A Funeral in Mantova

by David P. Wagner

  Crispi didn’t point out that accidents could happen to anyone, especially at Rondini’s age. He had seen this reaction before in people close to victims—denial that fate could have simply done its work.

  “If it wasn’t an accident, who could be responsible? Did he ever talk about enemies he had? Someone who could want him dead?”

  She didn’t try to hide her agitation. “As you already know, Inspector, he was not well liked. If such dislike could reach the point of murder, I have no way of knowing. I sensed that he and Carlo had reached an understanding. Neither liked the other, but Roberto trusted Carlo and let him run things. There was a neighbor he didn’t get along with. I think the man wanted to buy that piece of land. The price might have been right, but Roberto had no intention of selling it to the man. As far as his daughter, I think their relationship was normal, but he said a few times how her husband was weak.”

  “Weak?”

  “Well, you know, not a strong personality like Roberto. He looked down on people he thought had no backbone. How his son-in-law felt about him, I have no idea. I never met him. Nor his daughter, for that matter.”

  Crispi rubbed a hand across the stubble of his chin, trying to decide whether to ask Signora Bentivoglio an obvious question: Why had Rondini, a widower many years removed from the mourning period, not carried on openly with the woman? He needed female companionship and she was certainly respectable, so why treat her like a mistress? That was the way the family viewed her, it seemed, since she was not at any of the events connected with the funeral. No, better to get an answer from someone else; the question would be too painful for her right now. He could pose it to her later, if needed, but likely would not. It was simply not important to the investigation. He got to his feet.

  “You are back at work tomorrow, Signora?”

  “Yes.” She turned from the window. “We open at seven, and often our clientele is outside waiting. Farmers keep early hours.”

  Just like fisherman, Crispi thought.

  “There is some debate,” said Marco, “as to whether Andrea Mantegna in fact designed his own palazzo, but regardless of who did, it remains a spectacular structure. The combination of the circle and the square, which you see so much in the positioning of figures in Renaissance painting, is utilized here in a simple but powerful way.”

  The driver, along with Rick, Rondini, and Lexi, stood on the damp stones of the Casa Mantegna’s open courtyard looking upward. The four sides of the building’s outer shell framed the circular opening to a clouded sky. From it, an almost invisible mist of rain fell on their faces. The walls surrounding the open space were an austere brick, broken by doors leading to the inner rooms. Everything about the building, from the drab outside to the floor plan, was rigidly geometric.

  “Not exactly warm and inviting,” said Rondini, “but it might be better on a sunny day. The circle in the square is intriguing, I have to admit.”

  Lexi pointed at the curved walls. “My image of Italian Renaissance architecture was always ornate marble and rounded columns, in the classical tradition. This is not like that at all. The four doors are framed classically, and the sun design on the stone floor adds something, but the rest is quite plain.”

  “Perhaps Mantegna himself was a rather plain guy,” said Rick. He looked through one of the open doors into one of the rooms of the gallery. “The exhibit inside doesn’t look very plain.”

  Swaths of bright color filled a large canvas on the wall opposite the door. Angelo scowled. “I can find better abstract works in Chicago; that’s not what I came to Italy to see. Lexi, you and Marco go in and check it out. I need to talk to Language Man here.”

  Lexi and the driver exchanged looks and walked through the door.

  “Tell me what happened with the cop,” Angelo said, once the other two were inside. “He really thinks my cousin was murdered?”

  “Yes, he does.” Rick explained the head injury that preceded the drowning, and Crispi’s suspicion that it was not caused by a fall.

  “Who does he think could have done it?”

  “I know you want me to be frank. Am I correct?”

  “You better be.”

  “Well, Mr. Rondini, it appears that your cousin was not universally loved. Whether that was enough for someone to do him in remains to be seen, but there is no lack of people who could be considered suspects. It might be better to begin with who could have gained from not having your cousin around. And that starts, unfortunately, with his daughter and her husband. They inherit the farm.”

  Rondini’s expression remained the same. “Makes sense. Go on.”

  “The manager of the farm, Zucari, could be out of a job if Livia’s husband takes over running the operation and wants to be more hands-on than your cousin was. Zucari didn’t agree with selling the plot, as Livia told you, but that doesn’t appear to be a big deal. Then there is that neighbor, Emilio Fiore.”

  “The drunk.”

  “The one who had too much wine, yes. He even admitted to us that he didn’t get along with Roberto Rondini, and was very much against him selling that property for development. In my mind, he’s the strongest suspect.”

  “It all seems a touch weak to build a murder case, don’t you think? But if he was killed, maybe Roberto was just mugged by someone who knew he went fishing every morning. It happens all the time in Chicago.”

  “The inspector didn’t mention if his wallet was missing, and I think he would have.”

  Rondini squinted at Rick. “You think this guy knows what he’s doing?”

  “I would have had my doubts if I hadn’t spoken to my uncle afterward. He told me Crispi is a first-class policeman, and I can assure you my uncle would have said so if it were the other way around.”

  They looked upward at the same time. The small drops were beginning to get bigger, but the rain felt good on their faces.

  “Montoya, after hearing all this I feel like I don’t know enough about my cousin and the rest of the family. We need to find out more, but the kind of questions I have now I wouldn’t want to ask Livia. See what you can get from the cop. By the way, what about Roberto’s friend in town? Did he mention her?”

  “He was on his way to interview her.”

  The thought of his cousin’s extra-curricular activities made Rondini smile. He looked over to see Lexi and the driver come back through the doorway into the courtyard.

  “A local artist on her way up,” she said, “or trying to. Nothing very original.”

  Rondini was not paying attention. “Marco, I need to find out more about my family. Is there some kind of genealogical society here that could help?”

  The question startled the driver.

  “I don’t know about such societies, Mr. Rondini. If I were you, I would start at the Gazzetta. It is the oldest newspaper in Italy and I think they have…” He turned to Rick for help. “Un archivio?”

  “Archives,” Rick said.

  “Yes, that’s it. Perhaps you could go there, Mr. Rondini.”

  “You mean perhaps Language Man could go there.” He looked up. “Is the car parked nearby? It’s starting to rain harder.”

  “I found a place near the door. I’ll get it unlocked so you don’t get wet.” Marco walked briskly toward the entrance.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t know about genealogy stuff,” Rondini said as the driver disappeared out the door. “Don’t a lot of Americans come here in search of their roots? I would think it would be something a guy who works with tourists would know. Am I right, Language Man?”

  “Yes and no. The vast majority of Americans of Italian descent trace their roots to the south, people who left to escape poverty in what has always been the least developed area of Italy. During the time of the great migrations, at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries, the boats left from Naples and Palermo. Here in the nor
th it was relatively prosperous, certainly relative to the mezzogiorno, as they call the south. So there was less emigration from around the northeast. It’s still one of the richest areas of Italy—actually of Europe.”

  “It makes me wonder why my parents left here. They never talked much about it, and by the time I was curious about it, they were gone and I couldn’t ask them.” He looked at Rick and then back at Lexi. “Today’s advice to both of you from an old man: ask questions now, while you can.”

  Lexi’s expression gave Rick the idea that Rondini was acting out of character.

  “We will be sure to take that advice, Mr. Rondini. But perhaps Rick can find out something at this newspaper Marco mentioned. And if needed I can get on one of those ancestry websites and find out what I can there.”

  When they emerged onto the sidewalk the Mercedes was waiting, Marco holding open the rear passenger door for Rondini and Lexi. Rick put his hand on the handle of the front door and noticed a paper folded under the wiper in front of his seat. He reached over to take it out.

  “Were you parked illegally, Marco?” he said. “You may have a ticket.”

  The driver’s head jerked up to look at the signs along the sidewalk. “That’s impossible.”

  As Angelo and Lexi got settled into the back seat Rick unfolded what was more of a card than a piece of paper. The message on it, written in a crude hand with red ink and slightly blurred from the rain, was brief and to the point. He passed it to Marco, who stiffened when he read it.

  “What’s it say?”

  Rick turned to face the back seat. “Short and sweet, Mr. Rondini. The simple translation is ‘Go back to America or face the consequences.’ Someone is not happy with our presence in Mantova.”

  Marco stared at the paper, still gripped in his hand. “What shall we do, Mr. Rondini?”

  “Drive back to the hotel, of course.”

  Five minutes later Marco had been dismissed and the three stood in the lobby of the hotel. No words had been exchanged on the way back from the museum, making Rick suspect that Rondini did not want to say anything in the presence of the driver. That was the case.

  “Does this happen often, Language Man?”

  “Threatening notes?”

  “Yeah. ‘Yankee go home,’ that kind of thing? Is this a hotbed of Communism?”

  Lexi stood silently next to her boss and waited for Rick’s reply. She maintained her usual stone composure.

  “I’d like to say it is, but it doesn’t seem likely at all. The only reason I can think of is that someone saw you out in the field and put two and two together to think you wanted to buy it.”

  Had Lexi not been there, he would have brought up what Inspector Crispi had said about opposition to the sale. Rick had to assume that Rondini was keeping the police involvement between him and Rick. Her next words confirmed it.

  “That’s the piece of property Ms. Guarino asked you to look at?”

  “Yeah. But who would have known that I was going out there to see it?”

  “Her husband,” said Rick. “The manager of the farm. Probably other people who were there. Someone may have overheard her asking you. I don’t think she was trying to keep it a secret, do you?”

  “I suppose not. This reminds me of the time outside St. Louis when that group protested one of our developments, and it got ugly. Some kind of bird migration issue.”

  “The police took care of that without much trouble,” said Lexi. “Should the local police be notified now?”

  Rondini held his room keycard between two fingers and snapped it with his thumb. “Some scribbled note? I don’t think so. What about you, Language Man? You’re our authority on local customs, including the police.”

  “If it happens again, perhaps. But I’d let it go for now.”

  “Okay, done. I am going to my room and stay there for the night. The spread at Livia’s should hold me until breakfast, but if I get hungry I’ll get room service. Language Man, I want you to take Lexi to a nice restaurant and get her to talk about something other than business, if that’s possible.” He laughed and shuffled toward the elevator.

  Rick rubbed his eyes. That will be about as easy as teaching her to speak Italian.

  “All right,” Rick said, “let’s have the truth. Who are you, and what have you done with Alexis Coleman?”

  Lexi’s giggle was not the first of the evening, though the first since the second bottle of wine had arrived at the table. The restaurant, in the heart of Mantova, was almost full. The clientele was local and affluent, which reflected the prosperity of this part of Italy. Tables in the middle of the large dining room were each discreetly lit by a single shaded fixture which hung from the ceiling. Thanks to the reservation called in by the hotel, Rick and Lexi were ensconced in a corner booth with a view of the other diners. The atmosphere was low-key and elegant, broken only by table conversation and a barely audible classical CD.

  “I like to unwind when I get off work, Rick. Don’t you? I love working for Angelo, but I have to clear my mind. You must have the same thing after spending hours doing a translation, or interpreting for someone. I can’t even begin to imagine how exhausting that must be. Poor dear.” She reached across the small table and patted his hand.

  “A translator’s lot is not an easy one.” He furrowed and then raised his brow. “But every so often someone like you brings a few rays of sunshine into a life of drudgery.”

  This night’s rays included a glimmering gold pendant just visible above the top button of a silk blouse which clung perfectly to Lexi’s body. As she laughed, gold hoop earrings quivered as if trying to distract him. He was not distracted. At that moment the waiter cleared away the pasta dishes and carefully placed the menu in front of each of them. She thanked him while trying unsuccessfully to wipe the smile from her face.

  “You mean we’re going to eat more? I have to say that the idea of ravioli filled with pumpkin sounded very strange, but I’m sure glad you talked me into it. With the butter sauce and sage, that ravioli was amazing, but it was a meal in itself.”

  “Those ravioli, my dear. I believe we each got three. If you’d had only one it would be a raviolo.”

  “I love it when you talk in tongues, Rick. This wine is also amazing, by the way.”

  “All the better to loosen your tongue, Lexi. I’m waiting for you to tell me more about your boss.”

  She pulled a face. “Okay, but first, what will we have next to eat?”

  The hotel concierge had told him that one of the restaurant’s specialties was a warm capon salad. Lexi admitted she’d never eaten capon, and only recalled hearing about it in Shakespearean plays—which seemed a good enough reason to try it. The waiter left with the order and Rick filled her wineglass.

  “You were about to tell me more about Angelo, which you seem to call him now, when he’s out of earshot. But how did you come to be working for him?”

  She sipped her wine and gazed at him over the rim of the glass before setting it back down.

  “Angelo Rondini is a complicated man, but I will try to simplify. Only child in an immigrant family very much committed to the American dream. He grew up in the Bronx, went to Fordham on scholarship, started at a construction firm and slowly worked his way up until getting into an argument with his boss and starting his own business. He’s been burned enough times in business deals that he’s very wary of people’s motives. Made his money by doing things his way and making his own decisions. And you can’t argue with success.”

  Rick held up a hand. “You don’t need to return to your daytime self, Lexi. You can do this without going all serious on me.”

  Another giggle. “Sorry.” She took more than a small sip of wine. “Angelo is difficult to work for because he has trouble trusting his staff to do the right thing, the right thing being the way he would have wanted to do it. He doesn’t micromanage, he s
econd-guesses. It drives people nuts. Some quit every few months, a few are fired.”

  “He seems to trust you, Lexi. He told me when he got off the plane that he never goes anywhere without you.”

  The grin showed a perfect row of white teeth. “He said that? How sweet. Well, Rick, we have a special relationship, thanks to Nikki.”

  “Nikki?”

  “Nikki Rondini, his daughter.”

  The second courses arrived and were placed carefully in front of them on bone white plates. The dishes were as simple as the plates: a few leaves of lettuce topped by white slices of capon breast and drizzled with a vinaigrette sauce that included red raisins. Before departing, the waiter filled their glasses.

  “He hasn’t asked me yet if everything is tasting all right,” said Lexi as she gazed at the plate.

  “They don’t need to do that here in Italy.” Rick waited for her to pick up her fork before taking his in hand.

  “This looks fantastic, Rick. Remind me again what capon is. It looks like chicken.”

  “It is. So what about Rondini’s daughter?”

  She waited to finish her first bite. “Wow. That is something. Just the right light tang in the sauce, doesn’t overpower the pure taste of the capon. And it goes perfectly with this white wine. What is it again?”

  He pulled it out of the bucket and checked the label. “Oltrepó Pavese pinot grigio. It comes from west of here, near Pavia. Oltrepó means the other side of the River Po. So you know his daughter?”

  “Rick, you keep plying me with exotic food and drink. How can you expect me to stay on topic?”

  “No one has ever accused me of plying.”

  “Someone should have, you’re very adept at it.” She took another small bite of the capon and savored it before continuing. “All right, Nikki Rondini. We were roommates our first year at Northwestern and became best of friends. Still are. She took me home one weekend, since she lived right in Chicago, and I became almost a member of the family. The summer before my senior year Angelo took me on as an intern at Rondini Enterprises. That led to a job offer when I graduated, and I ended up as his special assistant. Now let me get back to this chicken.”