“How? How can you be sure he wasn’t still a fascist?”
Max took a deep drag of his cigarette and eyed me for a long moment. “I know it because my father told me.”
I held my tongue, sensing he was about to share something not generally known. A family secret perhaps.
“My father was an officer in the OVRA, the secret police. He knew everything Alberto was doing, or at least he suspected. And he protected him. Who do you think had him arrested in April of forty-four? My father wanted him kept safe. And Albi remained in jail until August when Florence was liberated.”
“He wanted to protect him because he was spying for him?”
“Ellie, basta. Believe me, I have no interest either way. If Alberto was 11 Duce’s godson or Stalin’s checca nancy-boy, it’s all the same to me. I’m only telling you he was a partisan and did not spy for the fascists. My father protected him because he loved him as a son. More than he did me, I can assure you. He wanted him to marry his daughter.”
We sat in silence until Max’s cigarette had burned down to his polished fingernails. Then he stubbed it out on the gazebo’s railing.
“I can only imagine the horrible things your father must have done in the secret police. How do you deal with the knowledge that he arrested, tortured, and possibly murdered men and women in the name of a twisted ideology?”
“We’ve discussed this before, Ellie. I would never do what he did, but I do not waste my thoughts on his life, his deeds. He did things, some good, others bad. It means nothing to me.”
I was almost afraid to ask, but I forced myself to do so. “Was he involved in the deportation ofJews?”
“I can’t imagine how he would not have been involved. It was his job.”
“And did he hate the Jews?”
“I suppose he did.”
“And do you?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. I am indifferent to them.”
I let the significance of his words settle in my mind. How horrible to hate so much. And how horrible not to care either way. One was worse, of course. But the other was not without blame, perhaps even responsibility. Indifference, ultimately, greases the skids for evil. I couldn’t think about all that now, not while I was on the trail of Bondinelli’s last movements. Drawing a deep breath, I willed myself to put Max Locanda’s pathetic life and odious father to one side for the moment.
“I’m sure there’s lots more you could tell me about Alberto,” I said. “Not much really.”
“What about his last visit here? The day he died?”
“What would I know about that? I wasn’t here. I never saw him that day.”
I rose from my seat and crossed the gazebo to sit beside him. He almost flinched as I leaned to see him better in the shade.
“You don’t know who P. Sasso was?”
“No, I do not.”
“Your father didn’t know?”
“He may have. I have no idea.”
I stood to leave. “I don’t believe you.”
He called to me to wait, then fished a paper out of his breast pocket. “This came for you a while back.”
It was a telegram. Fred Peruso had come through. I had my get-out-of-jail-free card—written in Italian, no less—to present to the inspector.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Only three diners—Veronica, Bernie, and I—showed up for lunch. Berenice acted insulted and injured. Lucio had surely lost all the points he’d scored with his flirting. I didn’t know where he and the others had gotten to. After dessert, Veronica loitered at the table. Bernie and I stepped outside into the sunshine of a perfect day for a smoke. But I had designs on questioning Veronica and returned to the dining room a few minutes later, just in time to catch her in flagrante as she stuffed some of Berenice’s dolci—amaretto macaroons—into the pocket of her skirt. She blushed while I pretended not to notice. I complimented her on her clearing skin instead.
“The rash is almost gone,” I said.
“The itch has stopped, too.”
“Look, it’s none of my business, but do you think maybe the witch hazel was to blame for the rash?”
She frowned. “I have German measles. That’s what caused the rash.”
“I don’t think so. You never had any other symptoms, after all. I’ll bet when that doctor gets here, he’ll set us all free with his best wishes.”
“But I love my witch hazel,” she said.
“Try this. When we get out of here, test a little of it on your skin. If no rash develops, you’re fine to continue using it.”
She agreed that would be a prudent course of action. Then she excused herself to go to her room, no doubt to gorge herself in private on Berenice’s macaroons.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said, stopping her.
“If you must.”
“Do you remember the day the inspector asked everyone about Professor Bondinelli’s wallet?” She nodded. “Those people—Lucio, Giuliana, and Tato—had all been seen at the university last Tuesday. Their lies were easy to disprove.”
“Yes. So?”
“Who was at the professor’s house that day with you? Was Teresa there?”
“Of course she was. She’s always there during the day, except when she goes to Mass or to run her errands.”
“And did you see the professor when he returned and shut himself in his study?”
“No. I already told the police that.”
“But maybe you did see him? If only for a moment?”
She stood her ground, insisting she had not seen or spoken to him after breakfast that day.
“I’m curious about one thing,” I said. “When I first met you, you didn’t mention that Professor Bondinelli had returned home last Tuesday afternoon. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t I? I thought I had.”
“No. It was Teresa who told me. Where were you in the house that day? Helping Teresa prepare for dinner?”
“No. I was in my room studying.”
“And where is your room in Bondinelli’s house?”
Veronica blanched. After a brief attempt to avoid the question, she admitted that it was on the ground floor. More prodding from me dislodged the truth. Her bedroom was next to Bondinelli’s study, a communicating door even connected the two rooms.
“But you didn’t see him? Didn’t hear him? Even though he spent an hour in his study that afternoon?”
“No. I was reading.”
“He was a few steps away. Surely you heard something.”
She held fast to her story, and only when I gently suggested that it was a sin to lie did she admit she’d heard him moving around in the room.
“But I swear by all the saints and martyrs that I did not see him or speak to him that afternoon.”
Armed with new information from Max and Veronica, I needed to clear my head and think. I made for the hills and paths behind the house, passing Bernie in the garden along the way. He called to me, but I waved him off and headed down the long alley beneath the shady pergola toward the pines, oaks, and elms beyond. Walking briskly, determined to place the pieces together into a clear picture of what had happened the day Bondinelli died, I retraced the steps of my first foray along the back trails of Bel Soggiorno the previous Saturday. A gentle October sun shone over my shoulder, casting a lengthening shadow in the browning grass. The fresh air filled my lungs as I pushed my pace ever faster until I was almost running. The effect of the external sensations, coupled with the physical reaction to my own body’s labors—deep respiration, perspiration, and accelerated heartbeat—swept all distractions and confusion from my thoughts.
Besides Teresa and, perhaps, Achille, Giuliana had been the last person to see Bondinelli alive. She hated him for good reason; at least she thought so. Could I be sure that the theory I had in mind was right? I was confident Giuliana hated her professor enough to wish him dead. Perhaps enough to help him along toward achieving that goal. Did it matter if she was correct in her suspicions? D
id it matter if Alberto Bondinelli, former Black Shirt turned partisan freedom fighter, had actually betrayed his comrade Gabriele Levi? For that was now my guess. Perhaps not. Innocent or guilty of that horrible accusation, Bondinelli would have presented the same attractive target to the dogmatic Giuliana.
One niggling doubt prevented me from accepting this scenario. And that was P. Sasso. Who was that man in the photo with Bondinelli, Silvana, and her father? A name. One name was all that stood between me and the solution.
I veered left on my path, a narrow dirt track that dipped and rose and twisted obediently to the demands of the landscape. Head down, pushing up a gentle hillock, I huffed for breath, felt the burning sensation in my leaden legs, as I climbed. Like a wrestler feeling out his opponent, I circled the riddle of the name in my mind again and again with no luck. I was so engrossed in my meditation, that I didn’t take notice of the noise at first. But the second snort caught my attention.
What should one do when confronted by a large adult wild boar? The beast was easily three feet tall and probably weighed a hundred and thirty pounds, which was about twenty more than I did. Bristling with coarse black and brown hair, and armed with two sharp, curling tusks, he appeared angered by my trespassing. His torso swelled as he drew a deep lungful of air, which he then proceeded to blow from his long snout with a growling threat or warning to me. With no bow and arrow to defend myself, I wasn’t going to stick around to find out which it was. I had one option only. Flee.
I turned on my heels and took off at a sprint back down the hill I’d been scaling, sensing the animal on my tail. Descending the incline might have been easier than climbing it, but running at full tilt downhill presents other dangers that negate the advantage gravity has granted, namely the risk of tripping, falling, tumbling cul par-dessus la tête, as my polyglot father used to say. Couldn’t he have said “head over heels” instead? Funny how thoughts like that one come to you when a wild boar is chasing you down a hill, his razor-sharp tusks inches from tearing to shreds your cul— which might just be about to tumble over your tête at any moment. Zanne,I thought as I vaulted over a large rock in my path. That was Italian for tusks. Another unwelcome and unhelpful thought that occurred to me as I careered down the path, certain it would be the last thing ever to cross my mind before my spectacular and bloody death.
Yet it wasn’t. Huffing and snorting, the boar gave up the chase halfway down the hill. Perhaps he’d only meant to scare me off, away from the little piglets he’d been minding. Or maybe he’d tired himself out. I didn’t know and didn’t care. But the true reason the Italian word for tusks was not my last worldly thought was because another one had occurred to me seconds before the boar pulled up and granted me a reprieve. Of all things, it was the letter Alberto Bondinelli had left for me that appeared in my mind. Its clue about sharing a name. The little wink he’d sent from beyond death. And with it came the solution to the riddle of P. Sasso.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“What happened to you?” asked Bernie as I arrived back on the terrazza around five. “You look like you ran a marathon.”
“I stumbled upon a boar. He chased me but I managed to escape. And now, after your charming compliment, I’m going to have a bath before cocktails.”
“The inspector is on his way with the doctor,” said Bernie.
“Good. I can show him proof that I had German measles as a child. And I intend to speak to him about the murder.”
“Murder? I thought you said that man in the paper couldn’t have killed Bondinelli because he was . . . You know . . .”
“Pinching me? Yes, that’s right.”
“Do you still think this was murder? You really believe someone else—someone here—might have killed him?”
“I’m not sure. But I will be soon.”
Dinner was served a few minutes after nine. I sat between Mariangela and Bernie, which suited me fine. After the laughter of the previous night, prompted by Veronica’s story, my patience with the others had begun to flag again. From Giuliana’s sharp tongue to Lucio’s flirting to Franco’s drunken passes, the charm had left me with bruises, both physical and spiritual. And then there was Tato’s mooning over the object of his desire, Giuliana, Veronica’s newfound sense of entitlement, and Max’s Bela Lugosi allure. It was enough to make a girl despair. Thank goodness for Bernie and Mariangela. I found myself cherishing the moments of unspoiled innocence spent in the company of a naïf. And young Mariangela was sweet, too.
“What’s that I keep kicking on the floor?” asked Bernie, and he peeked under the table to find my purse. “Why are you dragging that around?”
“There are a couple of things inside I need for later,” I said. In fact, after my bath, I’d placed three important pieces of evidence inside.
We began with a traditional antipasto of various salumi and cheeses, followed by a first course of rigatoni al sugo di capriolo—tube noodles in a delicious venison sauce. Achille made busy, dispensing with great largesse a couple of bottles of Brunello di Montalcino. Apart from looking to be quite old and expensive, the wine served as the perfect complement to the antipasto and the venison macaroni.
For a Tuesday evening, it seemed Berenice was pulling out all the stops. I wondered if Max hadn’t instructed her that this could well be our last night in the villa, depending on the doctor’s verdict. The inspector had phoned to say he was meeting Gherardi’s train and they would drop in on us after dinner. Max said he expected them sometime after ten and we were to enjoy ourselves until then.
Mariangela was the perfect young lady, a lovely dinner companion, and an engaging conversationalist. She even informed Bernie and me that the word companion came to English from Old French and originally meant one with whom one shares bread. I loved Bernie for indulging her and refraining from letting on that he’d already known that.
Her education had prepared her well in other ways, too. She knew which fork to use and when, and how to sit up straight and dab her lips just so with her napkin.
She engaged Bernie in a serious discussion of the tragedy at the fireworks factory in Caserta in Campania a week before. Eighteen people had died in the horrible accident. She concluded by marveling that no one had mentioned it the whole time we’d been at Bel Soggiorno. Bernie agreed that it showed a certain lack of sympathy, but said nothing more. He knew as well as I did, after all, that the explosion had occurred on the same day her father died.
The next course arrived, grilled lamb with zolfini beans and garlic and green radicchio, which was a kind of chicory I’d never seen back home. Achille hurriedly swapped out our glasses and poured a Chianti Classico from Badia a Coltibuono.
I stole glances at my fellow guests throughout the meal. Franco was making a big show of the discomfort provoked by the blow to his head— not to mention his pride—the night before. And maybe a bit of hangover thrown in for good measure. He was drinking water that night. I took pity on him—he looked miserable—even as I scolded myself for doing so. Shouldn’t he take pity on me?
Max sat scowling between Veronica on his left and Mariangela on his right. His niece’s attention was focused on Bernie and me, leaving him at the mercy of the scintillating Veronica. Served him right, the old goat, I thought. A man who looked right through plain girls as if they weren’t there deserved a little comeuppance of his own.
Giuliana was flanked by Tato on one side and Lucio on the other. After the drama of the past couple of days, Lucio appeared to have lost his passion for her. She’d tossed him to the wolves, in the form of the police, by asking him to lie for her. And he’d done damage to his friendship with Tato. Never mind knocking him over with his car, stealing the woman he loved surely cut deeper. The three of them ate in silence as I watched and asked myself if she really could have pushed Bondinelli into the river.
CHAPTER FORTY
As we were enjoying Berenice’s desserts, a choice between a pear torte and a frutta cotta al vin santo, Achille appeared behind Max and whispered s
omething in his ear. Max nodded, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and stood.
“The inspector has arrived,” he told us. “I’ll have him wait in the salone until you’ve finished your dolci and caffè”
Then he motioned to me to follow him.
“Will you make sure Mariangela goes to bed once she’s finished?” he asked me in the corridor. “I don’t want her to hear any of what the inspector has to say.”
“Of course. I’ll take care of it.”
A drink in his hand, Peruzzi stood near the terrazza door, which was open wide to let in the pleasant night air. At his side was a drooping elderly man in shirtsleeves and dark trousers. He had a kind face, but looked tired and put out to be there.
“Signore e signori,” said the inspector as we entered the room and seated ourselves, “this is Dottor Gherardi. He has examined the case notes and some cultures taken by his assistant, Pellegrini. I will leave him to give you his conclusions. Dottore?”
Gherardi stepped forward then coughed four or five times—mouth uncovered—just in case some of the germs he’d been incubating hadn’t escaped the first three times he hacked in our direction. Then he spoke, short and sweet.
“The signorina does not have German measles. She has a rash.” Giuliana leapt from her seat and announced to all that she was leaving immediately. Peruzzi made no move to stop her this time. But I did.
“Giuliana, wait,” I said. “Tonight is my turn to tell a story. Won’t you stay for it?”
She refused, but Lucio, Tato, Veronica, and the inspector prevailed upon her to wait until morning before leaving. Max remained silent.
“At least do Ellie the courtesy of listening to her story,” said Lucio. “After all, we endured yours.”
That prompted a sneer from her, but, in the end, she agreed.
I turned to address Peruzzi. “Inspector, I’d like you to stay as well. I have some important information for your investigation that I’ll share after I’ve finished my brief tale.”
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