No Escape by Julie Moffett

 

Chapter Thirty-Eight

 

Gio

 

“Whoa.” I said, startled. “What did you do, Father?”

Father Armando held the book in his hand. “I pulled The Godfather off the shelf and that chime sounded.”

“Put it back and do it again,” I instructed.

Father Armando carefully replaced the book and waited a minute. He then pulled the book off the shelf. The chime sounded again.

“Why is it doing that?” Alessa asked.

“I don’t know,” I said mystified. “Anyone got any theories?”

“I do,” Clarissa said. “Father Armando is right. That book doesn’t belong there. Mario Puzo isn’t Italian. He’s American.”

“Italian American—maybe that’s it,” Alessa mused. “Perhaps we have to find the non-Italian authors in that section and take them off the shelf.”

“Why worry about looking for non-Italian authors?” Vittoria said. “Let’s just take all the books off that shelf in that section.”

“That would take too much time,” Alessa said. “Especially since they are on the second level and we don’t know how many other puzzles we’ll have to solve.”

“Alessa’s right,” I said. “We don’t have time. Father Armando, can you look over the entire section up there, and instead of pulling out every book, pull only those you think aren’t true Italian masters?”

“I could, but I’m afraid I’m not the best person for that job. My knowledge of contemporary literature and poetry is quite limited.”

“I can do it,” Vittoria said confidently. “Come down, Father. I was a literature major at the university.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You will not stand on a ladder in your condition, Vittoria.”

“Gio, darling, I’m perfectly capable,” she said, smiling sweetly at me.

Sometimes that smile worked on me, but this time it wouldn’t. “Oh, I have no doubt you’re capable.” I blocked her way to the ladder. “However, you’re still not going to climb that ladder.”

“Perhaps I can assist?” Winston offered. “I’m fairly well-read in contemporary fiction, and Vittoria can assist me on the ones I’m uncertain about while safely planted on the ground. Fair enough compromise?”

I lifted an eyebrow and Vittoria finally acquiesced, understanding I was not going to budge. “Fine,” she said. “I can do that.”

Father Armando descended, after which Winston climbed up. Vittoria stood below ready to help. They began discussing titles and which authors were true masters and which ones weren’t.

While Father Armando spotted the ladder, I drifted over to the display of famous World War II aircraft models Winston had been looking at earlier. As a military man, I appreciated the attention to the smallest details on the planes. The aircraft were arrayed on shelves starting at knee level and extending well above our heads. Each aircraft had a little card identifying it. I saw a P-51 Mustang, a Russian Airacobra, a US Navy Hellcat, a British Spitfire, a Japanese Zero, a Corsair, a German Stuka, a Japanese Kite, and Italian aircraft with numerical designations. All had been artfully presented on the shelves. I saw no obvious pattern among the aircraft or countries. I wasn’t sure as to their point in the library other than as a cool display.

I heard a chime from the bookshelf and looked up as Winston called out, “I just removed a book by Plato.”

“Good job,” I called out. “Keep it going.”

Winston pulled some more books from the shelves, dropping them down. There were chimes for each one, but nothing else happened. “I just got rid of Francis Ford Coppola, Homer, and Tomie dePaola,” he called out. “I don’t see any more suspect books. Everything else seems legit.”

“You must have missed something,” Vittoria insisted. “Start over.”

Winston shook out his arms and started back at the far side of the shelf. After a moment, he stopped. “Was Archimedes Italian? I thought he lived in Sicily. Doesn’t that count as Italy?”

“You’re mistaken,” Father Armando yelled from across the room. “Archimedes is Greek.”

Shrugging, Winston pulled out the book, and another chime sounded. Suddenly, the sign that identified the “Italian Masters” section swung up, revealing a secret niche underneath.

“Look! We did it,” Vittoria shouted, pointing to the niche. “Winston, can you see what’s in there?”

“Gio, can you move the ladder over?” Winston asked.

I unlocked the ladder, pushing it until Winston could reach the hole beneath the sign. He stuck his hand in the niche and pulled out a light-blue weight and a rolled-up piece of paper. “Another weight,” he called out. “We’re making progress.”

“Great. Come back down carefully.” I spotted him until he climbed off and handed me the weight.

“Another number-four weight.” I walked it over to the scale table and set it next to the scale.

Winston unrolled the paper and read aloud, “What’s greater than God? / More evil than Satan. / The poor have it, the rich need it, / And if you eat it you will die.”

I sighed. “Riddles. I hate riddles. I can never figure them out. And now they want me to figure out a riddle in English?”

“I’m good with riddles,” Clarissa offered, standing next to her husband while reading the riddle. “Let me have a go.”

“Could it be a play on the letters?” Alessa asked. “Sometimes if you take the first letter of every sentence, it forms a word.” She stared at the words, trying to make sense of the letters.

“Maybe, but I think the key to solving riddles is to focus on one part and use that to find something in common with the rest,” Stefan said.

“What do the poor have that the rich need?” Father Armando mused aloud.

“I personally think the not-eating part must be the important clue in the riddle,” Winston declared. “What things should you not eat? Chemicals, metal, poisonous plants? What do you think, Clarissa?” When she didn’t respond, he repeated himself. “Are you listening, honey?”

She glanced up from the riddle. “I heard you. Nothing is all I can think of.”

Winston looked at her in surprise. “Well, that shocks me. You never give up that easily. Riddles are your thing.”

She patted him on the cheek. “My dearest husband, I’ve already given my answer. The answer to the riddle is nothing. Nothing is greater than God, if you eat nothing you will die, etc.”

For a moment, everyone stared at her before it started to sink in. “She’s right,” I finally said. “Clarissa figured out the riddle. Nothing is the answer.”