He hurried off, leaving Rick to wonder if the man was just shy and nervous, or thought he should greet an important visitor rather than mix with the hired help.
“This is quite an operation,” Rick said as he shook Zucari’s hand.
“It is the largest family-owned dairy in the area. With a few exceptions, all the others are cooperatives. We keep busy.”
“Now the ownership passes to his daughter, I suppose?”
“You suppose correctly. Livia and her husband. I doubt if things will change much for the workers. Signor Rondini had not been very involved for years. He left it up to me to run the place. He only became involved if there was a long-range decision about the direction of the operation.”
Rick looked around the room. “But he was here.”
Zucari frowned in non-comprehension, then smiled. “Ah. You mean he lived here. Yes and no. One wing of this house is his, but he also had an apartment in Mantova. The last several years, since his wife passed away, he was spending more and more time in town. He would sometimes drop in to see me in the morning after fishing, but he didn’t get involved in the day-to-day operation of the farm and the cheese-making.”
“His death was sudden?”
“A fishing accident? I would say so.”
“I don’t know anything about the circumstances of his death. We only arrived here this morning.”
“Of course, you wouldn’t.” He took a sip from his wineglass. “He slipped on the dock and fell into the river. His body washed up near the castle in town.”
“He always fished in the same place?”
Zucari’s look made Rick wonder if he was probing too much.
“He tied up his boat at a dock at the edge of the property. I don’t know where on the river he fished since I’m not a fisherman. Never had the time or the inclination. Running a place like this keeps me busy.”
It was the second time the man had noted that he was busy, contrasting with the deceased owner, who apparently spent his time fishing or in Mantova. Rick had been keeping an eye on Angelo, who now waved him over. He was standing next to Francesco Guarino.
“My capo is calling, Signor Zucari, and needs his interpreter. It was nice to meet you.”
“Come back, if you have time, and I’ll show you around the farm.”
“I’d enjoy that, thank you.”
As he walked to his boss, Rick thought about the times he’d visited relatives in the States when he was young. Being introduced to cousins and other relatives for the first time was always the same; they weren’t quite sure what to think of him. Most had never met anyone who lived outside New Mexico, never mind another country, making him very exotic. Angelo wasn’t getting any of that, these northern Italians were very much used to foreigners in their midst.
Rick noticed the relief on the faces of both his boss and Livia’s husband when he reached them.
“I was asking Francesco here about what he does for a living, but I’m not sure he understood the question. I think he said something about cheese, so he must be part of the dairy.”
“Signor Rondini was inquiring about your work,” Rick said in Italian to Guarino.
“I think I understood that, but I could not explain well. I am an inspector for the Parmigiano-Reggiano Consortium. My territory is this part of Lombardy. But of course someone else inspects the cheese of Latteria Rondini.”
Rick interpreted, and with him in the middle, a conversation began between the two men.
“The quality control is pretty tight for the cheese?”
“We have a most rigorous process to assure that the Parmigiano-Reggiano meets the highest of standards before it can display the stamp of the Consorzio. You can be assured that any cheese with the stamp burned into its rind has passed those tests.” He pointed at a wooden board holding a large slice of the cheese. Protruding from it was the distinctive teardrop-shaped knife not used with any other kind of cheese. “You must try some. This is a stravecchio made here.”
“Are you sure it’s okay, even though you didn’t inspect it?”
Even after Rick’s translation, Guarino wasn’t sure if Angelo had been joking or not. He wedged out two chunks and passed them to Angelo and Rick. He then got one for himself and popped it into his mouth. “It is one of the few foods we eat with our fingers.”
“This is good cheese,” said Angelo after eating his bite. “Now that your father-in-law is gone, Francesco, will you be leaving your inspector job and taking over the cheese-making here?”
The question took Guarino by surprise, and the nervousness he had shown to Rick earlier returned.
“I—I haven’t thought about that. Livia is the owner now, so it will be up to her on how to proceed. With everything going on, we haven’t discussed it.” His eyes darted around the room, as if he were searching for an escape route. Rick provided it.
“I think Signor Rondini might want to taste some of the other cheeses.”
“Yes, yes, of course. There are many good things to eat, please do.”
Rick and Rondini stood by the table and surveyed the spread, which included small sandwiches, various kinds of salami and other cold cuts, and a variety of cheeses. Everything was local.
“Kind of a strange duck, that one.” Rondini picked up a small plate and began to fill it. “Livia seems like a very intelligent young woman, but he doesn’t seem like her type. Who were you talking to?”
“Carlo Zucari. He’s the manager of the farm. He told me that your cousin had pretty much turned the operation over to him to run a while back. He’d show up occasionally but was hands-off on a day-to-day basis. He invited us to tour the place, by the way.”
Rondini nibbled a miniature panino. “Livia did as well, and we’ll have to do that. These sandwiches are good. If I eat enough of them I won’t need dinner.”
Rick took another chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano, noting its perfect consistency—an advantage of getting it at the source. “He told me that your cousin was drowned after he slipped on the dock when he was going fishing.”
“She said that, too, but didn’t go into details.” He rubbed his eyes. The time change was starting to catch up with him. “She also asked a favor of me, which I found somewhat curious.” He looked around to be sure no one was listening, though it was unnecessary since they were conversing in English. “Apparently her father was considering selling a plot of land to a developer. She said the people she trusts have no expertise on such things, and those who do have it, would have a stake in the decision. The manager of the farm is dead set against it, thinks it should be used to expand production. She knows that development is my business and asked my advice. I’m a bit bothered by her request.”
“Why is that?”
“Don’t you see? I thought she asked me to come over for the funeral because I was family, but she may just have wanted to pick my brain.”
“Maybe a bit of both, Mr. Rondini, don’t you think?”
Angelo had been giving his wineglass a hard look. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Way in the back of my mind is that my parents never talked much about my father’s side of the family. Don’t get me wrong, they never said anything against those who’d stayed in Italy. But I never sensed a warmth, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I wonder what was behind that.” He glanced over Rick’s shoulder. “Who’s this guy?”
A large man holding a glass of red wine was marching toward them. His eyes indicated that the glass had been filled a few times, and his tie was slightly askew, something rare among Italians. Like the farm manager, his face was tanned and well creased.
“You are Mr. Rondini?” he said to Angelo, like it was an accusation. The English was as rough as the man’s complexion, so Rick intervened in Italian.
“This is Signor Angelo Rondini, the cousin of the deceased. I am his interpreter. And you are?”
The answer was
in Italian. “I’d heard there was a rich relative from America. I am Emilio Fiore. I own the farm to the east.” He jerked his free thumb eastward before turning to Angelo and bowing dramatically. “My deepest condolences, Signor Rondini, on the passing of your cousin.”
Rick translated, including the part about the rich relative.
“This guy’s a piece of work,” said Angelo to Rick as he returned the bow. “But since he’s been softened up by Livia’s wine, he may be able to answer some questions.”
Rick managed to contain a smile. His concern that his employer would be against involvement in the murder investigation had been unwarranted; the man was embracing it. He went into his interpreter’s routine.
“You must have known the deceased well, being his neighbor.”
Fiore drained his glass and looked around for a refill. Fortunately for him, the girl with the tray was in the vicinity, and she swapped his empty for a full one. “I knew him well enough, but it is no secret that we didn’t get along. But I will not speak ill of the dead, especially here, today.”
“It is perfectly natural for neighbors to have disagreements,” said Angelo after hearing the translation. “What was the nature of yours?”
“That is not a secret either. It was over his parcel of land on the river, quite a large number of hectares. It’s been fallow for years, the same number of years I’ve been trying to purchase it from him so I can expand my dairy farm. Right now it’s wasted, but he didn’t care. Then word got out a few weeks ago that he was going to sell it to developers to build a factory, or something worse. We don’t need any more factories creeping onto agricultural land. Agriculture is the backbone of our community, always was and always will be.”
“What will happen to the land now?” Rick wasn’t sure if Fiore had heard the question; the man was staring out the window at the expanse of flat fields.
“Let’s just say I hope Livia has more sense than her father.” He took another gulp of the wine.
“When did you see Roberto Rondini last?”
“Haven’t seen him in weeks, but he was spending most of his time in town.” A malevolent grin split his face, accentuating the wrinkles. “Can’t say I blame him.”
Fiore excused himself, shook hands again, and moved on. Rondini sidled back to the table to put more food on his plate, with Rick at his side.
“Did you catch that comment?” Rondini asked.
Rick nodded. “I did. But did it get garbled in my translation for you?”
“I don’t think so. My cousin was spending time in town with someone, and it wasn’t his priest.”
Thanks to the wine and the lapsed time since the burial, the sound level in the room had risen, and serious faces had been replaced with normal ones and even smiles. People came over and introduced themselves to Angelo, ostensibly to pass on their condolences, but also curious to meet the Americano and his exotically booted interpreter. Many told him of relatives in the States, most asked how long he was going to be in Italy, and all encouraged him to see the art and architecture for which Mantova was known. He assured them he would.
Rondini was showing fatigue from the trip, despite sleeping on a real bed in his jet. “How long do you think we should stay?” he asked Rick during a break in the action. “You know the local customs.”
“People are starting to leave, and Livia knows you’ve been traveling all night, so I think you can head back whenever you want. You’ll be seeing her again, of course?”
“She wanted to have lunch tomorrow at a restaurant near here. I agreed but said I was inviting them. You’ll need to be there since her husband hardly speaks any English.”
They said their good-byes. Outside, Marco was leaning against the car and scanning the low horizon. Clouds still covered the sky but in a less-menacing manner, and the wind had died down to a light but chilling breeze off the river. When he saw Rick and Rondini approaching, he bent down and opened the rear door for his employer.
“Back to the hotel, Mr. Rondini?”
“Yes, Marco, but we’re going to make a stop on the way. I need to check out a piece of land that may be for sale.”
Rick noticed the bewildered look on the driver’s face, and could almost hear the gears working in the man’s head. The rich American comes back to his birthplace for a funeral and finds a parcel of land for sale. What better way to return to one’s roots than to buy land where they were once planted? It made sense to Rick, but it might be the farthest thing from Angelo’s mind.
“Go out to the road and turn left, toward the river.” Rondini got into the Mercedes, followed by Rick and the driver. The car drove slowly along the driveway and stopped momentarily before turning onto the road. Fences lined both sides of the pavement, those on the left marked periodically with the R of the Rondini property. Just as the water became visible, Rondini tapped Marco on the shoulder.
“Pull up at that gate and we’ll get out. I always like to walk when I’m looking at a property.”
The driver obliged, slowing to a stop. The metal gate was a narrow one, opening on a path rather than a road. Farm equipment would have to get into this field from another direction, though it appeared that this part of the farm had not seen a tractor, or any other machinery, in some time. The ground was covered with a green stubble that looked like it was attempting to grow back after its last cutting. Perpendicular to the path, dirt rows ran between the green in the direction of the river, their lines blocked here and there by scraggly brown weeds.
Rondini emerged from the back seat, adjusted his glasses, and looked in all directions. He pulled the belt of his overcoat around him after a cold gust tried to force it open.
“Not exactly like the wind off Lake Michigan, though it’s trying.” The gate was closed but not locked. Rondini pulled the latch and it swung open with a low creak. “Let’s check it out, Montoya.” The two men walked through the gate into the field while the driver leaned against his car and watched. His face showed concern, which Rick assumed was worry that mud might find its way to the floor of his immaculate Mercedes.
As Rondini’s eyes moved, he spoke. “The main factor, Montoya, is location, depending on what kind of business they might put here. If it’s a factory, there has to be easy access to the highway to get the product out, and that road where we’re parked could be widened to accommodate the traffic. If they’re selling, the public has to have a way to get in, so the same concerns. Depending on what you’re selling, you have to be close to your market. Is this place near enough to Mantova to get people here if they put up some mega-store? I don’t know. You’d need a marketing study of the demographic. Or is there enough of a rural population to support a business here? The idea that you build it and they will come is crap. You’d have to know what you can expect before anyone would sink a dime into construction.”
Rondini was in his element, making Rick feel like a young resident following a veteran doctor on his hospital rounds. They turned to the right and walked down between rows of dormant plants toward the river. The sky had darkened to a color that signaled a change in weather, but Rondini was oblivious to the possibility of getting wet.
“Assuming electricity, sewerage, and water are not a problem, this could work. Its flatness makes it very easy to build on. But there are too many questions that I can’t answer. Look how scenic the river is from here.”
They had reached the end of the row and ascended a small hill. Through breaks in the trees they could see the waters of the Mincio, its width beginning to open as it flowed toward the city.
“I can see why my cousin liked to come here. I’ve never been into fishing, or for that matter any pastime other than golf, and I only play it for the business contacts. But somehow, looking at that water, I get it. Ironic, isn’t it, that it’s here that he met his end? Or perhaps poetic is the right word. Come on, let’s get back. I’ve done what Livia asked, but if I were her, I�
��d keep it as farmland.”
As they turned to retrace their steps, Rick noticed, through a break in the trees, a small dock jutting into the river. It was at the end of the road where the car was stopped. Rondini didn’t spot it, and Rick said nothing. Nor did he mention a pickup truck that was idling at the far end of the field on the opposite side of the road. It was too far away for Rick to make out the face of the driver, and as he was trying to do just that, the person drove slowly through the field and out of view.
The return drive was mostly silent except for a few drops of rain that hit the roof of the car. Rondini went back to staring out the window at the passing scenery, deep in thought. Rick mused about what little he had garnered from talking to the people at Livia’s place, and decided it didn’t amount to much. Roberto Rondini had lost interest in running his latteria, and spent perhaps most of his time in town. Did the widower have someone on the side in Mantova? The most curious tidbit was the sale of the acreage they had just surveyed. Was there a connection between that sale—or non sale—and his demise? The dock he’d seen through the trees—could it be where the murder took place? If it was, it couldn’t be any closer to the plot of land. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had to go on. Perhaps some of it would click with Inspector Crispi.
It was midafternoon when they walked into the lobby of the hotel.
“I’m going to check in with Lexi to see what’s going on in Chicago, then get some quick shut-eye. I’ll meet you down here in an hour. We’re going to make a visit to the house of Mantegna.”
“The painter.”
“Good for you, Language Man. You don’t just read dictionaries. I did some research on him and thought it would be fun to see where he lived before we see his masterpiece tomorrow. I should say Lexi did the research and I read it. The house is now a museum. You’ve got something to do until then?
“I’ll go talk to the inspector.”
“Of course. You have things to tell him.”
The woman at the front desk armed him with a map marked with a yellow highlighter to show him the route, insisting it would take no more than ten minutes. He was ready for a walk; it would give him a chance to get the feel of the town that peering from car windows couldn’t provide. He could also try to plot a route for his morning run. He walked briskly, breathing in the heavy humidity in the air and enjoying the moisture on his skin. Fall was the best time of year in all the places he’d lived on both sides of the Atlantic. In New Mexico it meant aspens turning yellow on the mountains, and in Italy it marked the end of the harvest and meals with mushrooms and truffles. The street crossed the canal that had once been a defensive barrier, a piece of Venice dropped into a corner of Lombardy. He was now in the oldest section of Mantova, and the street narrowed accordingly before bursting into the open space of the Piazza delle Erbe that ran along the side of San’tAndrea, where they’d been for the funeral. The daily market held in the square had folded up and moved on hours earlier. Now its only inhabitants were two women pushing baby carriages.
A Funeral in Mantova Page 4