“It will be an honor to attend,” answered Angelo. He looked back at Fiore who was at his table with the Germans. “I think I like him better when he’s had more wine,” he said, eliciting a laugh from his niece.
“Emilio is traditional in all ways. He sees the land as our…” She struggled to find the word and did without Rick’s help. “Our heritage, as well as our future. And he is very good at what he does, which is produce Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. That was the main part of the rivalry with my father, if that is the correct term for their relationship. But what I think annoyed Emilio more was that my father, in the years after my mother’s death, didn’t care about keeping up the rivalry. Our dairy made good cheese, and Babbo knew it was good, but he wasn’t obsessive about it.”
“Fiore is obsessive.”
“Most definitely, Uncle. And he enjoys a good argument.”
The waiter arrived and placed small glass bowls of berries before each of them. Tiny wild strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries were coated with lemon juice and sprinkled with sugar. A small cookie sat on the plate under each bowl.
“I can picture local children with baskets picking these a few hours ago in the forest,” Angelo said after tasting his first spoonful. “The lemon and the sugar, I never would have thought of that. Wonderful.”
“This is the only time of year you can get them,” she said. “And with the snow last night, these may be the last.”
“I will have to come back next year.”
“I hope you’ll come many times before then, Uncle.”
Twenty minutes later, after they had accepted espressos and declined grappas, they walked to the parking lot where the driver was waiting. Marco looked puzzled when he saw Livia Guarino walking with them.
“We will be giving my niece a lift back to her home, Marco.”
The driver nodded silently and went to the other side to open the door for her. When she and Rondini were seated in the rear, Rick took his place in the front passenger seat. The engine roared to life and the Mercedes pulled out of the lot into the road.
Chapter Six
“Thank you for the lunch, Uncle.”
“You’re welcome, Livia.” His eyes moved out across the fields where a midafternoon breeze kicked up a brown cloud behind a small tractor making its way along a dirt road. “That guy, Fiore, is right, you do make some great food around here. And you really know how to cook it.” He settled back into the seat, but continued enjoying the view. Trees and bushes intermittently blocked it, but when they cleared, more fertile land spread out on either side of the road. “What does that say, Language Man?”
Rick turned his head to see a hand-lettered cardboard sign. “Vendita Miele. Honey for sale. Do you want to stop?”
“No. I have to bring something back for my daughter, but a jar of honey wouldn’t cut it. She’d prefer something made of leather or gold.”
“You must tell me about your daughter, Uncle.”
“Nikki is wonderful young woman, Livia, and you two would get along famously. She was raised well, thanks to her mother, since I didn’t spend as much time on it as I should have. But I’m trying to make up for it now. You will have to come to America to meet her.
“Or she could come here.”
Something caught Rondini’s eye and he tapped the driver on the shoulder. “What’s that, Marco? I didn’t notice it on the way to lunch.”
The car rose gently as it went over a bridge. Blue water flowed under it along a cement canal that reminded Rick of the storm channels in Albuquerque built for the monsoon rains.
“The river is diverted at several places, Mr. Rondini. The water is used on the crops.”
Rondini was now noticing new vegetation on his side of the car, low plants with dark leaves hanging from wires strung above them. “Those are grapes, aren’t they?”
“That’s right, Uncle.”
“Is there anything that doesn’t grow here?”
The car slowed to make a turn at an intersection marked by two arrowed signs, both black and yellow, indicating an industry or other business. The top one read Latteria Agricola Rondini, and below it was Latteria Agricola Mincio, which Rick guessed to be the dairy farm across the road, owned by Emilio Fiore. The other two signs on the post were pointed ahead, one blue and white for Mantova, the other with the distinctive green, meaning that an autostrada entrance was to be found in that direction. Cows grazed on either side, unfazed by the passing car. It was dairy country.
Rick noticed that Marco had pushed lightly on the brake. He looked up to see a crowd of people milling around on the road ahead. Cars, and a few mopeds, were parked along the side. The Mercedes passed the entrance to Fiore’s property and slowed more as the people got closer.
“O Dio,” said Livia. “They have returned.”
Angelo leaned forward for a better view. “What’s going on?”
“Several weeks ago, when the news got out that my father was going to sell out to a developer to build a shopping center, they appeared. Some kind of environmental group. They want to keep the land natural, but of course, only they can decide what is natural.”
“What should I do, Signora?” Concern was evident in the driver’s voice.
“Drive in, of course.”
The reply earned her a smile from Rondini. “They won’t dare touch your car, Marco. If they do, we’ll call the police.” He leaned back in the leather seat. “Try not to hit any of them.”
The crowd had now noticed the car and all their faces were turned toward it. When Marco put on his turn signal, there was a visible change in the group dynamic, led by one man who pushed himself forward, brandishing his sign above his head. He wore his gray hair long, matching an unkempt beard. The group began to chant, but Rick had trouble making out the words. Something si, something no. They needed more practice in their chanting, and also weren’t clear on what to do about a car turning onto the property. Everyone except the leader moved aside to allow the Mercedes to enter the open gate. He stood defiantly in front of the car’s circular hood ornament as Marco crept forward, but finally moved to the passenger side. As the car slid past, the man stared at Rick with wild eyes, leaving the shouting to his colleagues. The car picked up speed and drove to the front of the house. Marco and Rick got out and opened the doors for the rear passengers.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that, Uncle.”
“Not a problem, Livia. It made me feel at home.”
“There is a path you can take through the fields that we use for trucks that will get you back to the road so you can avoid them.”
Marco perked up with the comment, but was disappointed by his boss’ reply.
“Not a chance. We don’t want them to think we’re taking them seriously.”
“And you will come back tomorrow to visit the farm? I think you will find the cheese-making fascinating.”
“I would like that very much,” answered Rondini.
They said their good-byes and the men waited until Livia got to the door before getting back in the Mercedes. Rick sat in the rear with Rondini.
“Marco,” said Rondini, “turn left when you get out to the road, drive past the field we stopped at yesterday, I want to see the place where Roberto Rondini used to go fishing.”
The driver looked in the mirror. “It may start raining, Mr. Rondini. Are you sure you’d like to go there?”
“I just told you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir.” He started the engine.
The crowd came to life again as the car approached the gate. Their leader may have given them a pep talk, since their chant—NATURE YES, CEMENT NO—was clear and loud. They were also more reluctant to give way to the car as it approached, but did move to the side after Marco tapped his horn twice and edged slowly ahead. Once again the bearded leader was in the forefront.
The car turned back ont
o the road that formed a straight line between the Rondini dairy and the property of Emilio Fiore. Cows on both sides faced toward the road, checking each other out between bites of browned vegetation.
“At least the assholes took a break for the funeral,” Angelo said. “I hope Livia doesn’t have to get caught up in that every time she goes out. But that’s the way you have to deal with these people—ignore them and go about your business. That’s what we did that time in St. Louis, which just pissed them off and they got violent, so we had an excuse to bring in the police. That group back there didn’t look like they’d get violent, but that old guy better be careful he doesn’t get run over.” Rondini looked out at where they had walked the day before. “All because of that plot of land, which isn’t even very large by American standards.”
Rick leaned forward and looked as they passed the field. “It was interesting that she said her husband wanted to sell it. Do you think Francesco can talk her into it?”
“Livia has her head on straight, Rick. She will eventually make the right decision on that land. Whatever it might be.”
The comment didn’t require a reply. Rondini, as he had done most of the time spent in the car, settled into silent contemplation while staring out the window at the fields. Just before the road bent to the right to go parallel to the river, the car turned onto a narrow dirt path. It ran along a thick line of trees that bordered the river, then turned where there was a break between them. Branches brushed against the car as it made its way through the passage to the riverbank before stopping in a circular clearing. Between the parking area and the river spread open ground. It was carpeted with short grass and dropped gradually to the water, its descent broken only by a few small mounds and scruffy bushes on one side. The Mincio at this point had expanded beyond the width it had been held to at the restaurant, getting ready to spread into a lake on the east side of Mantova. The only sign of human activity on either bank was the dock at the end of a path running from the clearing to the water. Rick and Angelo got out and walked down the path while the driver leaned against the car, his eyes on the darkening sky. A cold gust of wind blew toward them from a black cloud that formed in the distance.
The dock was only a few meters longer than the boat floating next to it on the upstream side. Lines from both ends of it were tied to the dock posts, but the steady current of the river also kept it in place. Angelo walked ahead of Rick, stepping out onto the planks and surveying the scene. His coat flapped open in the wind and he buttoned it while looking out over the choppy water. Rick stood back on the path watching his boss. Rondini had become increasingly contemplative since arriving in Italy. It would make sense; returning to one’s roots had to make a profound impression on even the most cynical of people, and Angelo, at least outwardly, played the part of the cynical businessman. This trip was giving Rondini a lot to contemplate, not only because it was Italy, but the Italy of his parents. The likely murder of his closest Italian relative had added another layer to the experience. He’d wanted to visit this site to see where his cousin had spent many happy hours, but also because it was the site of the murder. Rick could almost hear the man’s mind processing it all.
“It’s beautiful here. I can understand why my cousin loved coming to this spot. There’s something to be said for getting close to nature.” He walked back to the shore, bent down, and touched the surface of the water. Ripples ran around his fingers and continued downstream. He stood and stared across the river in silence before turning.
“What do you think, Montoya? Could it have happened like the cop said?”
Rick descended to the dock and squatted at the edge, rubbing his hand over the wood. “This surface doesn’t seem that slippery now, but it could have been that day, enough to make him fall and hit his head. Either an accident or a homicide is plausible.”
Angelo stared down at the eddies formed by the water passing around the dock supports. “Your uncle the cop, he ever talk to you about his cases?”
“Often.”
“What would he think of this?”
“Hard to say. But I know he has confidence in the opinion of Inspector Crispi.”
“It’s time for you to see this Crispi again to find out what’s going on.”
“I was going to make another visit to the newspaper archive, but I’ll call him when we get to the hotel.”
“Do it.”
Out on the water’s surface a dark line pushed toward them, the front edge of a gust bringing not just a chill but rain. A few small drops began to fall, followed immediately by larger ones. Rick heard footsteps and turned to see Marco rushing down the path, holding an open umbrella. Angelo met him halfway and took it, gesturing for Rick to join him underneath while the driver ran ahead. By the time they got to the car and jumped inside it was a full-blown storm.
“You’d better get us onto the pavement quickly,” shouted Angelo over the noise of the downpour on the metal roof.
Marco needed no urging. He started the engine, made a quick turn, and got back onto a road that was rapidly turning from dirt to mud. By the time they bumped onto the blacktop a few minutes later, the Mercedes had fishtailed twice on the slick surface. He drove slowly through the storm while his passengers sat silently. The only sound beside the rain itself was the whomp-whomp of the wipers trying to keep up with it. When they passed the gate to the Rondini dairy, there was no sign of the demonstrators. The storm had driven them away. Halfway back to the city, the clouds disappeared as quickly as they had formed, allowing rays of sunlight to play on the lake as they drove into Mantova.
The archive room had not changed since the morning, even down to the newspaper that da Feltre was reading, though it appeared he was on the final pages. Rick wondered if the man paced his reading to make it last the entire day, in conformity with Parkinson’s Law. Did he ever leave? He scanned the desk for a telltale crumb indicating a bag lunch, and finding none decided that the man might in fact go somewhere else for his midday meal. There was no sign on the glass door giving hours, but perhaps da Feltre taped a “back in an hour” note when he took his lunch break. He squinted through the thick lenses and a trace of a grin appeared when he recognized Rick.
“My most loyal customer,” he said.
“I just can’t stay away,” Rick answered, and gestured at the work station. “May I?”
“Be my guest.” Rather than return to the newspaper, the man kept looking at his visitor.
“Is there something else, Signor da Feltre?”
The man rubbed his finger over his nose, slightly dislodging the glasses. “Yes. Yes, there was. After you left I recalled that someone was here about a month ago, also looking for information about the Rondini family. Strange, isn’t it?” After the rhetorical question, his eyes dropped to the paper and Rick walked to his cubicle.
Strange, indeed. But of any significance? Rick tucked the information into the back of his mind and turned on the computer, thinking that he had not yet read the recent stories about the death of Roberto Rondini. Calculating when the murder must have taken place, he quickly found the edition which broke the story. It ran an interview with the jogger who had found the body, including a staged photograph of him pointing to the water’s edge near the castle, grotesquely enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame. The next day’s paper mentioned Inspector Crispi, who refused to be specific about the cause of death, though that did not stop the reporter from assuming it was a fishing accident since the victim was known to be active in a local sport fishing association. No mention was made by the policeman, nor the reporter, of the fishing dock. Both stories mentioned the Rondini dairy operation and that Livia Guarino was the next of kin to the deceased. Other than the formal death notice, which Rick had read that morning, those were the only stories he could find in the paper about Roberto Rondini’s death. He scrolled back to check if he’d missed something in earlier editions about the man before the death, but the same
stories caught his eye.
With one exception.
Ten days before the body was found, a report on the inside pages covered a water pollution protest staged in a park area beside the lake. A photo showed a small group of protesters holding signs and shouting for the camera. They were concerned, wrote the reporter, about any development which could dump bad things into the Mincio, and they wanted the government to prevent it. From its size and signs, the group could have been the same one that Marco’s Mercedes had squeezed past in and out of the Rondini dairy. It also had the same leader, identified as Domenico Folengo, the man who had glared through the car windows as his compatriots yelled.
Rick took notes and set the search to a couple decades earlier. He wanted to get more information for his boss on the elder Rondini, the man who started the dairy operation that Roberto Rondini had inherited and would now pass to Livia Guarino.
The paper had no lack of stories about Enzo Rondini and again showed the paper’s dislike for the man. Rick skimmed over those he’d read on his first visit but found enough new ones to occupy him. The one that jumped out immediately told of the family that had been displaced when Enzo had worked the deal to have their property taken over for lack of tax payments. The head of the family was forced to pack up his family and head north to Verona where a dreary factory job would be his only chance of employment. The paper described him and his bitter wife driving off in a battered car, children squeezed into the back seat with the family belongings. The account made Enzo Rondini into a modern Italian Simon Legree, but Rick assumed much of it to be journalistic license until he saw the photo of a child staring blankly from the rear window of a car.
He was searching for another Rondini story when he heard the muffled sound of the Lobo Fight Song coming from his coat pocket. He pulled out the cell phone and saw that it was an 0376 area code number for Mantova. Signor da Feltre didn’t look up.
A Funeral in Mantova Page 9