The brass handle of the dressing room door squeaked, turning with an agonizing slowness.
Moira’s heart hammered against her ribs. She swiftly slipped the crumpled silver wrapper of the Mentha Piperita Nera into the deep pocket of her cardigan. The three women stood frozen, perfectly aligned in the cramped space that smelled heavily of greasepaint, stale sweat, and impending doom.
The door swung inward.
It was not Ispettore Salomone, nor was it his tired deputies. Instead, a stout, balding man stumbled into the room. He was dabbing his glistening forehead with a soiled handkerchief, his eyes darting frantically around the space before landing on the three village women. It was Marcello, the theater director.
“What in the name of heaven are you doing in here?” Marcello sputtered. His voice was a thin, reedy squeak, utterly lacking the theatrical command one might expect.
Altea stepped forward, her posture as unyielding as the stone walls of Speranza. She did not flinch. “We are looking for Anna’s missing account ledger,” she lied smoothly, her voice a low, raspy purr that commanded immediate authority. “Marco took it yesterday to dispute a bill. Considering our friend is currently being wrongly interrogated for his murder, we came to retrieve her property.”
Marcello’s eyes flickered down, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched his handkerchief. “I… I know nothing of any ledger. You must leave. The police have locked down the entire theater.”
As he spoke, a pungent odor wafted off his cheap, wrinkled suit. Moira wrinkled her nose, but Altea’s nostrils flared with professional recognition.
“Very well,” Altea said, her sharp eyes cataloging the heavy beads of sweat on the director’s upper lip. “Come, Moira. Marisa. There is nothing but cheap costumes and bad acting here.”
They swept past him. As they exited the dim hall, the autumn sun in Speranza bathed the cobblestone streets in a light the color of aged parchment. Yet, the warmth could not touch the chill that had settled into Moira’s bones.
“Did you smell him?” Altea asked quietly, lighting a thin, elegant cigar as they walked back toward the main piazza.
“Like fear and missed laundry days,” Marisa replied, shivering in her pristine white coat.
“No,” Altea corrected, her eyes narrowing through a plume of blue smoke. “He smelled of a Toscano cigarillo. A very cheap, unfermented batch. It is harsh, acidic. And he was sweating through his suit. A man does not sweat like that simply because his lead actor is dead. He sweats like that when he is drowning in debt.”
“Marco was the star,” Moira reasoned, her mind working through the psychological puzzle. “Without him, the troupe collapses. Unless Marco was the one holding the director underwater.”
They reached the side of the Coffee Taverna. The front was still taped off, but a narrow alleyway ran along the side of the building, lined with climbing ivy and ancient stone. Altea paused, tilting her head.
“Wait,” Altea murmured. The pacing of her steps slowed.
She walked into the shadowed alley, her boots crunching softly on the stones. She stopped beneath the Taverna’s side window—the window that sat directly adjacent to the table where Marco had been poisoned. Altea crouched down. With two fingers, she lifted a crushed, still-warm cigarillo stump from the cobblestones.
“A cheap Toscano,” Altea whispered, holding it up. “Marcello was here. He stood right outside this window while Marco drank that coffee.”
A cold spike of adrenaline pierced Moira’s chest. The director had watched it happen. But did he drop the poison, or was he merely a witness too terrified to speak?
Seeking clarity, the three friends retreated to the absolute comfort of La Pagina che Fa le Fusa. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, they traded the tense village air for the warm, comforting sanctuary of Moira’s tea shop. The air inside immediately enveloped them, smelling of antique paper, fresh rosemary, and sweet chamomile.
Toe, the sleek black cat, observed them from the dizzying height of the top bookshelf, his glowing green eyes tracking their every move. Ashwaganda, completely unfazed by the village drama, was curled into a fluffy ginger ball on a plaid wool blanket draped over the bordeaux velvet armchair.
Moira walked behind the massive oak counter, moving with calm gestures as she bypassed the porcelain teapots and the old typewriter. From a hidden drawer, she retrieved her mysterious book.
It was bound in faded peacock-blue leather, its edges worn and yellowed with age. The silver-stamped emblem of a sleeping cat curled around an old-fashioned key caught the soft, warm light of the table lamps. The book felt like a whisper, an object of personal, forgotten magic.
She opened the brittle, thick parchment pages, the soft rustling sound breaking the silence of the shop. A dry scent of dust and pressed flowers drifted into the air. Moira traced the cryptic, elegant script penned in shimmering silver ink.
“What does it say?” Marisa asked, leaning over the counter.
Moira read the poetic, prophetic verse. “The shadow watches from the glass, bound by strings of golden debt. The true serpent does not sweat; it merely smiles from the stage.”
“The shadow is Marcello,” Moira deduced, her voice steady. “He was at the window. He owed Marco money—the golden debt. But the book says the true serpent does not sweat.”
“Marcello was sweating like a pig in a butcher shop,” Altea noted, exhaling a long line of smoke.
“Exactly,” Moira said, looking at the silver foil wrapper she had placed beside the book. “Marcello is a pawn. He was forced to watch, perhaps forced to keep quiet. But the real killer is someone else. Someone cool, calm, and collected. Someone who knows how to smile through a murder.”
Toe let out a sharp, sudden trill from the top shelf. He leaped gracefully down onto a pile of modern paperbacks, knocking a small, silver button to the floor. It rolled across the worn terracotta tiles, stopping right at Altea’s boots.
It was a costume button. Polished, gleaming, and entirely out of place in a tea shop.
The plot was no longer just a tragedy in the Taverna; it had crossed the threshold into Moira’s sanctuary. The killer, the smiling serpent, had already been inside La Pagina che Fa le Fusa.
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