Page 99 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

“I’m trying to hear what they’re saying.” Bastian frowned. “It sounds like more polizia. They’re talking about another dead body.”

“Salvador?”

“I can’t tell. Wait, the footsteps are moving away. I think they’re going down the hall to the bedroom. Let me peek.”

He reached through the gap in the doors to ease the curtains aside.

A body lay on the kitchen table.

It lay on its back, arms spread, chin tilted up, and even from where he stood, Bastian saw the angry red neck wound. He couldn’t tell who it was, though the white suit was familiar. Fear seized him. What if it was De Luca?

“Why do I smell blood?” Whitby asked.

“There’s a body.”

“What do you mean there’s a body?”

Bastian had to know who was laid out on the kitchen table like Sunday dinner. He had to know it wasn’t De Luca.

He turned his ear to listen, hearing no sound within, so he tugged the balcony door and stepped inside. Approaching the table, he saw long brown hair, red lips, and a jewel-encrusted mask that covered the eyes.

“It’s the mayor,” Bastian murmured.

“The mayor?!”

“Shhh!” Bastian eyed the door to the hall, hearing voices in the bedroom. Nobody came running.

“Somebody killed the mayor?” Whitby said softly. “Andhere? Why?”

Bastian rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What is all of this stuff?” Whitby asked, and Bastian saw her poking a skull on the dresser table. He was certain it hadn’t been there earlier. As he looked around the kitchen, he saw more objects that didn’t belong. Dead animals in jars. Old bones. Pewters and bottles of colored liquid. It almost looked like the contents of Salvador’s apartment had been transferred to Bastian’s place. When Bastian looked closer, though, he didn’t recognize the items. They weren’t Salvador’s.

“This feels—” Bastian began.

“Staged,” Whitby said in agreement. “Somebody really is setting you up. They’ve turned this place into an occult shrine.”

“But how did they get past the guard on the front door?”

Whitby’s eyes narrowed. “Commissario Zappa would have no trouble there.”

“You really think he’s the one framing me?”

“He certainly seems determined to get rid of you, and Aunt Agata named him as her prime suspect. But…” Whitby looked at the balcony. “There’s always the possibility that somebody came in the same way we did.”

“Which would make them a vampire.”

“How would a vampire get inside without an invitation?”

Bastian shrugged. “Time-share loophole? Technically, the apartment is a public space.”

Whitby sniffed the skull. “It smells strange. The pewters, too. They have a scent I can’t quite put my paw on…Wait! It’s olive oil. All the strange stuff in here smells like olive oil.”

“Again?” Bastian cried, then winced at how loud his voice had emerged. No polizia came running, though.

“What iswiththat stuff?” he whispered, feeling lightheaded. “We can’t seem to get away from it.” The kitchen was too small. Too full. The mayor’s body was a horrible reminder of just how far they still were from unmasking the killer.

He picked up Whitby’s bag of paraphernalia from where it sat by the dresser and said, “Let’s get out of here.”