SummerSimo Travel Troubles Notes and The Purring Page

Chapter Four

The morning following the arrival of the rare cocoa shipment from the Ivory Coast, a heavy silence fell over Speranza, thicker than the steam rising from Anna’s espresso machines. The village was reeling from a discovery at the Mint Chocolate treasure house: Marisa had found her head chocolatier, a man whose hands could temper silk out of cocoa, slumped over a marble cooling slab.
Ispettore Salomone stood in the center of the shop, his presence as dissonant as a cracked bell amidst the colorful wrappers. Beside him, the three friends—Altea, Anna, and Marisa—clung to their dignity like life rafts in a storm.
The Scene of the Crime
The air in the chocolate shop, usually a symphony of sugar and spice, carried a sharp, metallic tang.

• The victim showed no signs of struggle, his face as serene as a sleeping child.
• A half-eaten truffle lay near his hand, its ganache center oozing a deep, violet-hued liquid.
• The only thing out of place was a single, silver-wrapped cigar from Altea’s shop resting in an ashtray nearby—unlit, yet smelling faintly of bitter almonds.
  The Feline Forensics
  While Salomone focused on the “sweetener” and the obvious physical evidence, my two furry assistants began their own silent interrogation.
  Toe, the Maine Coon, ignored the body entirely. Instead, he leaped onto a high shelf where Marisa kept her most expensive imports. With a deliberate paw, he began batting at a tin of “Vienna Gold” cocoa powder.
  Ashwaganda, the ginger sage, was busy in the corner. He sat pointedly in front of the door to the humidified cellar, his amber eyes fixed on the keypad. He let out a low, inquisitive growl, his nose twitching at the briefcase Altea had brought over for their morning meeting.
  The Riddle of the Blue Book
  Back at La Pagina che Fa le Fusa, I turned to the shimmering silver ink of Days of your Dreams. Under the heading “On the Treachery of Sweets,” the script shifted and glowed:

The smoke that never burns holds the captive’s breath.
Where the bean is dark, the white fox leaves a path of salt.
Look not to the hand that fed, but to the shadow that stood behind the light.

A Fractured Alliance
The “white fox” path became clear when I returned to the shop. Under the intense light of the midday sun, a fine, crystalline residue—distinct from sugar—formed a faint trail from the chocolate tempering machine toward the back exit.
Ispettore Salomone looked at me with his usual weary skepticism. “Signorina Hopes, unless your cats have found a signed confession, we have a tragedy of natural causes,” he muttered, citing the lack of a traditional weapon.
“Ispettore,” I replied, smoothing a page of the blue book. “In Speranza, the most dangerous weapons are the ones that smell like a lullaby”.
I noticed Altea’s assistant, a quiet man who usually spent his days cataloging rare leaves, was watching us from the doorway of the Cigars House. His hands were stained not with tobacco, but with the dark, ochre clay of the lower valley—the same clay Toe had found during the Professor’s deception.
The investigation was no longer just about a loss of life; it was about the soul of our village’s heritage.