A Funeral in Mantova

by David P. Wagner

  “Of course, Uncle.”

  Angelo leaned back against the cushions and adjusted his tie. Since the day of the arrival, except for the funeral, he had worn the same light-gray wool suit, but always with a different tie. Today it had a red-and-blue-stripe pattern.

  “Where would I find records of my own birth? I know that my parents emigrated to America when I was an infant, but there must be something written somewhere. My birthplace was Voglia, which I think is just south of here.”

  “It is. It’s in the area called Virgilio, named for Mantova’s most famous native son. Voglia is where my grandfather Enzo lived when he was young.”

  “Probably the whole Rondini family lived there, including my parents. Your father wasn’t born in Voglia, was he?”

  “No, in Mantova at the same hospital where I was born. I’ve driven through Voglia a few times, and I can tell you there isn’t much to it. You should try the municipio, where births and deaths are recorded, but also the parish church, where you’d find records of baptisms.”

  Later Rick, Angelo, and Lexi stopped halfway down the path in front of the Rondini home. They had said their good-byes to Livia, who reminded them of the event in honor of her father that evening. The early fog had disappeared, leaving a sparkle on the ground from the rays of the late-morning sun. Along the fence next to the road, a worker perched on a mower was making his final turn in the direction of the dairy buildings. Ragged lines of grass-cuttings left by the machine sent off a rich smell that enveloped the three people standing on the path.

  “We have enough things to keep us busy until that event this evening,” said Angelo, talking like the CEO in a staff meeting. “Language Man, can you find someplace where I can order a monument? If we pay them enough, they should be able to do it on a rush basis. And you have to talk to your cop friend to find out what’s going on with his investigation. You should also tell him about the falling cheese, though I don’t want him pushing me again to have police protection. And let’s see if we can get to that town of Voglia to look up my birth record. I think it would be fascinating to see.”

  “Lexi,” said Rick, “if you can lend me your tablet, I’ll look up some stone places and also find where Voglia is.”

  Lexi fished out the tablet from her bag, hit a button to turn it on, and passed it to Rick. “It automatically reset from Chicago to Italy when we got here, so any search you do will be based on this location.”

  Rick checked the screen and started tapping in letters.

  Angelo took her elbow. “Lexi, while he’s doing that, I need to talk to you about the Hawaii project. I read the notes you put on my breakfast tray, and I think I know what I want to do.” They strolled down the path toward the car where the driver was waiting. Angelo talked and gestured as he walked, while Lexi made notes on the small pad she’d taken from her purse. A few minutes later Rick was walking toward them, holding up the tablet.

  “This thing works great, Lexi. If I can ever afford it, I’ll get one for myself.” The two had paused next to the Mercedes, where Marco stood holding the door open. They watched Rick reach them. “I found what looks like the perfect place to buy stonework, including grave markers and other memorials. It’s just south of Mantova. Marco, do you know where this place is?” He held the screen close to the driver.

  “Yes, of course. It’s in the zona industriale near the river.”

  Rick passed the tablet back to Lexi, who turned it off and stowed it in her purse. “Shall we go there now?” he asked.

  “Yes,” answered Angelo, “but we’ll drop Lexi at the hotel first. She has to get on the phone and spoil the breakfast of a few people back in Chicago.”

  He dropped himself into the back seat of the car. Lexi flashed Rick a quick grin and took her place next to her boss.

  Rick extended his leg onto the floor of the front seat but pulled it back slowly and eased into the seat from a different angle. Perhaps the flying cheeses had done more damage than he’d realized.

  The industrial zone just south of the city was not on any of the tourist itineraries. Not that it was especially unsightly; it had its own style of orderliness, one which marked a prosperous local economy. But rather than the tranquility of history and art found in the center of Mantova, the atmosphere here was movement and noise caused by metal and machinery. Small factories, service businesses, depots, and warehouses lined both sides of the street, its surface showing the wear that came from the traffic of large vehicles. Save for the license plates on the trucks and the gauge of the railroad tracks that cut across the street, it could have been an industrial park outside any small American city.

  The Mercedes turned through the iron gate of the monument business and drove past stones of various sizes and shapes before coming to a stop in front of the low metal building that served as the office. When Rick and Angelo emerged from the sealed-in silence of the car they could hear the sound of metal against stone coming from a shed to one side. The door to the office opened and a young woman dressed in jeans and a sweater came out. A gust of wind caught her long hair and blew it in front of her face.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in Italian while brushing the hair aside.

  Rick stepped forward and got right to the point. “This is Signor Angelo Rondini, visiting from America. He is looking for a small stone memorial for his deceased cousin Roberto Rondini. My name is Montoya, I’m his interpreter.”

  She shook Rick’s hand and then Angelo’s. “I’m sorry I don’t speak English. We’ll be glad to help, but there is something I don’t understand. We did the gravestone for Roberto Rondini, so what is it this gentleman needs?”

  Angelo listened without understanding, but knew from her body language that she had asked a question. “You know what I want, Language Man. Explain it to her.” He walked off and began looking at the stone pieces that sat in the open air.

  “He must be upset by the death of his cousin,” she said when Angelo was some distance away.

  Or something else is bothering him, Rick thought. Perhaps the Hawaii project, whatever that might be.

  “Mr. Rondini would like to put up a small memorial along the river, near the place where his cousin loved to go fishing. Unfortunately, it is a rush job, since he would like it installed tomorrow. He will of course pay you extra to get it finished expeditiously. There would be some words carved into it, but a minimum. ‘In Memory of Roberto Rondini,’ is all.”

  “I think we can do it. People usually die suddenly, so we are used to working on short deadlines, and right now business is slow. If he can choose the stone, we can do the wording in a few hours and have it put in place in the morning.”

  They looked at Angelo, who had stopped in front of an ionic column about four feet high, its top broken off leaving a jagged surface.

  “That one is very popular,” she said. “The broken stone symbolizes a life cut short.”

  “Let’s see what he thinks.” They walked to Angelo, who continued to study the column, his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. “She can do it, Mr. Rondini. Is this column what you had in mind?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. I think this would be fine. They can do it all by tomorrow morning, including the inscription?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Angelo nodded and waved his hand weakly to indicate it was a deal. The woman went inside to prepare the paperwork, leaving the two men standing next to the column. They watched a truck loaded with stone blocks drive in past the Mercedes where Marco was standing, smoking a cigarette. With a loud grinding of gears the truck shifted into reverse and backed toward the shed. Two men in overalls came out, brushed gray dust off themselves, and surveyed the shipment.

  “They’re going to need some equipment to unload those pieces,” said Angelo. He spoke the words but his mind was elsewhere.

  “You okay, Mr. Rondini?”

  “Huh? Sure, I’m fine, Language Man.
Got a lot on my plate.”

  “Business issues?”

  He shook his head. “No, that will work itself out. It’s this whole deal with my cousin. His death. A possible murder. And then someone pushes the cheese on us. Add to that the whole trip here, bringing me back for the first time to where I was born. There’s a lot for me to absorb. I’m glad you’re here to help.”

  “I haven’t really done anything, Mr. Rondini.”

  “Yeah, you have.” They watched as a small forklift came out of the shed and pulled up behind the truck. The two workers argued about what should come next in the process. “I suppose you know all about your Italian family.”

  “My aunt and uncle have told me a bit. I probably should pick their brains more about the Fontanas, and ask my mother when I see her next. I was pretty young when my Italian grandparents died, but I remember the funerals. Every once in a while I think that I should make a visit to their graves, outside of Rome, but I haven’t yet.”

  The forklift driver had taken charge, slipping the metal prongs under the pallet that held the stone. The hydraulic motor groaned as it lifted its load from the bed of the truck.

  “Do it,” said Angelo. “Life is short.” As if to make his point, he checked his watch. “I had wanted to visit Voglia now, but I’ll tell Marco we’ll do it tomorrow morning, since I have to get back to confer with Lexi on that project. We’ll get lunch at the hotel. I want you to go to the newspaper again to find out more about the various Rondinis, including yours truly.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and passed it to Rick. “These are my parents’ names. See if there’s anything there about them. And I want you to go see your friend the cop and get an update from him. That should keep you busy until it’s time to go to the event at the—what’s the name of the place?”

  “Palazzo Te.”

  “Kind of a strange name.”

  “I looked it up. Comes from the local word for huts, since apparently there were many of them on the acreage when the Gonzagas decided to build the palazzo there. Perhaps a bit of ironic humor on their part.”

  “So it’s not a hut?”

  “We’ll see this evening.”

  Crispi had suggested they meet over lunch, which sounded good to Rick. There was something about being attacked by cheese that gave one an appetite. As would be expected for a restaurant only a few blocks from the questura, police sat at many of the tables, and the caste system of their profession was evident. Uniforms dined together. Plainclothes—many with pistols on their belts—sat separately. The clientele was mostly male, with a few women mixed in with the uniformed cops. The noise level was high, another indication that the place was filled with regulars, and the plain walls and stone floor did little to dampen the decibels. One of the waiters, who was clearly aware of Crispi’s status, led the inspector and Rick to a quieter table in the corner and placed menus in front of them. He took their order for wine and mineral water and departed.

  Rick had glanced at the tables as they’d walked to theirs, and most of the choices were what he had expected policemen to eat in cold weather: hearty, stick-to-the-ribs fare. He barely had time to study the choices when the waiter returned with a bottle of water and a liter of the house red. Crispi, who had made a cursory glance at the menu, passed it to the waiter and ordered agnoli in brodo followed by the stracotto di manzo. Rick listened and told the waiter he’d have the same. Stuffed pasta in broth was the perfect way to start a meal when there was a chill in the air. Then pot roast on a bed of polenta, likely enough food to last him through the rest of the day. He snapped off a crust of bread and took a sip of the wine.

  “You have some information for me, Montoya? This investigation, such as it is, appears to be going nowhere. No more threats to your employer?”

  “No more threats.”

  Strictly speaking, it was true. An actual attempt to harm someone was not a threat, after all. And Angelo, just before leaving Rick in the hotel lobby, had said that, on second thought, he didn’t want Crispi to know about the incident in the cheese-aging room. The inspector would become more adamant about police protection, and Angelo still wanted no part of that. Rick rubbed his sore leg under the table and wondered if it was the right decision.

  “We went to the dairy this morning on Livia Guarino’s invitation and did a tour of the cheese-making operation.”

  “Did she say anything that might help with the investigation?”

  “No. And in fact she didn’t take us on the tour since her husband had an accident last night and she wanted to stay close to him.”

  Crispi frowned. “What kind of accident?”

  “Hard to say. He made a brief appearance and I saw bruises on the front and back of his head, but they didn’t elaborate on what actually happened. So the manager, Carlo Zucari, gave us the cheese tour. Something else. The guy who owns the dairy across the road, Emilio Fiore, was coming out of the plant when we drove up, so Zucari doesn’t appear to hold the same antagonism toward the man that his late boss did.”

  The agnoli arrived, floating in shallow bowls of almost clear, capon broth. Lexi would be pleased. They sprinkled on Parmigiano-Reggiano, mixing its pungency with the rich flavor of the capon, before picking up their spoons and wishing each other a buon appetito.

  “Perhaps the two were talking about that plot of land which appears to be the source of so much grief,” said Crispi after eating a few agnoli. “I had one of my sergeants, who is good at such things, do a title search on that plot. I wondered why it has been left to seed.”

  “What did he find?”

  “She. She found that it was originally owned, decades ago, by a farmer who couldn’t pay his taxes. It was taken over by the province and then sold to Roberto Rondini’s father.”

  “I read about that incident in the archives of the Gazzetta, but didn’t know that it was the same piece of land that now may come up for sale.”

  “According to tax assessment records, the plot was never developed, even though it is part of the Rondini dairy farm. Neither the recently deceased Roberto Rondini, nor his father, ever did anything with it.”

  “Until, possibly, now.” Rick finished the last of the agnoli and started on what was left of the broth with his spoon. “But why wouldn’t they have used the plot to grow grass? I don’t know anything about farming, but I would assume that it is efficient to rotate your cows among various pastures.”

  “That was my thought as well.”

  “Something else curious about Carlo Zucari, the manager. I ran into him last night when Lexi Coleman, Signor Rondini’s assistant, and I were having coffee after dinner. He was with a woman, and he introduced me to her.”

  “And?”

  “Letizia Bentivolgio. Isn’t she the woman who Roberto Rondini was seeing in town?”

  Crispi put his spoon inside the empty bowl. His expression hadn’t changed. “Yes, she is, and yes, that is curious. When I interviewed her she told me she’d met Rondini when he and his manager had come to buy equipment where she worked. It should have occurred to me that it was Zucari. I’ll have to think about that one for a while.”

  “Well, I’ve thought about it, and concluded that it gives Zucari a motive to murder his boss.” Rick took Crispi’s silent stare as an invitation to continue. “Zucari and Letizia were a couple, and then Roberto Rondini moved in on her. She goes with the rich owner instead of the manager. Motive. Now that Roberto is out of the picture, Zucari moves back into it.”

  Crispi drummed his fingers on the table. “We have quite a drama.”

  “Another member of the drama’s cast showed up early this morning when I was doing a run with Lexi along the lake.”

  The bowls were taken away by one waiter seconds before another put down the dishes with their second course. Not exactly fast food, but the staff knew that most of the policemen had a limited time for lunch. Rich vapors wafted up from the
pot roast served on a bed of polenta, the meat’s dark red juices spreading over the yellow edges. Both men studied their plates for a moment before taking forks in hand.

  “And which one of the dramatis personae would that be?” asked Crispi after his first bite.

  Rick recounted the encounter with Domenico Folengo, describing in detail how the activist had confronted Lexi and had paid the price.

  To Rick’s surprise, Crispi actually smiled. “I wish I had been there to see it. What a shame Folengo didn’t come running to my office to bring charges for assault. We could have used some levity this morning.” He resumed his deadpan expression and tucked into his main dish. “What did his manifesto say?”

  “What you would expect. Keep the environment natural, save the planet by starting with the Mincio River. It did not make much of an impression on Signor Rondini. In fact he said in the car on the way to the dairy that he might tell his niece to sell the land for development just to annoy Folengo.” Rick noticed the puzzled look on the policeman’s face. “He was joking, of course.”

  “I never understand your American humor.”

  Nor Italian humor, Rick decided. He took up a piece of the stracotto and dipped it in the polenta, recalling the polenta under Angelo’s perch the day before at the elegant restaurant in Goito. His today had to be just as good. At half the price.

  “Inspector, can I interrupt for a moment?” The man who spoke had been walking by the table toward the door when he saw Crispi. Now he noticed Rick and waved his hand. “Never mind, I can talk to you later.”

  “It’s all right, Lanzi. What is it you wanted to say?”

  Though not comfortable with a stranger listening, Lanzi continued. “The gambling investigation. As you suspected, it looks like it involves an out-of-town syndicate. Probably from Milan. I’ve got a call in to the questura there this afternoon.”

  “Good. Let me know the details.”

  The policeman joined his colleagues waiting for him at the door.