Given the onslaught of easily identified tourists who invade Italy’s major cities each summer, I have sworn off Italian cities like Rome, Florence, Naples and Venice in favor of exiting the autostradas and taking instead the off roads that lead to Italy’s small towns called borgos, which can be spied up in the hills or down in a valley, reached by winding two- or even one-lane roads that may well be crossings for a meandering flock of sheep unintimidated by the occasional car.

         In the region of Abruzzo, which stretches from the edge of Rome eastward to the Adriatic through snowy mountains and grand plains, all the way to the seashore, the territory is dotted with borgos with wonderful, punchy names like Pettorano sul Gizio, Opi,  Tagliacozzo, Rivisondoli and Pescocostanza, whose streets may barely allow a Fiat 500 to pass  through.

         Scanno, considered one of the most beautiful within the province of L’Aquila, is sequestered away in the Sagittaro Valley. A century ago it was an isolated village typical of Abruzzo’s economic deprivation, but that very isolation drew admirers like Edward Lear, who did sketches of the local lake for his Illustrated Excursions in Italy in 1846, and Henri Cartier-Bresson, who spent Christmas in Scanno in 1951 photographing the town in winter (left). 

         That lake, according to legend, was created after a local sorcerer  and a witch had a feud that resulted in the latter falling to her death and causing a huge indentation in the earth that became filled with water.

         Scanno, whose name derives from the Latin for its original stool shape, scramnum,  is not rich with historic sights. The oldest seems to be the Eremio di Sant’Egidio (St, Giles)  hermitage, which dates back well before its first mention, in 1612; it was restored in 1780 as a Romanesque country church with a modernized fresco alcove of the saint.

Despite its size, the town has at least three other churches, as is typical in every borgo. One of the loveliest, for its permanent Nativity scene, is Santa Maria della Valle (Saint Mary of the Valley).

         The real charm of Scanno is in walking a steep slope, winding down from the main road then twisting and turning through streets prettied with flower boxes and well-maintained shuttered facades.

         Befitting its reputation as a fine goldsmith’s town, the jewels of the town are very specific, with names like the presentosa––written of by Abruzzese poet Gabriele D’Annunzio in his aesthete novel The Triumph of Death as “A large filigree star with two hearts in the middle”; the earrings with pearl pendants called circeglie, and the angel brooch called Cupid. The women of the town are also famed for their lace making.

The food of Abruzzo has a range whose ingredients depend on the geography, so that cities on the coast have ample species of sea fish to sell, while land-locked Scanno, with its own blue lake, draws on lake fish––luccio (pike), tinca (tench) and persico (perch),  and some of the best is cooked up at  the  rotisserie La Foce (Via deglie Alpini),  known for its spaghetti with fat gamberi shrimp. The special gnocchi-like dumpling is called cazzelitt, and grilled lamb perfumes the air throughout the year. The Abruzzese love chili peppers they call diavolocchi (little devils) so much that many dishes using them are called all’abruzzese. By the way, the famous pasta dish of Rome, with hot peppers, amatriciana (left), actually comes from the far western border town of Amatrice in Abruzzo, and the traditional shape of fresh and dried pasta called ghitarra is cut on a stringed instrument resembling a guitar.

The wines of the province are largely Trebbiano d’Abruzzo and Montepulciano d’Abruzzo, which are increasingly being made better and better by young winemakers.

Scanno and its surroundings has about three dozen hotels and B&Bs, most costing under 100 euros per night. Some, like Hotel Acquevive, are located on the lake. Il Palazzo is in an historic building in the town’s center. The B&B my wife and I booked, La Casa dei  Nonni (Vico 2 Strada Silla), was modest indeed ) for about 80 euros), with a shared bathroom,  but conveniently in the center, and right around the corner was a very good Ristorante gli Archetti (Via Silla 8), set within the wine cellar of the Palazzo di Rienzo (right). The chef-owner is Michele Ruoppo, who uses as much Abruzzese provender, fish and meat as possible, and his extensive wine list carries more than three dozen Abruzzese wines.

We enjoyed an antipasto of various local salumi and cheeses, then a rich pasta of pacchero macaroni in a verdant green  pea sauce and spaghetti alla ghitarra cooked “risotatta,” that is, in the pan with minimal liquid, and a sauce of pecorino, licorice root and a confit of tomatoes, For the main course we had patanegra, the wonderful black pig of Europe. With the meal we drank a fine Montepulciano d’Abruzzo by the producer Fabulas, which in U.S. wine stores costs about $22 and here at the restaurant was only 25 euros. For dessert we shared a sfogliatina puff pastry with whipped cream, autumn fruits and Nutella.

Scanno is a good stop for anyone returning to Rome or the airport, for its calm and quiet and a populace unfazed by tourism makes it a fine way to end a vacation in Italy.

        After reporting in with Katie and David, Catherine said, “There could, of course, be any number of reasons a person had those sanitary gloves. Christine said a lot of people wear them to wipe down the bedroom surfaces with an anti-bacterial gel. It might turn out to be nothing. She discreetly mentioned that some people use them during sex."
         “Well,” said David, “speaking as an ex-cop, that’s just the kind of thing that makes me tingle all over.”
          “Do New York cops tingle?” asked Catherine.
          “Not that we’d ever admit.  Seriously, it may be nothing, but sometimes you get a feeling that when something turns up that is awkwardly out of place, it becomes a clue. She should definitely tell the Paris police and I hope she tells us who the guest was.”
         “She didn’t remember the guest at all?” asked Katie.
         “No,” she said, “he apparently checked in when she was not on duty. “She’ll get back to me.”
         Christine was as good as her word, calling Catherine back and telling her that she’d checked with her husband, who said that as a bonafide journalist and because she brought the information about the glove to the attention of the police, they would probably grant Catherine access to the guest register—after they’d looked at it first. Catherine told Katie and David she’d keep bugging the police for the release of the register and that David should consult with Borel.
         Borel said this was the first he’d heard about the information Christine had given Catherine and sounded unimpressed.
         “David,” he said, “I don’t see a mis-placed glove as a major clue in this case. I don’t even know if forensics would have it at this point, and the woman at the hotel didn’t pick it up. I’ll check with forensics and see what I can find out.”
         “And you’ll give Catherine permission to look at the register?”
         Borel sighed and said, “I don’t see what harm it would do. Our people are going over all the registers and looking for clues. We can’t interview 500 guests—many of them have left Paris or are still in the hospital—plus hotel personnel. This is all going to take a while with the resources we have. So, if you want to keep snooping around, go ahead. I know the woman’s husband here, the lawyer, and I’ll tell him we spoke.”
         By the next morning Christine called to tell Catherine that that her husband had said it was all right to go through the computer files for the hotel’s registry to find out who was staying in that particular room that night. In fact, Christine had already looked it up: The guest was named  Paul Marciano and had never stayed at the hotel before.
         “Any information on where he’s from?” asked Catherine.
         “We don’t have a copy of his EU National Identity Card. Most of the time we just glance at it, look at the person’s face and check the guest in. I didn’t check him in, but I can ask who was on duty that night and see if he or she remembers anything.”
         Katie was encouraged but the new info was still very sketchy. David said he’d try to see if Borel’s people had anything on Paul Marciano in their files.
         “Sounds like an Italian,” he said.
         “Could be from the South of France or Swiss,” said Katie. “I Googled the name and found, oddly enough, that the guy who owns the Guess clothing line has that name—y’know, Guess? Jeans?—but I doubt he’s going around dumping viruses into hotel air ducts. He’s also a Jewish-American, born in Morocco, and he’s around sixty years old.”
         “Doesn’t sound like our guy.”
         “Nope. But there are no other Paul Marcianos listed.”
         A little later Catherine called back to say that Christine had spoken to her colleague on duty the night of the infestation, who said She didn’t recall anything remarkable about the man named Paul Marciano. He did present an EU card, the face matched the photo and she checked him in. She did tell Christine that the man looked Southern European and spoke with an accent that sounded as if he were from the South of France, possibly Marseilles. “She said her mother was from Marseilles,” said Catherine, “so she recognized the accent. I asked if she remembered him going out later that evening, and she said her colleague recalls him leaving for dinner around nine or so. Because of all the commotion she didn’t know if he’d come back that night. That’s about it.”
         David said, “Tell Christine and her friend thank you, and that we might be in touch again.”
         Catherine said they’d better let her be the liaison, and she’d share everything she found out.
         Over coffee and croissants David told Katie he was feeling helpless if they could not get into the hotel or interview the personnel.
         “If I were on the French police force I’d be scouring those hotel rooms from top to bottom.”
         “What makes you think they haven’t?” asked Katie.
         “I just get the sense they’re not taking this whole thing as being as big a deal as if the hotels had gotten blown up or people died. A lot of people got sick all at the same time but everybody seems to be recovering and there haven’t been any more incidents or any spread of the virus in Paris. It’s  no practical joke but the police are treating it that way for the moment.”
         David’s cell phone rang. It was Borel.
         “What’s up?”
         “Not much,” said the detective, “but it turns out we did find that glove and tested it.”
         “And?”
         “No trace of the virus, and, of course, no fingerprints. So, we dusted the room and didn’t find fingerprints anywhere, not on the doorknob, the sink, the bed table. That may not be unusual if he was a germophobe. Many hotel guests wear plastic gloves and wipe down surfaces with a disinfectant. It’s not a bad idea these days, you know. So, the register shows he checked in about seven and went out sometime after nine. Since the room was left untouched and the bed not slept in, he probably never returned.”
         “So, you think he’s a suspect?”
         “We checked out the name in our files, and there is a Paul Marciano from Marseilles who has a record of petty crimes, some embezzlement. He supposedly owns a few auto repair shops around the city. He may have some link to the Marseilles Mafia, but we don’t know. I have a call in to our offices in Marseilles and hope to learn more soon.”
         After finishing the call, David said to Katie, “I’m starting to feel real frustrated about this whole thing.”
         “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.
         “If you’re thinking we should pay a visit to Marseilles, then great minds think alike.”