A Funeral in Mantova

by David P. Wagner

  “So the two threats could be connected to the possible murder of Roberto Rondini.”

  “I don’t see how, Lexi, but it’s too much of a coincidence to discount. And Inspector Crispi did offer your boss police protection, so the cops are taking it seriously.”

  The waiter arrived at the table with a bottle of mineral water in one hand and a basket of crusty bread in the other. He set both on the table and deftly popped the cap off the water with an opener he had in his pocket.

  “Un litro del vostro rosso,” Rick said to him, and the man walked away.

  “What was that?” Lexi asked.

  “I ordered a bottle of the house red. You want to eat like the locals, you have to drink like them, too. Do you want me to order for you tonight?”

  She pushed away her menu. “I can’t read this anyway. Go for it. Just don’t order anything that comes from inside the animal.”

  “I’m with you on that. You know, when I first saw you I feared that you might be a vegetarian. You looked like the type.”

  “I was a vegan for a while in college, but it didn’t last long.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “Bacon.”

  “Ah.”

  The wine, dark and crimson, arrived in a decorated ceramic pitcher. Rick filled their glasses and they toasted their absent host and looked around the room, which was beginning to fill with a clientele distinctly different from the previous evening. Most of the diners chatted with the waitstaff like they ate there often. Many only gave the menu a cursory glance before ordering. Greetings were exchanged between tables. This was a neighborhood hangout.

  “Tell me, Rick,” Lexi began after taking a long pull on her wine, “is it Richard or Riccardo? I heard the driver calling you Riccardo.”

  “It’s Rick. But for the full name, it depends on which side of the Atlantic I find myself. By chance my two grandfathers shared the name—Riccardo Fontana and Richard Montoya—so when I was born, the decision was easy for my parents. In both countries kids are often named after grandparents, of course. My American passport has Richard, and my Italian one Riccardo. What about Alexis?”

  “I think it was an aunt. But maybe some TV star. My mother watched a lot of soap operas when she was carrying me.”

  The waiter appeared and Rick made a quick study of the menu before giving their order. “Be surprised,” he said to Lexi. “Good peasant food, all.”

  “I’m for that. You wouldn’t think that working on a computer and a telephone would give me such an appetite, but it does.” She pulled a piece of bread from the basket. It was mostly holes and had a thick crust darkened by the oven. “Do you think Angelo is really in danger, Rick?”

  “I think that if someone wanted to do him harm it would have already happened. But there’s no doubt in my mind of a connection between the demise of his cousin and those threats, and that connection is probably the infamous plot of land. That’s what draws in your boss.”

  Lexi bit down on the bread with a crunch and chewed. “There must be somewhere in Chicago where I can get bread like this.” She swallowed and took another drink of wine. “I’m worried. Tell me I shouldn’t worry, Rick.”

  “Wish I could.”

  “You said you have an uncle who’s a cop. What did he think of the threats?”

  “I haven’t talked to him since the first one, but he’ll probably just tell me to be careful. That’s what he’s always said in such situations.”

  “Did you?”

  “Most of the time.”

  A large platter of sliced salumi came to the table along with two plates that the waiter put in front of them. He pointed out culatello, coppa, and bresaola before wishing them buon appetito and retiring.

  “This looks great,” said Lexi as she picked up her fork. “Which should I try first?”

  “The culatello is the king of local cured meats, but you shouldn’t choke on the other two either.”

  They speared slices on their forks and transferred them to their own plates before cutting and eating. The bread served as a palate clearer between tastes of the three types, along with sips of the red wine. When the plate was empty they agreed that the culatello was the best, but the other two were in a tie for second place.

  Conversation returned to the murder and Rick told her about the possible suspects: Livia’s husband, Francesco; the farm manager, Carlo Zucari; Emilio Fiore, the gruff neighbor; and now perhaps one of the protesters outside the farm gate.

  “Not just random, or a mugging gone bad, or a nutcase? That’s what many of the Chicago murders turn out to be.”

  “Mantova isn’t Chicago, Lexi. There’s something behind this one. My uncle always tells me that there are very few motives when it comes to murder. Revenge, sex, and money are the big three. Vendetta is an Italian word, of course, so revenge could be the motive, but revenge for what? And sex? A widower with a girlfriend a few years younger? Doesn’t seem that that one flies either. Money is what I would bet on at this point, and that plot of land is worth a lot of it. Ah, the pasta has arrived.”

  The salumi plates had been cleared, and in their place the waiter set a large bowl filled halfway with thin ribbons of pasta coated by a dark sauce. Next to it was a single dish. The waiter took a fork and spoon, stirred the pasta a few times, and transferred half of it to the dish before saying something to Rick. Rick inclined his head toward Lexi.

  “He seems to have forgotten the other plate, Rick.”

  The waiter picked up the serving bowl and placed it in front of Lexi. Rick got the plate.

  “There was a restaurant in Rome near the embassy that used to serve spaghetti alla carbonara this way,” he said. “My sister and I would order it and argue over who got the bowl. Used to drive my parents crazy. This is papardelle al sugo d’anatra, ribbon pasta with duck sauce.” He peered at her portion. “I think he gave you more.”

  “You’re not getting my bowl.” She took a bite and her eyes widened. “I think I’ll just let you order for me from now on.”

  Talking was put on pause to allow enjoyment of the papardelle, but then it returned to less pleasant issues than food. Rick was regretting he’d had to tell Lexi about the murder. It was causing her daytime personality to creep into her evening breeziness. It showed a protective side in her as well. Angelo had told Rick he was concerned about Lexi’s social life, and now she was worried about her boss’s safety. Like father and daughter, these two.

  After a simple green salad to help digest the earlier two courses, they decided to call it an evening, with a stop for coffee on the way back to the hotel. Once again the chill of the air greeted them as they stepped into the street, but instead of snow, the stones were coated with the moisture of the evening fog. It was a cold, penetrating fog that went deep into their lungs with every breath. Its invisible droplets were bent on cleansing the city, pushing against doors and windows and wafting through the leafless branches of trees. Halfway to the hotel they spotted the defused yellow light of a bar still open despite the hour. Rick opened the door and Lexi hurried in.

  It must have been one of the few establishments in the city that was both open and serving warm drinks, since the small room was almost filled to capacity. He guessed that a movie had just let out nearby, and a controversial one, since most of the customers were in animated conversations. Many of them sipped from small glasses, but cups were the container of choice, and the one man behind the bar banged away at his coffee machine to keep up with demand. Customers stood two deep at the bar, and around small tables that stood on one side of the room.

  “What would you like, Lexi? An Italian would never order a cappuccino at this hour, but you’re a tourist, so you are allowed. With the chill it might be just what you need.”

  “It does sound perfect.”

  “Go over and guard that last table while I get it.” Rick worked his way
through the people and got the attention of the barman. “Un cappuccio e un caffè macchiato.” The man was pouring two shots of grappa but nodded to confirm that he’d gotten the order. Rick looked back to see Lexi standing patiently next to the table, ready to repel any interlopers.

  The barman was fast, despite the volume of orders. After leaving a good tip, Rick picked up the two cups and saucers and squeezed back through the people to get to their table. A bowl of sugar awaited their coffee. Rick set the cappuccino in front of Lexi and spooned sugar into his coffee. She picked up her cup, held it in both hands to absorb the warmth, and took a sip. No sugar for her.

  “Excellent, Rick.” She looked around after a second swallow. “I feel like I’m really in Italy on this trip.” She glanced back at him. “I know. Where else would I be? But you know what I mean.”

  He finished his coffee in one swig. “I know exactly what you mean. It is the advantage of getting off the tourist track, coming in the off season, and most importantly, seeing someplace other than the big cities.”

  “Speaking Italian helps. Or traveling with someone who does.”

  He shrugged. “I’m sure you could learn it easily. Do you speak another language?”

  “College French.”

  “Better than nothing.”

  She finished her coffee and rubbed her fingers over the window, wiping away the moisture caused by the heat of the room. The street was narrow, but the building on the other side was barely visible through the fog. “We’d better get back, Rick. There will be e-mails waiting for me to answer and reports to read.”

  “Let me get rid of these so they can use the table.”

  Lexi watched as he picked up their cups and saucers and carefully worked his way through the crowd. After placing them at one corner of the bar he turned and found himself hemmed in by a man who was carrying on an animated conversation with the woman next to him. Rick tapped the man on the shoulder to get by. The man turned, said something to Rick and shook his hand. The man introduced Rick to the woman and they shook hands. After a minute of conversation, Rick gestured toward Lexi, tapped his finger on his wrist where a watch would be, and took his leave. Lexi was waiting for him at the door.

  “Someone you know?” she asked.

  Rick pushed open the door and they stepped back into the cold arms of Mantova’s fog. They both pulled their coats tighter around them as they started in the direction of the hotel.

  “One of them. Carlo Zucari, the manager of the Rondini dairy. He reiterated the invitation to tour the operation. You are invited, too, of course.”

  “I’d enjoy that. Is that his wife?”

  They turned the corner and Lexi tucked her arm under Rick’s. The street was deserted save for a line of cars parked along one side. Fog and cold had scared away any cats which normally might have prowled at this hour. They were indoors, on something warmer than the dark cobblestones.

  “That’s the interesting part. He introduced me to her. I don’t know if he’s married or not, but that’s not his wife.”

  “Why is that interesting?”

  “Her name is Letizia Bentivoglio. If I remember correctly, she is the one Inspector Crispi said is the lady friend of the recently deceased Roberto Rondini.”

  “Hmm. As they say in mystery novels, the plot thickens.”

  “Lexi, no mystery author worth his salt would ever write that.” From deep inside his coat pocket he felt the vibration of his phone. He unhooked his arm from Lexi’s and extracted it with some difficulty, squinting to read the number. “I’ll call them back.” He quickly returned it to his pocket.

  Despite the chill, he was perspiring. The evening had not gone well, continuing a pattern of the last few weeks. He knew he should have concentrated on the business at hand and not be distracted, but for him that seemed impossible. Where had he left his car? He took in a breath of the night air and coughed when the cold exploded in his lungs. Damn this fog. He looked up and down the street, trying to remember where he’d parked, and decided it had to be just ahead. His footsteps echoed along the narrow street as he searched the line of cars. Darkness took away the features of everything on the street. All the buildings looked the same: flat, two-storied fronts, silent and shuttered. The cars, no matter what their daytime color had been, were black. A few streetlamps, unable to penetrate the heavy fog, left weak circles on the stone pavement or on the roofs of vehicles. Finally, he spotted his Alfa three cars ahead and increased his pace, pulling out his keys as he went.

  Just as he reached the car the attacker struck.

  He screamed in pain and fell forward toward the curb, his hands instinctively extended to stop the fall. The palms slid off the wet metal of the car’s hood and his forehead slammed into the glass of the windshield. As he slid into the gutter he reached for the back of his head where he had been struck. Warm blood covered his hand and seeped into the cuff of his shirt. He was on his knees now, grasping the fender of the car parked behind his. A second blow hit him, but the thick collar of his overcoat rendered it harmless. His body stiffened in preparation for a third, but instead he heard a voice and the rattle of a shutter opening above them. Thank God, someone had heard him cry out. The weapon clattered to the ground and his assailant took off running. Running fast. He got to his feet and peered through the fog at the sound, but could see nothing. On the ground next to him was a thick piece of wood. An axe handle? Whatever it was he didn’t care, his only thought now was escape. He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to his neck before opening his car door and dropping into the seat behind the steering wheel.

  When the old man looked down from the open window, all he saw was fog and a pair of red tail lights disappearing into the darkness.

  Chapter Seven

  After a final pandiculation, Rick was ready to go. He was never one for extensive warm-up, even on cold days like this one, but Lexi apparently felt differently. She placed her left heel on the rim of the tall flowerpot in front of the hotel and bent her head down to touch her extended leg. She repeated the stretch with the other leg, then did several knee bends. Rick bounced in place and watched her, trying to remember the word for “tights” in Italian. It wasn’t something that came up often in translating articles for academic journals.

  “Lead the way.” She made a few jumps on the balls of her feet.

  The streetlamps had just clicked off when they came out of the hotel, but one car that passed them still had its headlights lit, though more for the fog than the darkness. They ran shoulder to shoulder along the narrow sidewalk, keeping to the curb so as not to knock down anyone who might emerge from one of the buildings. There was not much chance of that; the city was just beginning to wake up and this section of town was mostly residential. Only the bars would be open at this hour, dispensing strong coffee to those who couldn’t sleep or had the bad fortune of working an early shift. Stores and other businesses would not open for three hours, and most of their clients would arrive well after that.

  They crossed the small canal that cut across the southern part of the town center and turned east toward the lake. A wide path ran above the water’s edge, a promenade where the families of Mantova strolled on Sundays and holidays. Without saying anything to Rick, Lexi took the lead. This morning the fog wafted in off the lake, cutting the visibility of both path and water, and bringing with it a humid chill. They didn’t feel the cold; if anything, it added to the pleasure of the run. Rick took in gulps of the air and noted its difference from what he was used to breathing on his morning runs in downtown Rome. Perhaps Lexi was noticing the same contrast with Chicago, though, like Mantova, it had its own lake. She ran like she was by herself, and thanks to a long stride, that was just what was happening. Rick watched as she steadily lengthened the distance between them.

  The castle loomed up on the left. Floodlights which lit the walls each night had been shut off, and there was not yet enough natural light t
o bring out the texture of the stone, leaving the walls a uniform dark gray. The path dropped lower, closer to the surface of the lake, running along the initial section of the causeway before looping down beneath it. A truck rumbled overhead as Rick turned under the roadway and continued along the path which now rose back to its former level. A male runner, dressed for the cold, passed him going in the opposite direction, nodding a silent greeting. Lexi was now about twenty yards ahead, and the path was flat and straight. The grassy area between it and the street widened, and the occasional wood table and benches appeared, waiting for good weather to bring picnickers. On the other side of the street, the city’s northern wall stretched for a few hundred yards before being replaced by the side of a more modern building. Lexi, then Rick, passed three fishermen seated on metal lawn chairs and bundled against the morning chill. They kept their eyes on the lake, seemingly oblivious to the runners as well as to each other. Rick looked up and saw that Lexi was running in place in front of a tunnel that went under the road.

  “Time to turn back?” she asked when he reached her side.

  “Good idea,” Rick said while breathing heavily. “I’ve studied the map and I’m pretty sure this doesn’t go anywhere except up to a busy street.” As they turned, his phone rang.

  Lexi raised her eyebrows. “You better get that, it could be your policeman.”

  After pulling the cell phone from the small pocket with difficulty, he saw the number and realized he hadn’t called back last night. “I’d better take this, Lexi. It’ll only be a minute.”