Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death Read Free Page A

that led to a second, smaller room, dominated by a desk surrounded by bookshelves; there was a high window over the desk. A narrow hall to the left led to a bathroom at the rear. The floors throughout were made of richly ornamented glazed tiles, as were half the walls in the bathroom.
    Back in the larger room I contemplated what to do next. There was no sign of Cynthia, my intended roommate, but that didn’t surprise me. I didn’t want to leave my suitcase in front of the door where we would trip on it, so since I had arrived first, I claimed the sole luggage rack and set it next to the door in the smaller room, out of the way. I opened my suitcase, and as I expected everything was squashed and wrinkled. It didn’t seem worth hanging anything up, which I assumed could be done in the high armoire at the end of the hall, and I knew from experience that after a few days the jumble in the suitcase would only get worse. I left the mess as it was. People would just have to take me in wrinkled clothes.
    I sat on one of the twin beds and leafed through the information package I’d picked up. Jean and Jane had kept us updated by email over the past couple of months, the excitement level of the emails ramping up steadily, but now it appeared that there were yet more changes, mainly additions to the already jam-packed schedule. We were going to be very busy campers, and I was glad I had brought my most comfortable shoes. This would not be a trip for fashionistas in three-inch heels. Or was I maligning my classmates? From what I’d seen of them so far, comfort had won out over style.
    I was afraid to lie down because there was a good chance I’d fall asleep and miss dinner, or at least the drinks and socializing before dinner. I wanted to get there while people were still wearing their name tags, if I hoped to have a chance of remembering anybody at all. I started to remove my jacket—I’d worn all my heaviest clothing on the plane, since the suitcase was bursting already—and then I realized how chilly the room was. Plastered walls, tiled floor—lovely but cold. There was a thermostat on the wall near the door, but when I poked at it nothing happened. Of course it didn’t: this was June. Who needed heat in Tuscany in June? No doubt it had been turned off for the season. I quickly abandoned any idea of putting on something fancier for our first dinner together and turned instead to thinking about what layers I could add. Thank heavens I’d brought socks.
    After a few more minutes of fidgeting, trying to kill time, I couldn’t stand it anymore so I went out in search of some sort of human activity. I armed myself with my camera—I might as well record the spectacular views when I had the time, and while the sun was shining. I stood in front of my door and looked around. Quick inventory, left to right: spectacular view, small building, large building, more spectacular view. I snapped a couple of pictures, then picked my way cautiously down the flagstone path in front of me, stopping every few feet to snap yet more pictures as the view shifted, or the clouds did. At this rate I’d fill my camera’s memory card with hills and sky. When I was about halfway down the hill I noticed other women drifting toward the larger building on the right below, and I hurried to join them. First I made sure I was wearing my name tag, in case people didn’t recognize me. I’d been half a person more slender forty years ago.
    It was clear when I reached the building that I was not the first to arrive—not even close. The double doors opened onto a small vestibule, with a bar on one side, where a forty-something dark-haired man with a five o’clock shadow was dispensing a complicated aperitif involving some red liquid plus slices of blood oranges; on the other side two men and a woman were bustling around cooking. On a table in front of the bar were set platters with appetizers—thin slices of prosciutto, small pieces of toasted bread spread