A Funeral in Mantova

by David P. Wagner

  “Should you really be talking other police business with a civilian listening, Inspector?”

  “If there’s one civilian I’d trust to be discreet it would be the nephew of Commissario Fontana.”

  Rick suspected his status as a confidant was due more to uncle Piero’s position than his own personal qualities, but he was pleased to accept it nonetheless. Now could he get the cop to lighten up a bit, so they might have a normal relationship? Not likely.

  “Did you interview the man from the fishing society?”

  Crispi finished a mouthful of food and patted his lips with the napkin before answering. “Signor Bastoncini. Yes. The only information I got was another confirmation that Roberto Rondini was at times a difficult man. He claims that Rondini spread rumors which cast doubts as to the honesty of his fishing practices, something which resulted in Bastoncini leaving the board. Cutthroat politics in a fishing association—can you believe it? But why am I surprised? My mother tells me stories about her lace-making group where two women are always at each others’ throats. Once, when one was in the bathroom, the other got into her basket and untwisted all the bobbins. Montoya, these are women in their seventies and eighties.” He took a drink of wine. “And they meet in the basement of the church.”

  Rick had no way to top that story. “There’s an event tonight at the Palazzo Te that the cheese consortium has organized to honor Roberto Rondini. I expect most of those in your investigation will be there, certainly the Rondini manager, Carlo Zucari, as well as the neighbor, Fiore.”

  “I would expect every producer of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese in Lombardy will be in attendance. A good opportunity to get together and exchange gossip under the pretext of honoring one of their own.” Crispi raised an index finger. “You’ll let me know if Francesco Guarino appears, despite his injuries.”

  “Of course. And there’s another event. My boss has ordered a small stone memorial to be put up along the river to honor his late cousin. The ceremony will be tomorrow afternoon. I don’t know who will be there.”

  “Near the dock?”

  “That’s what Angelo wanted, and Livia Guarino agreed.”

  Crispi shook his head. “That’s a bit tasteless, isn’t it? Near the place where the man was murdered?”

  “She thinks of it as a place where her father spent many pleasant hours.”

  The detective shrugged and put his fork on the empty plate. “You and your American employer will be busy. How long does he plan to stay in Mantova?”

  “I’m not sure. Originally, I was told that he couldn’t be away for more than a week, and the inference was that it would be less. So I would expect only a couple days more before he flies back. I don’t think I’m betraying any confidences to say that the trip is having an effect on him…apart from the murder investigation, I mean. It has opened his eyes to his Italian past, even though he left this country as an infant. He’s got me doing research on his family, but I’m not sure if he’s pleased with what I’m finding out.”

  “You mean about Roberto Rondini’s father?”

  “Correct. His Uncle Enzo was no angel, and neither was Cousin Roberto. Mr. Rondini has a forceful personality himself, as you have witnessed. It’s one reason why he’s been such a successful businessman in America. But I sense he has mixed feelings about his family’s reputation here.”

  “I fear that if we solve this murder, that reputation will not be improved.”

  Other than a small, red carnation in his lapel, Signor da Feltre looked the same. The tie was plain, as was the suit, and the day’s newspaper was once again spread out on the desk in front of him. The only sound was a soft hum coming from the florescent lights in the low ceiling which gave everything in the room a faintly ghostlike hue. The archivist looked up and smiled when Rick pushed through the doors. As usual, they were alone.

  “What’s the occasion?” Rick asked, pointing to the flower. Not that he and da Feltre were now close buddies, but after two previous visits, the question did not seem impertinent. But he added, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  Signor da Feltre looked down as if noticing it for the first time. “This? I’m meeting a lady friend after work. Coffee. Or perhaps a glass of wine. Who knows what it could lead to?”

  Was that a wink? At the very least it was a twinkle in the man’s eye. Rick had hoped that the guy had some sort of life outside the crypt where he spent his days, and it now appeared that he did. Da Feltre made an “it’s all yours” gesture toward the computers and Rick walked over to take his usual place. He sat down, pulled out the sheet Angelo had given him with his parents’ names, and pushed the ON button.

  What little information Rick found on Angelo’s parents was noticeably different in both tone and quantity from what he’d read earlier about the uncle. Angelo’s father was a graduate of the local liceo and worked as a clerk after getting his diploma. One story mentioned a scholastic award he had received on graduation. His employment at an insurance office was noted in the wedding announcement, but as would be expected of those times, no mention was made of the work status of the wife. She would become a casalinga, a housewife, and take care of the infant Angelo when he came along. The marriage took place in Voglia, where the Rondini clan had apparently lived at the time, and where Angelo was later born. There was one small story about membership in a fishing association, but it wasn’t clear if this was the same one that Roberto Rondini would join decades later. Rick concluded that fishing, when Angelo’s father was involved, was a relatively inexpensive pastime, and which brought some food to the table. It would be a natural hobby for a clerk on a limited budget. Would he have given it up completely when he emigrated to America? Fishing was not something Angelo had mentioned, even when they had visited the dock and seen Roberto’s boat. Not that the man was sharing all his childhood memories with Rick. Far from it.

  The only story that mentioned the family’s departure for the States was a short piece on the social pages about the annual Christmas party of the insurance office, held at a local restaurant. It listed awards and bonuses handed out, including to Angelo’s father, with a mention that he would be leaving the firm to take a position with an Italian export company in New York and would be sorely missed by his colleagues.

  Rick let the wheels of the chair roll him back from the monitor. He meshed his fingers together and stretched them in front of him while pondering the information he’d found about Angelo’s parents. The picture that formed of the elder Rondini was one of a solid citizen—hard-working and a follower of the rules. Perhaps even a bit dull, but that could be Rick wanting to read something into it that was not there. What was fascinating was the contrast between the two brothers, at least as described on the pages of the Gazzetta. Angelo’s father, keeping a low profile, working hard, and always toeing the line. The father of the late Roberto Rondini, brash, highly political, and somewhat shady. This might have been due to the newspaper’s political slant, but in addition they had given Enzo Rondini considerably more ink than given to the brother who had slipped off to America, never to be mentioned again. Rick scooted the chair to the keyboard and searched again for Enzo Rondini, Angelo’s uncle. He might have missed something on his previous visits to the archive.

  What he found was coverage of the man’s marriage. It took place four years after the departure of baby Angelo and his parents for New York. Enzo Rondini and his young bride, Pina, were married in the cathedral at Mantova—not, like his brother, in the parish church in Voglia. The man had moved up in the world. Rick cross-checked the names of those in the wedding party and found several to be local political leaders. He found no mention of the brother who had left for America several years earlier. Either Angelo’s parents were not invited to the wedding or maybe it was too expensive for the young family to travel back to Italy for it. Either way, it appeared that the two Rondini brothers from the little town of Voglia were living very different liv
es, and not just because they found themselves on opposite sides of the ocean.

  Rick folded his notes and slipped them into his pocket before turning off the computer and getting to his feet.

  Signor da Feltre looked up from his paper. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I did. Thank you for your help.” The man hadn’t helped at all, but it seemed like the correct thing to say. He looked at the carnation and was going to add “I hope you get lucky,” but decided against it. A minute later, as he was emerging from the building into the sunlight, he realized that there was one name that had not come up in his searches, and that was Angelo Rondini.

  Chapter Nine

  Covered with a greenish hue, the robed figure of the most famous Mantovano looked out over the park, past the bench where Rick and Angelo sat. Virgil held a scroll under his arm, perhaps a copy of his “Aeneid,” and extended the other in a dramatic oratorical gesture. Adding to the classical stereotype, the sculptor had given the poet a long, flowing robe and conferred well-earned laureate status with a crown of laurel leaves. Though the metal Virgil was oblivious to the light wind that blew along the paths of the park, causing the stubby topiary to vibrate slightly, the two men on the bench felt it. Angelo adjusted his scarf and Rick buttoned his overcoat. The park was deserted save for an older couple who were walking the rectangular path around its grass center. Their serious faces and lack of conversation gave the impression it was their daily exercise, to be completed, no matter what the weather. Angelo and Rick watched the two pass their bench for the third time.

  “What you’ve found about my father is what I would have expected. He was not the most outgoing of personalities. I’d always thought it was because he remained uncomfortable speaking English, despite reasonable fluency, or that he was ashamed of keeping his Italian accent. But I suppose he was just that kind of person, a bit introverted and more interested in numbers and spreadsheets than people. My mother was more outgoing than he was, but even she was pretty quiet. When it was just the two of them they spoke Italian, of course. I’d overhear them, and just by a process of osmosis was able to understand a few words. I definitely could tell, from their voices, if it was an argument, even without knowing what they were saying. Not that there were many arguments.”

  “They must have kept in contact with your uncle. Letters, phone calls?”

  Angelo looked up at Virgil and pondered the question before answering. “I knew I had an aunt and uncle in Italy, and a cousin, but it just didn’t come up very often. My parents were Americans by then, and proud of it, and it simply wasn’t something they dwelt on.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “Strange. Talking about this makes me remember one night when I was about ten. I was in bed and heard my parents talking. It wasn’t an argument, but they were clearly upset about something. I heard the name Enzo, so I knew they were talking about my uncle. I cracked open the door to my room, and when they saw me my mother rushed over and hugged me and I could see tears in her eyes. Funny the things you remember from your childhood.”

  “I can see how that would have made an impression on a kid.”

  Angelo nodded, his eyes still on the statue. “Now that you’ve told me all this, my guess is that they’d heard about my uncle Enzo’s activities and were glad they were in the States and had no part of it.”

  “And were very relieved that you weren’t exposed to it.”

  “Exactly. That must be why they didn’t talk about Italy that much, they were not proud of what my uncle was up to here. And why not say it—the two brothers likely didn’t get along very well when they were growing up. That happens in families.”

  Rick thought of his sister and was thankful that they always had been, and always would be, the best of friends. Moving around frequently as foreign service brats had forged that bond. There were new cities, sometimes new local languages to learn, and the formidable task of making friends in a new school, but they always knew they had each other to face it with. The idea that they would not have been close was unthinkable.

  Rondini tilted his head as he looked up at the statue, past a round fountain that had been drained for the winter. “Did you ever read anything by this guy, Language Man?”

  “I had to read some of “The Aeneid” for a course in college.”

  “You read it in the original Italian?”

  “The original was Latin, but no, I read an English translation.”

  Rondini didn’t appear to mind being corrected. Even though he was looking at Virgil, his mind was elsewhere. “So your buddy the cop didn’t tell you much of anything new when you had lunch with him. He seems to be ready to move this murder to the cold case file.”

  “I don’t think I’d go that far, Mr. Rondini, though he is frustrated that not much new has surfaced. It’s difficult to read the guy, if I might understate.”

  Rondini grunted. “I’m starting to think that this investigation won’t be resolved before I fly back to Chicago. You think something might come up at this event we’re going to tonight?”

  “Hard to say. I expect that it will be attended by the usual suspects, along with lots of others.”

  “I want you to poke around as much as you can. I should be able to find enough people who speak English to talk with. Put on your detective hat and detect. Did your uncle the cop issue you a badge?”

  “No, just a building pass to get into his office.”

  “That would get you a job on the police force in Chicago.” He rose from the bench, and a gust of wind off the lake pushed open his overcoat. “Let’s get back to the hotel, I need to have a shower before we go. I probably smell like cheese, though that would make me fit right in with this crowd.”

  Rick didn’t need to be reminded of the encounter with the cheese wheels. The cold air was making his sore leg worse.

  As he drove, Marco gave his three passengers an introduction to what they were going to see. He spoke quickly, since the Palazzo Te was not far from the hotel. Nothing in a town this size was very far from anything else, even a building that had been built as a country villa and was, at that time, outside the walls of Mantova.

  “Palazzo Te is considered Giulio Romano’s masterpiece, one of the gems of the Mannerism movement, not only for its architectural style but for the paintings found on the walls of its many rooms, several done by Romano himself. It was built by the Gonzagas, of course, specifically Federico the Second, between 1525 and 1535. The building has been described as a pleasure palace, which was certainly the case with Federico, since it started as an extension of his stables and was enlarged to include living space for his mistress.”

  Angelo tapped Rick on the shoulder from his place in the backseat. “Are you familiar with Mannerism, Language Man?”

  “I had a friend in Rome who is an art history professor, Mr. Rondini. Her specialty is Mannerism, so she talked about it a lot. Some of it rubbed off, I suppose.” Rick looked back at Lexi, who had a slight smile on her face. “She lives in the States, now,” he added, and Lexi raised an eyebrow.

  Rondini didn’t notice the exchange. “Well, you can be my guide when we’re inside.”

  “I’m sure many of the people in attendance will be glad to explain the artwork, and can do a better job than I could,” said Rick.

  The car had been navigating the narrow streets of the city, but now the lines of buildings had given way to open space, a reminder that Palazzo Te had been built so the Gonzagas could escape to the country. Late afternoon light glistened off flat athletic fields visible through a long row of trees, and in the distance to the left they could barely make out the outline of the city’s soccer stadium. After a few turns the car slowed and turned into a parking lot next to their destination. It pulled up to a low stone structure with the classical decoration to be expected for a palazzo of the early sixteenth century in Italy.

  Rick helped Lexi out of the back seat, noticing the shapely
leg as she stepped to the ground. She wore a simple black dress under her wool coat. Very little wind was getting through the protective line of trees, but overcoats were still needed, even for the short distance between the car and the door. The three walked to the entrance, their shoes crunching on the gravel path.

  From the outside, it was unclear if the building was one story or two, which Rick suspected Giulio Romano had done on purpose to confuse. The Mannerists, his art historian friend, Erica, always said, liked to show that they knew the rules but enjoyed bending them. A sign outside the door announced that the museum would be closed to the public for a private event. The Parmigiano-Reggiano Consortium had some pull, as well as the cash to pony up for the rental.

  Inside they were met by a young woman who took their coats before pointing them toward a doorway. “The ceremonies will take place in the Sala dei Cavalli,” she said.

  The spacious, rectangular Hall of the Horses was aptly named. Wide panels set high around walls were painted with images of horses—the pride of the Gonzaga stables—looking sleek and bored as they posed for the artist. Perhaps several centuries earlier sawdust had covered the floor and those very animals had been brought into the room for show, but this evening the only horseflesh lay in the art. The room was set with a long table along one side, and a small podium with a microphone stood against the opposite wall in front of a tall, gaping fireplace, its spotlessness indicating it hadn’t been used in centuries. The table, covered with a linen cloth, held platter after platter of food, with the emphasis, not unexpectedly, on cheese. Wheels of Parmigiano-Reggiano sat regally at the ends, a quarter of each one sliced out and arranged on a board with a number of their signature teardrop knives at the ready. The invitees, though mostly dairy operators who saw the stuff every day, were wedging off small chunks and popping them into their mouths. Other hors d’oeuvres were displayed on elegant dishes between the cheese, all against a background of soft-hued flowers. From a distance Rick was able to identify prosciutto wrapped around cheese strips, miniature pizzas, rice croquettes, and crostini spread with pâté and other toppings. He was beginning to wish he had skipped lunch. White-coated waiters circulated with trays of fluted glassware that had been filled from a bar behind the food table. The gathered friends and colleagues of the late Roberto Rondini, many with their spouses, talked in low voices, as appropriate for the occasion, but Rick had the sense they were talking business rather than sharing recollections of the dearly departed. Livia Guarino stood in the midst of a small group who were taking turns giving her embraces of condolence. She wore a gray dress accented by black lace around the sleeves and neck. Her husband was nowhere to be seen. When she spotted the three new arrivals she excused herself and hurried over. The men in the group looked to see where she was going and when they did, their eyes stayed on Lexi.