The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [47]
“I do thank Jacqueline,” said Scoville, with a smile at that lady, who dimpled and batted her eyelashes. She was not wearing her glasses. “But you should have called me earlier, Ginger. I’d rather have this young idiot lose every fellowship under the sun than get sick.”
“Like hell you would,” said Andy, through another mouthful. “Better dead than dishonored, that’s the motto in this family…. Okay, that take scare of the appetizer. While we wait for the next course, may I change the subject to something more interesting than my personal habits? I repeat: why the passionate interest in sevens, Jake?”
Fumbling in her purse in search of cigarettes, Jacqueline didn’t answer at first. They were eating at a trattoria in Trastevere, one of the few that had escaped the tourism craze. Twilight had fallen, the soft blue dusk of a Roman summer; and they sat outside, with a thick hedge separating them from the bustle of the pedestrian traffic, and an awning protecting them overhead. Between the pots in which the bushes of the hedge were planted, a lean, suspicious cat wove in and out, casing the diners for potential handouts.
“Mystic number,” Jacqueline said finally. Triumphantly she produced a battered pack of cigarettes; Scoville flung himself across the table to light one for her, and she went on, “It keeps cropping up, doesn’t it? Saints, churches, hills—”
“And sinners,” Andy interrupted. “Don’t beat around the bush. You’re trying to figure out Albert’s last words, aren’t you? There’s another seven for you, by the way—the Seven Last Words of Christ.”
He looked at Jean. Everyone else looked at Jean—the three Scovilles, Jacqueline and Michael. Michael hadn’t been invited, but he was there anyway. It was hard to get rid of Michael. He was too big to evict physically, and too obtuse to notice hints. If his ubiquity had increased, his loquacity had not. Tonight he sat in silence, his eyes moving from one speaker to the next; he had slid down as far as the straight chair would permit him to do, with his legs stretched out. He was feeding long strings of spaghetti to the cat, a lean black-and-white torn, which absorbed the pasta like a true Roman.
“I thought you didn’t believe me,” Jean said.
“Of course we do,” Ann said, a little too quickly.
“So maybe I imagined it,” Jean said defiantly. “No one else saw anything. There wasn’t a sign of any mark left when the police got there.”
“A lot of heavy flat feet scuffled through the room,” Andy said. “According to you, the marks were indistinct to begin with.”
Jean looked at him gratefully.
“You believe me.”
“We all believe you,” Ann said. “But perhaps you misinterpreted what you saw. The last reflex contraction of muscles—”
“All right, Ginger,” Scoville said. “What difference does it make? If the gesture had meaning, it is lost forever now. The vagaries of a dying man—”
The waiter brought the next course, and for a few moments they were all quiet, sampling the entrees. Then Andy said,
“Maybe so. But it’s bound to haunt you, isn’t it? What did he want to say all that badly? Why can’t we seek?”
“It’s been driving me crazy,” Jacqueline admitted. “I have that type of inconsequential mind…. But I’ll be darned if I can think of anything.”
“You can’t? I can think of only too many things. This city is swamped with sevens. Albert’s saints, the pilgrimage churches, and the hills…. There’s a good quiz question for you. Name the seven hills.”
The others looked blank, but Jacqueline appeared to be enjoying the game. She began counting on her fingers.
Scoville cleared his throat.
“I fail to see—”
“There are lots more,” Andy grinned. “How about the Seven Churches of Asia? Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamus—”
Michael assumed an upright position with such abruptness that the cat, who had learned to suspect any violent movements, vanished behind a shrub.
“Of all the crap…You might as well try to find some