessed. “Or she is just very smart. If an actor kills an actor, the police look at the theater. If an actor dies from bad coffee or bad chocolate, the police look at the village.”
Moira sat in a small wooden chair. She felt a cold knot in her stomach. The plan was twisted, but it made perfect sense. Isabella wanted to kill Marco and let the innocent people of Speranza take the blame.
“She is smart,” Moira agreed. “But she made a mistake. She came into my shop. She dropped this button.”
Moira reached for her prized possession. The book, Days of your Dreams, sat on the counter. It was bound in faded peacock-blue leather. The silver-stamped emblem of a sleeping cat and a key felt smooth under her fingers. It did not look like a grand, scary magic book. It looked like a quiet, old friend.
She opened the thick, creamy-yellow pages. They made a soft rustling sound. A dry smell of dust and old flowers rose into the air. Moira turned the pages until she found the shimmering silver ink.
“What does it say tonight?” Marisa asked, leaning closer.
Moira read the cryptic, poetic words out loud.
The serpent wears a mask of tears, but keeps the truth in wooden fears. To find the root of bitter leaves, look where the false queen sleeps and weaves.
“A mask of tears,” Altea repeated. “She acts sad about Marco’s death. But she is the false queen.”
“Where the false queen sleeps and weaves,” Moira said, looking at her friends. “She weaves her lies in her room. We need to look in Isabella’s room at the inn.”
Marisa gasped. “Moira! We cannot break into the inn. The owner, Signor Rossi, is always awake. He watches the stairs like a hawk.”
“Then we will not use the stairs,” Altea said with a hard smile. “Isabella’s room is on the first floor, at the back. It has a small balcony. There is an old grape vine that grows right up to it. I know this because my nephew used to climb it to steal grapes when he was a boy.”
Moira looked at the blue book, then at her friends. “If we do not find proof, Ispettore Salomone will never believe us. He is too tired to look past the obvious clues. Anna will go to prison for the poisoned coffee. Isabella will walk away free.”
The three women looked at each other. They were not police officers. They were a doctor who sold tea, a woman who sold cigars, and a woman who sold chocolate. But they loved their village.
“We go now,” Moira said, standing up. “While she is still eating and drinking in the main room.”
They left the warmth of the tea shop again. The night was even darker now. They moved like shadows through the narrow, cobbled alleys. When they reached the back of the inn, the air smelled like wet earth and old wood.
Altea was right. A thick, strong grape vine grew up the stone wall, reaching a small wooden balcony. The window to the room was dark.
“I will go first,” Altea whispered. She was the strongest. She grabbed the thick vine and climbed up quietly. In a few seconds, she was on the balcony. She reached down a hand.
Moira climbed next. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Every small sound felt like an alarm. Marisa followed, careful not to get her white coat too dirty.
They stood together on the small balcony. Altea tested the wooden window. It was not locked. Isabella was too proud, too sure of herself to think anyone in this sleepy village would break into her room.
Altea pushed the window open. They stepped inside.
The room smelled strongly of heavy perfume and sweet face powder. It was neat and tidy. A large leather travel trunk sat at the end of the bed.
“Look quickly,” Moira whispered. “The book said where she sleeps and weaves.”
Marisa went to the small table where Isabella kept her makeup. Altea checked the pockets of the clothes hanging in the corner. Moira went straight to the bed.
She felt under the pillows. Nothing. She looked under the heavy blankets. Nothing. Then, she noticed a small, loose piece of wood on the floor, right under the edge of the bed.
Keeps the truth in wooden fears.
Moira dropped to her knees. She used her fingernails to pry the loose piece of wood up. It moved easily. Underneath was a small, dark hole.
Moira reached inside. Her fingers touched something cold and smooth. It was a small glass vial. Next to it was a folded piece of paper.
She pulled them out. Even in the dark, she could see the label on the vial. It was not written in Italian. It was a strange, chemical name, but it had a clear picture of a skull and crossbones. The bitter seed. The poison.
Then she opened the paper. It was a letter from a bank in the big city. It was addressed to Isabella. Moira strained her eyes to read the dark ink.
The letter was a final notice. It said that Marco had officially taken over the legal rights to the theater company. Isabella was ordered to leave the group at the end of the month. She was ruined.
“I found it,” Moira whispered, holding up the vial and the letter. “The poison and the motive.”
Altea and Marisa quickly came to her side. Marisa put a hand over her mouth. “It is real. She really did it.”
Suddenly, a loud noise broke the silence.
The lock on the bedroom door clicked. Someone was turning the handle from the outside.
“She is back,” Altea hissed.
“Hide!” Moira commanded softly.
There was no time to climb out the window. Altea pushed Marisa behind the heavy curtains of the window. Moira and Altea dropped to the floor and rolled under the large bed, just as the bedroom door swung open.
The hallway light spilled into the dark room. Heavy footsteps walked in. The door clicked shut, plunging them into darkness again.
Moira lay flat on her stomach under the bed. The floor was hard and dusty. Next to her, she could hear Altea taking slow, quiet breaths.
From her hiding spot, Moira could see a pair of elegant, expensive leather shoes walking across the floor. Isabella.
The shoes stopped near the small makeup table. Moira heard the sound of glass clinking. Isabella was pouring a drink.
“You can come out now,” a voice said.
The voice was smooth, cold, and echoing in the quiet room. It was Isabella.
Moira’s blood turned to ice. She did not move.
“I said, you can come out,” Isabella repeated. Her voice was louder this time, sharper. “I know you are here. I smelled the cheap tobacco and the wet earth the moment I opened the door. You are not very good thieves.”
Under the bed, Altea let out a low, angry breath. She started to move. Moira grabbed Altea’s arm, telling her to wait. But it was too late.
Isabella walked to the bed and crouched down. Her face appeared upside down in the shadows. She was smiling that terrible, sharp smile.
“Good evening, Doctor Hopes,” Isabella said. In her hand, she held a small, silver pistol. It caught the faint light from the window. “Please, get up. All of you.”
Moira slid out from under the bed. Altea followed, her eyes fixed on the gun. From behind the curtains, Marisa stepped out, trembling, her white coat dusty.
“What do you want?” Moira asked. She kept her voice steady, hiding her fear. She held the small glass vial and the bank letter tightly in her hand.
“I want what you are holding,” Isabella said simply. She pointed the gun at Moira’s chest. “You village women think you are so clever. You think you can play games with me? I have played on the best stages in Europe. I know how to control a scene.”
“You poisoned Marco,” Marisa said, her voice shaking but angry. “And you tried to frame me with that cheap mint.”
“It was a very good plan,” Isabella laughed softly. “Marco was a fool. He thought he could steal my family’s legacy. He deserved to die. And someone had to take the blame. A sweet, innocent barista like Anna, or a fussy shop owner like you. It makes a perfect tragedy.”
“It is over, Isabella,” Altea said, her voice a deep rumble. “We have the poison. We have the letter. We will take this to the police.”
“No, you will not,” Isabella said. Her eyes turned hard and flat. “You will put those things on the table. Then, you will climb back down that vine. If you tell the police anything, I will say you broke into my room and planted the poison here to frame me. Who will the tired Ispettore believe? The famous actress, or the three old women who sell tea and cigars?”
Moira looked at the gun. Isabella was right. It was their word against hers. Unless they could prove Isabella had the poison all along.
Moira’s mind raced. She thought of the tea shop. She thought of her books. She thought of Ashwaganda and Toe. What would the book say?
Look where the false queen sleeps and weaves.
Moira looked closely at Isabella. The actress was standing very still. But she was holding the gun with her left hand.
Moira remembered the inn earlier. Isabella had poured her wine with her right hand. She was right-handed. Why hold a heavy gun with her weak hand?
Then Moira remembered the missing button. The button had fallen from Isabella’s right sleeve.
“Your right arm,” Moira said suddenly. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”
Isabella’s smile faded for a second. “What are you talking about?”
“When you came into my tea shop to spy on us, you dropped a button,” Moira explained, speaking clearly and calmly. “My black cat, Toe, found it. But you didn’t just drop it. You tore it off. Because you were startled. Ashwaganda, my large ginger cat, was sleeping on the chair near the counter. When you reached over to see what we were reading, you scared him. And he scratched you.”
Isabella’s left hand tightened on the gun. She kept her right arm pinned tightly against her side.
“Ashwaganda has very sharp claws,” Moira continued. “He left a deep scratch on your right wrist. That is why you are holding the gun with your left hand. It hurts to move the right one.”
“Shut up,” Isabella hissed. Her calm mask was slipping.
“If the police look at your right arm, they will find the fresh scratch,” Moira said. “They can test the DNA under my cat’s claws. It will prove you were in my shop, spying, right after Marco died. It breaks your lies into pieces.”
Isabella took a step forward. The gun shook slightly in her hand. She was cornered. The plan was falling apart.
“Give me the letter,” Isabella demanded, her voice rising.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed outside the bedroom window.
Isabella jumped, turning her head toward the balcony for just a second.
It was all Altea needed.
With the speed of a woman who had worked hard all her life, Altea lunged forward. She grabbed Isabella’s left wrist and twisted it hard. The silver pistol fell to the wooden floor with a heavy thud.
Isabella screamed in anger and tried to fight back, swinging her right arm. But as Moira had guessed, she cried out in pain as the deep cat scratch pulled at her skin.
Marisa quickly kicked the gun under the bed.
Moira stepped forward and grabbed Isabella by the shoulders, pushing her hard into the wooden chair by the makeup table.
“Do not move,” Moira ordered, breathing heavily.
The door to the bedroom burst open again. This time, it was Ispettore Salomone. He held a large flashlight and his own police gun. Behind him stood Silvio, the farmer, holding a long piece of the grape vine that had broken off from the wall outside.
“What in the name of the saints is going on here?” Salomone shouted, looking at the women, the angry actress, and the broken vine.
Moira held up the small glass vial and the folded bank letter.
“We found the missing pieces, Ispettore,” Moira said, her voice finally steady. “The play is over. We have the smiling serpent.”
Later that night, the village of Speranza was peaceful again.
The police had taken Isabella away in a car. She had stopped smiling. When Salomone saw the fresh, deep scratch on her right arm, and heard Moira’s clear medical explanation, the actress knew she could not lie her way out. The poison and the letter were the final nails in her coffin.
Anna was released from the police station immediately. She cried and hugged Moira, Altea, and Marisa right in the middle of the dark piazza.
Now, the three friends were back inside La Pagina che Fa le Fusa.
The tea shop was warm and smelled of sweet chamomile. The small table lamps cast a golden glow over the old books.
Altea sat in her wooden chair, finally lighting her thin cigar. She blew a small cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “We are getting too old to climb vines, Moira.”
Marisa was using a small cloth to clean a spot of dust off her white coat. “I thought my heart was going to stop under that bed. But we did it. We protected our home.”
Moira stood behind the massive oak counter. She looked down at Toe, the black cat, who was sitting proudly next to the blue leather book. She reached over and gently scratched his ears.
Then she walked over to the bordeaux velvet armchair. Ashwaganda, the fluffy ginger cat, opened one amber eye. He let out a long, rumbling purr.
“Good boy,” Moira whispered, petting his thick fur. “You are the best detective in Speranza.”
She walked back to the counter and touched the faded peacock-blue cover of Days of your Dreams. It was just a book of old riddles and forgotten magic. But tonight, it had helped them see the truth hidden in the shadows.
Moira poured herself a fresh cup of tea. The village was safe. The coffee would smell perfect tomorrow. And the quiet, timeless rhythm of Speranza could finally begin again.
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