Rick said, “Lexi, don’t work so hard that you forget to have something sent up to your room for lunch. You need your sustenance.”
She frowned, saw that Rondini could not see her face, and gave him a wink before walking to the door of the hotel. Rick watched her go in and took her place in the back seat.
“I worry about that girl,” said Rondini when the car turned onto the street that ran along the water. A few patches of snow clung to the grass where the trees provided shade, but most of it had long melted away, soaking into the ground or trickling down to the lake. “She’s all business, which is one reason I have her as my assistant, but I wonder if she has any kind of social life. It’s something she never talks to me about, not that it’s any of my affair.”
“Maybe she just wants to keep business and her private life separate.”
“Could be. I’ve asked my daughter—they’re good friends—and she tells me not to worry. Did you get bored to death having dinner with her last night?”
“Not at all. We had a nice conversation.”
“Good. Perhaps there’s hope for Lexi.”
Angelo looked out the window as the car drove under the shadow of the castle and along the city wall before turning onto the causeway separating the Lago Superiore from the Lago di Mezzo. Once across the water, the view was of flat fields, their lines broken only by an occasional farm structure, all the way to the horizon. The restaurant was in Goito, about a dozen kilometers from Mantova. The town and the restaurant itself sat on the western side of the same river which downstream spread into the lake at Mantova. At this stretch it was less than a hundred feet wide and crossed by a two-lane bridge that gave the restaurant its name, Il Ponte. Marco dropped them at the door.
The main dining room was half full, mostly with men in casual but elegant clothing whom Rick took to be businessmen or owners of the farms and dairies in the area. The soil around Goito and Mantova was the most fertile in Italy, producing some of the finest crops in Europe and making the locals wealthy. From looking at the people sitting at the tables, and what they were dining on, one would think that Italy had no economic woes. But this was not representative of the country as a whole, not even close.
They spotted Livia Guarino at a table near the wide window that looked out over the river. Her face showed the same fatigue as the day before, as if she still had not been blessed with a good night’s sleep. Her dress was dark and plain, not quite mourning attire, but close to it. She looked up and waved.
“I thought her husband was going to be here,” muttered Anglo. “That’s why I wanted you along to interpret.”
They reached the table and Angelo, now well into the local routine, bent over to kiss his niece on both cheeks. Rick shook her hand and took the seat between them, with Angelo directly across from Livia. As soon as they were seated a waiter appeared and placed menus before them.
“I hope we aren’t late, Livia,” said Angelo.
“No, not at all. I just arrived.”
Angelo opened the menu. “I was expecting to see Francesco.”
Livia’s smile tightened. “Something…imprevisto.” She turned to Rick for help.
“Unforeseen.”
“Yes, unforeseen. Thank you, Riccardo. An important meeting. When he dropped me here he asked me to send his regrets. And could you give me a ride home after lunch?”
“Of course, Livia. I’m sorry we won’t see him.”
She took a drink from her water glass. “He’s been working too much these last few weeks. Late hours. I haven’t seen enough of him.” She seemed to be deciding whether to say more. Her eyes did not meet Angelo’s, and now they moved to the window. “I hope you enjoy this restaurant. It was a favorite of my father. He loved the river, of course, and this being directly on it…”
And it was in its waters where he found his end, Rick thought. The Mincio would be a constant reminder to her of her father’s death, but she was doing her best to associate the river with pleasant aspects of his life. Would she ever succeed?
“It is a beautiful setting, Livia,” said Angelo, perhaps with the same thought in his mind. “And I’m sure the food will live up to the setting. You both will have to help me with the menu. What do you suggest, Livia?”
“It is cold outside, a good day for a risotto.” She pointed to a line on Angelo’s menu. “Risotto mantecato alla salsiccia tipico goitese. That’s what I’d like. Riccardo, can you translate?”
“Risotto with the local sausage. Mantecato, I think, means that butter and cheese are added to make it creamy. I’ll have it, too. Shall we make it three?”
Angelo agreed, and the waiter was pleased to take the order. A dry Lambrusco Mantovano to go with your risotto? The suggestion was accepted without hesitation.
“Uncle, I have to tell you that the police think my father was murdered.” Rick and Angelo exchanged glances but said nothing. She continued, “At first I thought it was absurd. My father was not universally liked, but who would want him dead? But ever since I talked to the police it has been in my thoughts. It is not something I can talk to Francesco about, he would think I was pazza. I hope you don’t mind that I tell you. I have nobody else I can trust.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, Livia.” Angelo reached across and squeezed his niece’s hand. He glanced at Rick and then turned his attention back to her. “Why are you having second thoughts?”
“Just…the way he died. That he fell into the water at a place where he had been fishing for so many years. His physical condition was good for a man of his age. He would not have, uh, scivolato.”
“Slipped,” said Rick. “But do you suspect anyone?”
“I told the policeman that I could think of no one. I still can’t. Unless—”
They were interrupted by the arrival of the wine. The waiter filled their glasses, set the bottle in an ice bucket on the table, and retired. After a toast, the three took sips, though Livia’s was more of a gulp.
“Unless,” she continued, “it had something to do with that terrible piece of land.”
“The one you asked me to look at.”
“Yes. What did you think, Uncle?”
Angelo took a deep breath before answering. “If it were located in America I would know exactly what to recommend, Livia, but it is more difficult here. If someone wanted to develop it they would need water, sewerage, electricity, paved roads—all those things. I don’t know what the cost would be here, but I assume it could be done. If you really want to sell it, a good real estate agent…” He noticed the look on her face and let Rick translate the term. “A good real estate agent who deals in commercial properties would know if it is feasible and be able to put a market price on the land. Unless you’re thinking of developing it yourself.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, Uncle. My inclination is to keep it and expand the farm.” She took another drink of her wine. “Francesco thinks I should sell.”
Rick noticed the use of “I” instead of “we.” Was that significant? “Since your father died,” he said, “has anyone talked to you about buying the land?”
“My husband takes care of the mail, and Francesco said that a letter came from someone who my father must have been dealing with on the possible sale of the land. I didn’t read it, but Francesco said it was a note of condolences. Other people don’t need to talk to me about it, I know their opinions already.”
“Such as the manager?”
“Yes. Carlo thinks we could use it to expand our storage capacity, that it would pay for itself in a few years, but my father didn’t want to take on the expense. My father worried that the prices of milk and cheese would drop and he would end up with a loss. That was the kind of thing they would argue about.”
“It appears that my cousin was not a risk taker.”
“Not just that. He didn’t want to upset his routine. The dairy ran itself, und
er Carlo’s management of course, and the money flowed in from the cheese, so why make any changes? Life was good enough for him, and of course he had his fishing. Perhaps he was right.”
The risotto arrived, creamy yellow rice in low bowls, a small stack of sausage pieces in its center. A sprig of rosemary stuck out of the sausage like a feather. Strong, earthy aromas rose from each plate with tufts of steam. The waiter warned that the dishes were hot and sprinkled grated Parmigiano-Reggiano over each plate. After an exchange of the traditional buon appetito, they took up their forks and tasted.
“Buon appetito was one of the few Italian phrases my parents taught me,” Angelo said. “By the time I was old enough to talk, they spoke enough English to insist it be the language of the house, though I heard them speaking Italian between themselves. Now I wish they had taught me Italian.”
“It’s not too late to learn, Uncle.”
Angelo shook his head. “An old brain like mine? I don’t think so.”
Conversation paused while they ate their risotto.
The restaurant had filled, but the elegant surroundings put the diners on their best behavior and kept the noise level to a low murmur. A large truck carrying hay passed over the bridge, silently to them, thanks to the thick glass of the picture window. The color of the massive bales matched the mud that caked the wheels and mud flaps. Had it not been for the freshness of the food, the people eating their lunch might not have known they were in the heart of a gritty agricultural zone, with all the dirt and odors that go along with it.
Rick put down his fork on the now empty dish. “Is there anyone else you might suspect, assuming your father was murdered?”
“He and our neighbor—Emilio Fiore—argued frequently, but I always had the sense that it was normal since they were competitors to a certain extent. Each thought their cheese was better than the other’s, kind of like two men who argued over soccer teams. And they both could be…stizzosi?”
Rick stepped in. “Cranky, irascible.”
“I got that impression when we met him yesterday,” said Angelo. “But I thought it was partly due to the wine.”
“Emilio does enjoy his wine. But I can’t imagine him and my father fighting. Arguing, yes, but not to the point of physically attacking each other.”
As much as Rick wanted to run other suspects past her, such as her farm manager, or mention her father’s lady friend, he knew he couldn’t. And it was time to order a second course, since the primi had not been as filling as they feared, given the small portions. The waiter cleared the dishes and again set menus before them. Fortunately, the list was not long, so Rick was able to translate it quickly for Angelo, who settled on the perch with polenta. Livia ordered the fiori di zucca ripieni di ricotta di bufala, menta e erba cipolina su passata di pomodoro e basilico. Rick told Angelo that the name of the dish—zucchini flowers stuffed with ricotta, mint and spring onions over a tomato and basil puree—could prove more of a mouthful than the dish itself. Rick was last, requesting carpaccio with grana padana, and black truffles. The waiter checked the wine bottle, saw that it was still half full, and left. No hard sell.
“I don’t know what to do about the land, Uncle. Francesco is anxious to sell it, but I’m not sure.” Her eyes fixed on Angelo.
“There is no urgency, I assume? If I understand correctly it has stood idle for years, and could continue idle for a few years more. This is not a time, when you are grieving, to make a decision like this. Take your time.”
“I’m so pleased you’re saying that, it makes me feel much more tranquil. When I talk with you it’s almost like talking to Babbo. That’s what I called him.” Again her eyes moved to the water flowing outside the window. “This would have been a good fishing day for him. He always told me that after a storm the fish were anxious to be caught.”
“Did you ever go fishing with him?” Angelo asked.
She shook her head. “No, for him it was a solitary activity. He was a member of a fishing association, but when it came time to fish, he preferred to be alone. I asked him once, had I been a boy rather than a girl, if he would he have taken me out on the boat. He swore that he would have treated a son the same, but his answer was slow in coming.”
“So you’ve never been to the dock?” After he said it, Rick worried that he’d made a mistake, but she was not bothered by the question.
“I know where it is, and I used to walk down there in the summer when I was a girl and dip my toes into the river. It is a beautiful spot. I understand why my father loved to go there.”
“I’d like to see it,” said Angelo.
“It’s hard to find. If you continue past the lot you visited yesterday, look for a turn to the left to a narrow road. After a few bends it goes through some trees and comes out to the river.”
“I’ll do that before I leave.” He pulled the bottle out of the ice bucket and, starting with Livia’s, filled up the three glasses. Then he held up his. “We have not toasted your father, Livia. It seems a good place to do it, in one of his favorite restaurants, next to his beloved river.”
Her eyes misted as she raised her glass. “To Babbo.”
They tapped crystal and drank. When they had finished, the main courses arrived at the table.
Portions once again were small but elegantly presented. Livia’s plate displayed three closed zucchini flowers that had been dipped in a light batter and quickly fried, giving parts of it a brown color to contrast with the yellow. A bit of the cheese filling oozed out of the green ends, flowing into the thin layer of tomato sauce under it. Angelo’s perch filets had been steamed and placed on a layer of creamy, yellow polenta and topped with capers and herbs. The simplest of the three dishes was Rick’s carpaccio, its paper-thin raw beef covering the plate. Equally thin slices of the hard cheese dotted the meat along with the occasional shred of dark truffle that gave off its distinctive aroma. Olive oil crisscrossed it all. After taking in the artistic qualities of their own plates, each of them studied the other two before silently picking up their forks. The first sound was the crunch of Livia’s first zucchini flower.
“I can see why my cousin enjoyed coming here,” said Angelo before taking a taste of perch. “And I can taste why.”
“Babbo did love to eat, but never cooked himself. Fortunately, my mother was an excellent cook.” She finished another bite of the zucchini flower. “She passed away several years ago, before I met Francesco. I thought for a long time that my father would never recover from her death, but eventually he did.”
Rick expected something about her father’s woman friend. She had to have known about Letizia Bentivoglio, but something kept her from saying anything to Angelo. Perhaps if Rick had not been present, Livia would have opened up more. Or Rick was an easy way to justify, in her own mind, avoiding any mention of the other woman. He turned his attention to the carpaccio, one of his favorite dishes, and wondered why the chef had decided to use grana padana, the cheaper and less-renowned cousin of Parmigiano-Reggiano. The difference of taste between the two cheeses was difficult to pinpoint. If anything, the grana was a touch sweeter, which might be a reason to combine it with the sharp flavor of the raw beef. Just as likely the reason was more mundane, such as that the chef had a friend who produced grana padana.
Angelo patted his lips with his napkin and looked down at his dish where only a few specks of yellow polenta remained. “Excellent fish, and it goes perfectly with the polenta. I will have to recommend it to the owner of my favorite Italian restaurant at home, but since it doesn’t have some kind of red sauce, he won’t want to put it on the menu.” He gestured toward their plates, also empty. “Just this lunch alone has opened my eyes to what Italian food really is.”
“There is still dolce or frutta, Uncle.”
“That sounds like dessert. I will, if you will.”
As the waiter cleared the dishes Livia asked if they had frutti di bosco. Whe
n he said they did, she got a nod from Rick and ordered three, con zucchero e limone. As the waiter exited, his place was taken at the table by a large man whom Rick recognized as Livia’s neighbor. Emilio Fiore wore a corduroy jacket that barely covered his girth. Under it was a plaid shirt open at the collar, exposing the thin line of a gold chain. He looked down at the two men as if they had sneaked into his private club.
Rick and Angelo got to their feet as Fiore bent over, took Livia’s hand in his, and extended further condolences. Then he shook hands with the two men.
“Mr. Rondini,” said Rick, “you remember Signor Fiore?”
“I do—Livia’s neighbor.”
“I hope you are enjoying our region, Mr. Rondini.” Fiore had decided to try out his English, perhaps because he hadn’t had as much wine as the day before. It was passable but highly accented. “You have seen our, um, bellezze?”
“Sights, beautiful things,” Rick interpreted. Remembering the truck in the distance during the previous day’s visit to the empty plot, he wondered if Fiore meant the artwork or the land. Angelo understood it to be the former.
“We were at the castle this morning to see Mantegna’s masterpiece, among other art.”
“Yes, his capolavoro. We are proud to have it in our city. Will you be staying long in Italy?”
It would have been an innocent question, but his emphasis on the word “long” made it sound otherwise.
“Not nearly long enough, Mr. Fiore. I have to get back to my work.”
“You construct things, I am told.”
“That is one way to describe my work.”
“Here we grow food. Some of the best in the world. Is that not so, Livia?”
“The very best, Emilio.”
The man smiled and inclined his head toward the corner. “I must return to my guests. Germans. They love our Italian cheeses. Livia, I will be seeing you tomorrow evening. I look forward to it. Good day.” He bowed slightly and walked away. Rick and Angelo sat back down.
“Thank goodness he mentioned tomorrow, with all that’s going on, I’d forgotten to tell you. The local cheese consortium is holding an event at seven at the Palazzo Te, in honor of my father. Of course you are invited.”
A Funeral in Mantova Page 8