A Funeral in Mantova

by David P. Wagner

  Passing under an arch between buildings, Rick looked up to see a small door surrounded by a metal cage clinging high up on the side of an ancient tower. He’d seen them in other cities, a place of cruel punishment for criminals or enemies of those in power. It crossed his mind to ask Inspector Crispi if the police were still putting it to use, but the man had seemed humorless when he stopped Rick in the church. Probably not a good idea.

  He turned the corner and found himself at one end of the magnificent Piazza Sordello. The city had banned vehicles from its cobblestones, keeping the long square—at least visually—in the golden age of the Gonzaga dynasty. The Palazzo Ducale, home of the dukes, ran along most of one side. Across from it was the cathedral which looked drab compared to Sant’Andrea—Marco the driver had been correct about it playing second fiddle to the more famous church. Immediately on Rick’s right, at the corner, was the police station. It was simple to spot the questura in any city, since armed police were always stationed in front, and Mantova was no exception. He walked to the entrance and pushed through the doors.

  Rick was expected. A uniformed corporal glanced at his identification and immediately took him up a set of steps to the second floor. Halfway down a drab corridor he tapped on a partially open door and looked in.

  “Ispettore? E’ arrivato Signor Montoya.”

  The inspector ignored the policeman, but came around his desk and shook Rick’s hand.

  “Thank you for coming in, Signor Montoya. Please sit down.”

  Rick had not had much time in the dark church to size up the inspector, but he could see now that the man was, in his appearance, the complete opposite of his Uncle Piero. Crispi’s unshaven face was not an attempt to be fashionable, but simply the result of not seeing a razor for too long. His suit looked to be a size large, but he was on his way to filling it. The hair needed cutting and combing, falling down on both sides of his forehead. At least his shoes were shined. Rick wondered how well Piero knew the guy.

  “I hope I can be of help, Inspector.”

  “So do I,” answered Crispi as they both sat.

  “Perhaps you could begin by telling me what you know about Roberto Rondini’s death. At the gathering I just came from, all I found out was that he drowned. No one said anything about foul play.”

  “I wouldn’t expect his daughter to say something. I told her we were investigating, but she got it in her head that because of the nature of the death, such an investigation is a required formality. She dismissed any possibility other than a tragic accident.” He paused. “The autopsy showed that Signor Rondini had a blow to the head, but that his death was by drowning. The medical examiner surmised that the head trauma caused him to lose consciousness, at which time he fell into the river and subsequently drowned. He frequently went fishing early in the morning, and kept a boat tied up at the river at one corner of his farm. We went to the dock and found blood stains on the wood. Given the fact that the dock was slippery from the morning mist, it is possible that he did indeed slip, lose his balance, hit his head, and fall into the water. He was in good physical health, but he was in his late sixties, so it could have happened that way.”

  “But you’re not so sure.”

  “The wound analysis was inconclusive, the result of spending too much time in the water. The medical examiner could not say for sure if it was made only by impact on the dock, or if he was struck with something and then the head hit the wood, leaving the traces of blood. Or the head could have been purposely pressed to the dock to make it look like he slipped, after which he was pushed, unconscious, into the water to drown.”

  To Rick it seemed like thin gruel to justify the launch of an investigation, and he said so.

  Crispi did not appear to be annoyed by his visitor’s frankness. Nor was he pleased. The man was so lacking in emotion that he almost seemed to be on tranquilizers. His neutral expression never changed, including the eyes, which were locked on Rick’s.

  “Perhaps. But Signor Rondini was not universally loved. That fact was not featured at the funeral, as we both know, and I suspect it didn’t come up in the events afterward. But he had that reputation.” He waited for Rick to respond, and when he didn’t, Crispi continued. “So far I have told you a great deal. Did you manage to glean anything from your contacts with the family that you would care to share?”

  Rick couldn’t decide if he liked Crispi or not. After this initial conversation the jury was still out, and it might stay out for a while.

  “There was a neighbor, the man who owns the farm adjoining the Rondini property. Emilio Fiore, if I remember correctly. He freely admitted that he and the deceased did not always get along. He mentioned a plot of land that Rondini owned and was thinking of selling for development, a sale which he strongly opposed, partly because he wanted to buy it himself.”

  Crispi’s eyebrows furrowed, not a radical change in his demeanor, but at least it was something. “I think I remember reading about it in the Gazzetta.” His eyes strayed to the ceiling as he tried to recall. “A factory, was it? Or a furniture chain store? That kind of development happens frequently around here, and there are always those who oppose it. They want to keep the land pristine, either dotted with cattle or waving with corn.”

  “That would characterize this man Fiore.”

  The phone on the desk rang and Crispi leaned over to answer it. Rick gestured to ask if he should step out, but the inspector shook his head. While the policeman talked, Rick got to his feet and walked to the window. The office looked out over a rectangular courtyard that under previous owners may have been filled with grass and flowers, but now was paved and stuffed with police vehicles. The rest of the room was what Rick had seen before in the offices of other police stations, though more orderly than most. Crispi’s desk was a model of neatness: a shelf behind it held books in a straight row, and a healthy potted plant was perfectly centered on the windowsill. Quite a contrast with the man’s appearance. As Rick began studying the still-threatening sky, Crispi hung up the phone.

  “Where were we? You were telling me about Rondini’s neighbor?”

  “Right,” said Rick. “Fiore also mentioned that the deceased had been spending very little time on his dairy farm. Mostly he was here in town, where he had an apartment. The farm manager, Carlo Zucari, said the same thing.”

  “I spoke to Zucari.”

  “Fiore made an off-hand comment which I took to mean that Rondini had a lady friend of some sort here in town, which was why he was always here.”

  Inspector Crispi leaned forward and pulled a folder from the neat stack. “I know about her. Letizia Bentivoglio is her name. Younger than Rondini, as one might expect. I’m going to interview her this afternoon.”

  “So the word on her was already around.”

  “This is not Rome, Signor Montoya—there are few secrets here.” He paused to let his bit of wisdom sink in. “What about the daughter, Signora Guarino?”

  “I only exchanged pleasantries with her. But I spoke briefly with her husband.”

  “Yes, Francesco Guarino. I met him only in passing, but I got the sense that it is his wife who makes the decisions in that family. She will inherit the farm, of course.”

  “But Guarino could take over running it, I would assume. He’s now a cheese inspector, so I would imagine he has the expertise.”

  Crispi declined to comment on Rick’s assumption. “You said you met the manager. Any words of interest from him? He couldn’t tell me much. It was he who took me to the dock where Rondini met his fate.”

  “If you’ve talked to all these people, Inspector, why have you asked me to help you?”

  Crispi was unfazed. “A valid point. I thought your proximity to the family could yield some valuable information that they would be reluctant to pass to the authorities. They may let their guard down when around you and your employer. Already you have discovered the issue of the
possible land sale. There may be nothing there, but it is worth exploring.” He didn’t try to hide a glance at his watch. “Signor Montoya, as I told you, I have made an appointment to interview Signora Bentivoglio. Thank you again for coming in.” He rose and extended his hand. His face had not changed.

  Later, as Rick walked back to the hotel, he tried to analyze his mixed feelings about the policeman. Simpatico, Crispi was not, but more importantly, did he know what he was doing? Did he even have enough evidence to warrant a police investigation? Maybe the guy just had a hunch, or someone had put a bug in his ear.

  Rick had a little time before meeting Rondini, and when he got to the bridge over the canal he stopped to enjoy the view. Water ran happily under the bridge on its way to the lake, oblivious to the dark skies above, that could soon swell the flow into a torrent. All along it, the backs of stone houses were in a colorful competition for how many red and white geraniums could be packed into their window boxes. He pulled out his phone to take a picture, but decided against it. Instead, he hit some buttons and held it to his ear. It was answered after two rings.

  “I thought you’d be calling,” said Commissario Piero Fontana. “You have met Crispi?”

  “Just got out of a meeting with him at the questura.”

  “And you are puzzled. That is the usual reaction people have when they first meet him. It was mine. But let me tell you a bit about the inspector.”

  “Please do, Zio.” Rick leaned on the stone railing and spotted some tiny fish working against the current. “I have a few minutes before I must go back to work for my employer.”

  “Crispi doesn’t look it at first, Riccardo, but he is one of the more brilliant police minds I have encountered. I was his supervisor when he was on a case here in Rome several years ago, and while it took me a good while to understand him, I came away impressed. I won’t go into the particulars of the case now, I’ll save that for some time when we dine together, but suffice to say it was a complicated one. He sorted out all the details and brought it to a successful conclusion.”

  “If he is so brilliant, Zio, how is it that he’s only an inspector in Mantova?”

  “It is always charming, dear nephew, when you drop the Italian subtlety and take on your American directness. But surely you have already discovered the answer to your question. It’s very simple, really. Crispi does not interact well with his colleagues, and, something unusual in us Italians, he is not adept at office politics. In a word, he drives his co-workers and supervisors pazzo. And that is not the way to advance in any Italian bureaucracy, including the Polizia dello Stato.”

  Since Piero said he had supervised the inspector, Rick assumed that his uncle was one of those driven crazy. “But he’s competent, Uncle?”

  “More than competent.”

  “And honest.”

  “In my experience, yes.”

  “That’s good enough for me. And I have an advantage over his fellow policemen: I don’t have to work with him permanently.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Perhaps I can get him to smile.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  Chapter Four

  Inspector Crispi paused on the street and looked up at the windows of the building. Letizia Bentivoglio lived in a walk-up apartment at the eastern edge of the city’s ancient center. At one time it had been the residence of one well-to-do family, but today the building was divided into three rentals, hers being the one on the top floor. The advantage was that she had an unencumbered view of the lake from her back windows, since only a parking lot and some grass separated the building from the water. The disadvantage was the stair climb to reach it, but when her door opened, Crispi could see that this was not an issue for the woman, who looked to be the picture of health. She was about forty-five, her hair color appeared natural, and the figure under the jeans and sweater was slim. He assumed that the initial attraction to her for the deceased Roberto Rondini was the obvious one, but wondered if there might be something else. That could come out in the interview, but at the moment, Crispi’s main interest was what happened in the period before the death.

  “I’m glad you called on my day off. I wouldn’t have wanted a policeman showing up at the office.”

  She led the way into the small living room and took a seat in one of its two chairs. An empty cup perched on the side table next to it, made him wonder if she would offer him something. He hoped not, since it would only waste time. He made a fast assessment of the surroundings to confirm what he already assumed. The wear on the furniture and the type of decorations in the room indicated that she had been living alone for some time, perhaps her entire adult life. There were no masculine touches to be seen; everything had an aura of neatness and regularity. What would have caused a woman like this to take up with an older man? There could be a dozen reasons, but likely none had any bearing on the case. He had no cause to include her as a suspect, at least up to this point.

  “Where do you work?” He knew the answer, and she knew he knew, but it was an easy way to begin the interview.

  “The large farm equipment company just south of the city. That’s how I met Roberto. He came in one day with his farm manager because they needed a new cattle truck and some other machinery. I do the paperwork for our sales. I’d expected that once he’d made the decision on what he wanted he’d send Carlo—that’s his manager—to deal with the details, but instead he came back himself. We became friends. It turned out that he had an apartment in town very close to mine, so we used to have dinner a few times a week. Sometimes I’d make dinner here, but mostly he’d take me out. He liked to go to nice places.”

  It was more information than the question deserved. She was ready to talk, so he decided to let her do so.

  “Tell me about Signor Rondini.”

  Her sigh was close to a shudder. “He was not what most people thought of him. Oh, I know you’re wondering how I know what people thought of him, but it’s because he told me. He laughed about it. But to me he was kind and generous, always. He was lonely after his wife died several years ago, and I could see it when I met him that day. I could sense it. He needed companionship, which is something he didn’t get from his family, and he could talk to me.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  She looked out the window at the darkening sky, thinking about an answer, but he knew she had to have been ready for the question.

  “The night before the…” Her lips trembled almost imperceptibly. “The night before, we had dinner here.”

  “Did he seem any different from your previous meetings?”

  She looked at the cup next to her, and he thought she might get up to fill it. Instead she pondered the question while Crispi waited.

  “Not different from how he’d been for the last few weeks. About a month ago, when he began considering the sale of some property, he was surprised to find that people were against it. Not just his manager, he’d expected that, but people he’d never met. He thought it was none of their business and brushed it off as nothing, but I could tell he was bothered by it. I was the only one who could see this side of him. To everyone else he was just someone who had money and wanted to make more of it. He wasn’t like that, Inspector.”

  She got up, walked stiffly to the window, and stared out across the water. Her hands were clasped tightly and pressed against her chest.

  “Also in the last few months,” she continued, “he did a lot of thinking about his father.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She continued looking at the lake. Did she know that the body was discovered on the shore almost within view of her window?

  “I suspect it had something to do with the anniversary of his father’s death. Twenty years ago the man had died when he was the age Roberto was about to reach. I suppose it’s natural to think about those things. He talked about what his father had done in his lifetim
e and compared it to his own accomplishments.”

  “Did he tell you what were his conclusions?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. “No. No, he didn’t. Perhaps he didn’t come to any. Contemplating one’s mortality is never easy, I suppose. And just a few weeks before his own death, Roberto went to a funeral, which made him even more depressed. Apparently, the family either didn’t know who Roberto was, or if they did, they didn’t think he should have appeared at the funeral. It’s difficult enough when friends your own age start dying.…”

  Crispi looked at his watch and decided it was time to wrap up the interview.

  “Signora Bentivoglio, is there anything that would lead you to believe that his death was not an accident?”

  She turned quickly. “It was not an accident, Inspector.”

  “You seem very sure.”

  “Roberto had been going fishing in the same place for years, even decades. As he often told me, he had his routine, it was a comfort to him. Always arriving at the same time, no matter the weather, always with the same fishing pole; he even fished in the same place along the river. Some spot only he knew, where he claimed the big fish hid. It was a joke with us. He said he couldn’t tell me where it was, since I might sell the secret to someone.” A smile appeared on her face for the first time, but it disappeared quickly. “No, Inspector, he didn’t have an accident.”