A Funeral in Mantova

by David P. Wagner

  “I guess he didn’t find out until this morning about having to show us around,” said Rondini. He leaned over the pool and pushed another cheese wheel. “I saw that you were talking to him while Lexi and I were wandering about.”

  “I asked him what Emilio Fiore was doing here.”

  “Ah, Fiore. Lexi, that was the guy getting into the pickup. He has the farm across the road and did not exactly get along with my cousin.”

  Lexi nodded. “I see. And now that your cousin is gone, the neighbor and the foreman are on friendly terms. Curious.”

  “Zucari told me that he’s always gotten along with the neighbor,” said Rick. “I also asked him how he got his job, and he said Roberto Rondini was a friend of his father.”

  “It’s not what you know, but who you know,” said Rondini. “It’s the same everywhere. But in order to keep the job, and move up, you have to be good at it. Having an in with the owner only gets you so far. Isn’t that right, Lexi?”

  She smiled. “If you say so, Mr. Rondini.”

  Rick pointed to the doors at the opposite end of the room. “Shall we go into the aging room?”

  “Lead the way, Language Man.”

  They walked between the troughs under the gaze of the worker, and past a row of steel trolleys ready to transport the cheese to its next location. Rick pushed through the doors and they found themselves in a room with a ceiling three times as high as the one they’d just left. Rows of shelves, separated by narrow aisles, towered above them. It was like the inner sanctum of some huge library, dimly lit and musty. But instead of ancient books, the shelves held wheels of light brown cheese, and the mustiness was the pungent odor of aging Parmigiano-Reggiano.

  “Wow,” said Lexi. “This is impressive. There are thousands of these wheels in here. It must be worth a fortune.” She pulled out her smartphone and ran her thumbs quickly over the screen. “Nine dollars a pound in the States.” She looked up at the rows. “It’s like being in Fort Knox.”

  “Grana is a slang word for money in Italian,” Rick said. “Which is the same word used for this kind of hard cheese.”

  “I can see why,” said Angelo. He walked to the end of one of the rows and touched a wheel of cheese. “It’s like an assembly line printing money. Every time you put a new row of cheese up to age you pull off another row and sell it. With a capable manager keeping an eye on things, my cousin could just let the process take care of itself and spend his time fishing. Not bad at all.”

  “What about marketing and sales?” Lexi said.

  “Sales must be easy,” answered Rick, “when only a relatively few producers, by Italian and European law, can make Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. The consortium, which was created by the dairies, protects the geographic monopoly and does a lot of the marketing and public relations, so that helps too.” He ran his hand along the shelf. “But it wouldn’t work if they didn’t have a good product.”

  They started up one of the narrow aisles, Rick first, followed by Angelo and Lexi. Hundreds of round sides peered down at them from the shelves, the top rows barely visible from below. The silence was broken only by their footsteps, and then by the faint opening and closing of a door somewhere behind them. Zucari must have returned, Rick thought, but after ten seconds the manager had not appeared. Rick listened for footsteps and decided that the sound of the door must have carried from a different part of the factory. Then he heard another noise.

  It sounded like scraping or sliding, and it coincided with the slightest movement of the shelf on the right side of the aisle. He looked up and noticed a slight teetering of the cheese stacked five feet above them. One of the wheels began to slide slowly forward. From the next aisle over he thought he heard a low grunt just as another of the wheels started creeping toward the edge of its shelf. Then another began to move.

  Rick spun around. “Go back! They’re going to come down!”

  Angelo’s head shot upward, but he was mesmerized by the moving cheese and his body froze. Three of the wheels at the very top were almost halfway to the edge and the entire shelf rocked slowly and steadily. Fortunately, Lexi understood immediately.

  “Get his left arm,” she yelled.

  They picked up Angelo and dragged him backward just as the first wheel of cheese hit the floor and smashed into pieces behind them. It was followed by another, and another, until most of the top shelf’s contents was crashing to the floor. Rick and Lexi had almost gotten Angelo to the end of the aisle when one of the wheels glanced off the shelf on the other side and struck Rick just above his right knee. He let go of Angelo and dropped to the ground while Lexi kept pulling her boss until the two were safely against the wall near the door. Rick looked up to see another eighty-five pounds of cheese starting to tip off a top shelf above. He rolled over and it exploded next to him. On his hands and knees, he scrambled to the end of the row and out of harm’s way.

  “Somebody was pushing the shelf from the next row,” he said to Lexi and Angelo, who were huddled against the wall. “Stay there, I’ll get him.” Rick pulled himself to his feet but immediately crashed back to the ground, holding his knee. “I guess I won’t get him.”

  At that moment Carlo Zucari appeared, followed by a slew of white-clad workers. Rick looked up at the manager.

  “Too late. You missed all the excitement.”

  Chapter Eight

  The broken shards of cheese that covered the floor added new pungency to the air of the curing room. Only by counting the empty spaces on the shelves could Zucari calculate how many wheels had been lost. He was overseeing the salvage operation under the eyes of Rick, Angelo, and Lexi. The three of them stood back against the wall and watched two workers put chunks of cheese on wheeled trolleys. A third worker, raised up by a narrow forklift, was checking the shelving and adjusting cheeses that were still on it.

  “I told Signor Rondini that we needed to replace these shelves,” Zucari muttered to nobody in particular. Only Rick, among the three standing against the wall, understood him. He translated for Angelo and Lexi.

  “Don’t say anything about it being pushed,” Angelo ordered. “Livia has enough to worry about; she doesn’t need to think someone is trying to bump off her uncle.”

  “It could have been Rick they were after,” said Lexi as she poked him without Angelo noticing.

  Rick poked back. “Perhaps Folengo wanted to get back at Lexi for attacking him this morning, and he sneaked onto the farm under the cover of fog. But another possibility is that it could have been meant for our friend here.” He inclined his head toward Zucari, who was directing the man working on the top shelf. “Don’t forget that he slipped off just before it happened, and the person who did it may have been expecting him to be with us.”

  “The other scenario is that Zucari himself pushed the shelves,” Angelo said. “Or it was done by his friend, Fiore, who was here looking at equipment he wants to buy.”

  “Mr. Rondini, Rick should report this to the police.”

  Angelo took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I suppose so. You’re due to talk to him anyway, aren’t you, Language Man? He may have some news about the investigation. Do you think you can make it out to the car?”

  Rick rubbed his knee. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a flesh wound.”

  “Then let’s get that coffee from Livia. It’s going to taste good after this. And I have something important to tell her.”

  Inspector Crispi glanced at the array of food behind the vetrina before pushing open the glass door and entering the shop. A mixture of smells coming from all manner of fresh delicacies assaulted his senses, causing his thoughts about homicide to be momentarily pushed aside. The salumaio was laid out in typical Italian fashion: a refrigerated display case ran the length of the space, and behind it shelves were crowded with less perishable food. Mortadella and other meats and cheeses hung from hooks above the shelves, waiting their turn to
be taken down and sliced. Bottles of wine, in twos and threes, were squeezed in everywhere. To the right was a small counter that held a cash register. Behind it stood the man Crispi assumed was Sandro Bastoncini. He looked up when the policeman entered.

  Bastoncini wore the white coat that was standard for his profession, one which could have been that of a druggist, had it not been for traces of food near one of the buttons. Thanks to sprinkles of salt that had crept into the pepper of the man’s well-trimmed hair, Crispi calculated him to be in his early fifties. The face was ruddy, no doubt due to his hours catching fish rather than those spent slicing salami. He squinted down his nose over a pair of reading glasses, not happy to see his visitor yet curious as to the reason for the visit. When he’d called, Crispi had purposely not told Bastoncini why he needed to see him.

  “Inspector Crispi?”

  “Yes. Thank you for seeing me, Signor Bastoncini.” He didn’t feel the need to show his identification, and it wasn’t requested. “I only have a few questions. It shouldn’t take very long.”

  “I hope not. My assistant called in sick today so I’m by myself until my son comes in after school to help. What’s this about?” He folded his arms across his chest.

  “I’ll be brief. We’re doing a routine investigation into the death of Roberto Rondini, and—”

  “Rondini? I wouldn’t be surprised if someone did him in, having known the man. But from what I read in the paper it was an accidental death.”

  Crispi’s expression stayed the same. “Every indication points to an accident, yes. You knew Signor Rondini through your fishing association, I understand?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “From what you just said, can I conclude that you did not get along well with the deceased?”

  “You can well conclude that, Inspector, though that was years ago. It was not a secret that we had some disagreements, but I was not the only one, I can assure you. It all came to a head when I was running for re-election on the board of the association, and Rondini spread false rumors about me to the members.”

  The door opened and a woman entered carrying a cloth shopping bag that was partially filled. She looked at Bastoncini and smiled. A regular.

  “Ciao, Sandro.”

  “Buon giorno, Signora. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Crispi made a gesture to indicate he should take care of the customer and Bastoncini walked behind the counter in front of where the woman was now standing. She ordered four etti of sliced prosciutto, but with as little fat as possible, unlike the last time she was in. With two hands he pulled out a leg of the ham and held up the end that would be sliced. He said something that Crispi couldn’t hear, which made her giggle, and dropped it in the slicer. He turned the blade on and cut off several paper-thin slices, which he carried to the scale. It was a bit more than the four hundred grams she’d requested but she didn’t mind. She then asked for a ball of mozzarella and a portion of the Russian salad, and chatted while he got them for her. That was all for today. He brought the three items to the cash register where he totaled them up and carefully put them into the bag she held open for him. After paying, she looked Crispi up and down and departed.

  “What kind of rumors?” asked Crispi.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said Rondini spread rumors about you.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” He wiped his hands on a cloth from under the counter. “Things which would seem unimportant to non-fishermen, but are very significant for us. Like what kinds of lures I used to win our competitions or even whether I was the one who actually caught the fish. Unfortunately, there were those gullible enough to believe his nonsense.” He again folded his arms across his chest. “But, as I said, Inspector, the incident was years ago. I have gone beyond it and am involved in the association. I can’t say I’d forgiven Roberto, but it just stopped being an issue. I was even in attendance a few days ago at his funeral.”

  Crispi tried to recall the face of Bastoncini among the mourners, but since he had sat at the rear of the church, he’d seen mostly the backs of people’s heads. “I am not a fisherman, Signor Bastoncini, so I can ask you a basic question. Was it strange that he was fishing at that hour of the day?”

  “Not at all, Inspector. The early morning hours are usually the best time to catch fish. They are ready for their breakfast, you might say. Those of us who work don’t have the luxury of being able to fish every morning, like Rondini could.”

  “Everyone knew he was usually on the river at that hour?”

  “He enjoyed telling all of us in the association how often he was on the river, and I’m sure he said the same to his non-fishing acquaintances. Being seen as a wealthy man of leisure was extremely important to Roberto Rondini, especially by those of us who have to work most days.”

  “What mornings do you fish?”

  “You know the days the shops are open in this province, Inspector.”

  Crispi made a mental note to check the day of the week Rondini’s body was found.

  The coffee Livia served was dark espresso in small cups. A dish of cookies sat on the tray, decorated with colored icing and sugar, but she appeared not to have noticed them. She talked in short sentences as she poured each cup, interrupting herself to ask each of her three visitors how much sugar or cream they wished.

  “I’m mortified that you were in there when the shelf broke. Carlo says that only a dozen wheels were damaged. It could have been much worse. When we had the earthquake a few years ago, it was terrible. Some dairies were almost put out of business. The worst damage was well south of here. Carlo will have to check all the shelving now. Oh, the cookies. Alexis, please try one.”

  Lexi took one of the cookies from the tray and stirred her espresso. “Touring the dairy was fascinating, Mrs. Guarino. I will appreciate the cheese even more now that I’ve seen how it’s made.”

  “Lexi is right,” said Angelo. He stirred his coffee and sat back into the cushions of the sofa where he and Lexi sat. The other three people sensed that he was not finished, and waited in silence for him to arrange his thoughts.

  “I want you to know, Livia, that coming to Mantova, and especially to this farm, has made me more appreciative of my own roots. Meeting you, of course, is a great part of it, but just being in the land of my parents, where I was born, has opened my eyes to so much. Breathing the air here, seeing the fields, watching the river flow past…” He stopped to take a sip from his cup. “My great regret is that I did not come here sooner in my life.”

  At first Rick thought his boss was simply trying to get Livia’s mind off the accident, since she was already upset about her husband and the falling cheese hadn’t helped. A kind gesture, of the type Rondini was not likely to be known for in the competitive world of business. He hadn’t gotten this far with kindness. Yet Rick sensed that Angelo’s little speech was more than an attempt to comfort his niece. He’d spent relatively few total hours with the man since picking him up at the airport, but somehow Rick thought that something new was going on. It was a different side of Angelo Rondini, or perhaps a side that hadn’t existed before. A quick glance at the puzzled expression on Lexi’s face convinced Rick that he was correct.

  Angelo continued.

  “I’d like to make a gesture, Livia, to honor the memory of my cousin. In his death he did me a great favor by pulling me back to the land of my birth. I will be forever indebted to him for that, and want to do something to honor his memory.” He saw that Livia was about to speak, and held up his hand. “I would like to have a small memorial made, something in stone. It would be placed near the dock, overlooking the river. With your permission, of course. When I visited it yesterday I was impressed by the beauty and tranquility of the spot. I understood why your father spent so much time there—I could almost feel his presence.”

  “Uncle, that would be wonderful. Of course you have my
permission.” The smile on her face disappeared as she looked past Angelo toward the hallway behind him. “Francesco, are you feeling better?” She spoke in Italian.

  The others turned to see her husband standing in the hallway. Unlike the day of the funeral, he was dressed informally and was in need of a shave. An ugly, red bruise covered half his forehead, and he brought up a hand to cover it while his eyes squinted at the visitors.

  “I didn’t know they were here.”

  “I told you this morning, dear. You must not have heard.”

  “I’m sorry, Livia. The pain pills I took are making me groggy.”

  Angelo glanced at Rick, as if silently reminding him to remember what was being said so he could tell him later. The two men stood as Francesco approached them unsteadily.

  “You will forgive me, I hope,” he said. “An unfortunate accident last evening. I am in no condition to be sociable, I’m afraid, but Livia is capable of extending the hospitality for both of us.”

  Rick interpreted his words for Angelo and Lexi, and transmitted the answer in return.

  “Mr. Rondini hopes you feel better soon.”

  Francesco nodded and shuffled off. A small bandage was visible on the back of his head. Whether he was coming into or about to leave the house was unclear. Had the farm manager called him about the falling cheese? Rick decided there was no way to know, and certainly no way to find out. The group in the living room settled back into their chairs, and Livia was anxious to move the subject away from her husband.

  “Uncle, you are very kind to think of a memorial to my father. I know just the place you are thinking of, an open area overlooking the river and the dock. When I was a girl I used to sit there and watch the Mincio flow past.”

  He placed his empty cup on the tray. “Then it’s done. Montoya will help me find someplace that can do the work quickly. There is something else I’d like to do, Livia, and perhaps you can help.”