A Funeral in Mantova

by David P. Wagner

  “He must be telling her now,” said Rick. Lexi gripped his arm as they watched.

  Livia suddenly looked at her uncle, but he kept his eyes on the fresh grave. Her expression was one of shock, but it soon melted into a bitter smile, and she looked at Angelo’s face as if seeing it for the first time. She reached up and touched his cheek, causing him to turn toward her. Her fingers moved around his face, like a blind person meeting a new friend. They stood over Roberto’s grave for several minutes before he grasped her arm and they turned toward the gate.

  After one step Angelo paused, took a breath, and looked down at two grave stones. With difficulty he got to one knee, rested his hand on the stone marked Giuseppina Rondini, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he stared at the letters on the next grave for several minutes. He struggled slowly to his feet with the help of his niece, crossed himself, and the two of them walked arm in arm to the gate. Outside the wall, the nearly horizontal rays of the setting sun joined them together into a single, long shadow stretching over the rich soil of Lombardy.

  Chapter Twelve

  Angelo was his thoughtful self again on the drive from the hotel to the airport. Other than a crack about hoping that Renzo, the new driver, wouldn’t try to kill them, he remained quiet in the comfortable back seat of the car that had picked them up just after dawn. Rick had his usual front passenger position, and Lexi sat behind him, clicking her fingernails on her tablet’s keyboard. The day was clear and sunny, as if Mantova was telling the three visitors that they should stay longer. “There is more to see,” the castle called out when they drove past it, “and my city is giving you such nice weather to help you enjoy it.” The lake glistened as they drove over the causeway on their way to the autostrada. After taking the toll ticket, the car glided down the ramp and roared over to the left lane, passing a slow-moving truck like it was parked. The wine red Maserati Quattroporte acted like it knew about the Mercedes and wanted to put it to shame on the highway. The engine adopted a throaty growl after being taken through the gears and settling into cruising speed. The trip to Verona’s Villafranca Airport, the driver had told Rick, was only about thirty kilometers, which at that hour would take twenty minutes. The way the Maserati was passing everything on A22, Rick thought it might be fifteen. He checked the clock on the dashboard when they arrived at the gate to the tarmac, and he was correct.

  The airplane was parked in the same place. It’s door was open, and through the cockpit window the pilot could be seen doing his pre-flight check. As the car drove up one of the flight crew appeared at the doorway and turned to alert the crew that the boss had arrived.

  “I have to make a call to Livia,” said Angelo as the driver started to open his door. They were the first words he’d uttered since they’d pulled into the street in front of the hotel. He got out, took a cell phone from his pocket, and walked toward the tail of the plane as he dialed. Rick and Lexi, standing next to the car, watched him stride away. They were both dressed for travel, Rick in blue jeans and a sweater under leather jacket, she in the same pants suit she’d worn when he’d watched her walk down the steps of the plane just a few days earlier.

  “He’s already back into his business mode,” said Rick.

  “He was never really out of it, Rick, even with all that’s happened.” She looked up as two crew members came down the steps. “There’s something you never told me, Rick. What was it Marco shouted just before he got off that shot?”

  “I didn’t tell Angelo, either, come to think of it. Marco yelled that she had no right to give away the land since it didn’t rightly belong to her, that her grandfather stole it, and that she was his last hope to make amends. He also said that Roberto had laughed at him. That must have happened when he confronted Roberto at the dock.”

  “And that enraged him enough to commit murder.”

  “I expect that was the scenario, yes. If Marco survives, the police will ask him.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of Angelo, as well as one of the flight attendants ready to hoist the luggage up the steps to the plane. The new driver popped the trunk.

  “By the way, Language Man. The driver is going to take you all the way to Rome.”

  Rick held up his hands. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Rondini, but if he drops me at the train station in Verona, that will be fine.”

  “No, it’s done. Call it an extra thank-you for your services. In addition to the outrageous fee I’m paying you, of course.”

  “I appreciate it.” Rick glanced at the trident logo on the front of the Maserati. “With this car he could have me home in time for lunch.”

  “Better than airplane food, I’m sure. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a plane to catch.”

  Angelo and Lexi’s bags were being taken up the steps, and Renzo was about to close the trunk when Lexi stopped him. She walked over, pulled out a large shopping bag, and handed it to her boss.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your gift to Nikki. With all that was happening yesterday I thought you might not remember to pick up something for your daughter. It’s her size and color.”

  “You’re a lifesaver, Lexi. I talked to her last night and told her to start planning a trip, that she has to get to know her Italian cousin. The shopping here will give her even more incentive to visit.” He turned around and faced Rick. “She said she wanted to see Rome, too, by the way. Maybe you could show her around, Language Man.”

  Lexi, who stood behind Rondini, shot Rick a big grin.

  “I’d be glad to, sir.”

  Rondini took in a deep breath and looked up at the mountains where the sun sparkled off the distant snow. He reached out his hand. “Thank you for all you did, Rick. If you ever need a job back in the States, let me know.”

  Rick was momentarily without words. It was the first time Angelo had called him by his first name. “It was a pleasure working for you, Mr. Rondini.”

  “Come on, Lexi. Say your good-byes and let’s get the wheels up.” He got to the top of the stairs and gave Rick and the driver a presidential wave before going inside.

  “He doesn’t say that to just anyone, Rick.”

  “What, Lexi? Ask them to take care of his daughter?”

  “Well, that too. I meant offering you a job. You’re going to love meeting Nikki.”

  “You won’t tell her anything bad about me, will you?”

  “Only the good things, I promise.” She put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “Good-bye, Mr. Montoya.”

  He returned the kiss. “That would be arrivederci, Ms. Coleman.”

  Clutching her tablet bag, she hurried up to the door, waved, and disappeared. A crew member retracted the stairs and pulled the door closed just as one of the engines came to life. Then the second engine turned over with a high-pitched whine, and a ground crew member appeared and removed the chocks from the wheels. Sun reflected off the metal body of the plane, causing Rick to shade his eyes as he watched. He was lost in thought for a few minutes while the plane slowly began to move, then he pulled out his cell phone, checked the time, and turned to the driver.

  “Renzo, if by some chance we can’t make it all the way to Rome by lunchtime, there’s a restaurant I know just off the autostrada near Orvieto that specializes in grilled meats.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to get a speeding ticket, Signor Montoya.”

  Ten days later, at a few minutes before one in the afternoon, Rick made his way down a cobblestone street near the Chamber of Deputies. It was sunny, but a chilly front had dropped down off the Apennines and was holding the Eternal City in its grasp. The cashmere scarf around his neck felt good. As always, he looked forward to lunch with Commissario Fontana. Uncle Piero invariably had some fascinating story of his police work that he shared with Rick, and was a good listener if Rick needed advice. There was no one better than a policeman to explain Italians, and specifi
cally Romans, to a newcomer, and though Rick spent much of his youth in Rome and spoke perfect Italian, he still had much to learn about what made the locals tick. It was an education that would never be complete.

  Piero’s choice of restaurant that day was non-traditional for their periodic lunches. Its menu featured regional specialties from around the country, brought in fresh daily, most famously mozzarella from the Campania region around Naples. Unlike their usual lunch spots, the place was extremely modern in décor, stainless steel and glass to the extreme. As Rick noticed when he pushed through the doors, the clientele was also younger than at the other restaurants. Roman yuppies sat at a long polished-wood bar, but instead of eating sushi they sipped wine and speared pieces of cheese and cured meats. He looked past the bar and saw his uncle sitting at a table next to the window. Piero got to his feet and gave his nephew a kiss on both cheeks, in the Italian family tradition. He was dressed more staidly than usual, a dark wool suit with a white shirt, the tie a conservative print. Perhaps he wanted to contrast himself with the youthful clientele of the place, including Rick who wore a blazer without a tie.

  “I ordered a Langhe,” Piero said, picking up the garnet wine bottle on the table. “Since we’ll be eating mozzarella and prosciutto, it should be a good match.”

  “Perfect.” Rick watched the wine flow into his glass. “Some good wine and cheese is just what I need. I’ve never been to this place, but heard a lot about it.”

  Piero glanced at his nephew’s face, noticing faint circles under his eyes. “I’m glad you finally found the time to have lunch with your uncle.”

  Rick took a long sip of the wine. “I had a backlog of translations to do, and to make it worse, scientific articles. They’re the most tedious. So I’ve been at my computer most of the day and into the night working on them. And I had a few last-minute interpreting jobs I had to squeeze in.”

  “You do look tired.”

  Rick rolled his eyes before scanning the menu. “Let’s do the mozzarella sampler, I’ve heard it’s the way to go in this place.”

  “And some prosciutto,” said Piero. “They have their own producer of San Daniele. And a few artichokes. After that, if you’re still hungry, we can decide.” He waved over the waiter and gave him the order. “Now tell me what really happened up there. The report I saw from Crispi didn’t give the impression it was complete.”

  Rick fortified himself with a bite of crusty bread and another sip of wine before giving his uncle a description of the investigation. He tried not to leave anything out, since he knew Piero would be interested in all the details. The policeman did not interrupt, but Rick knew he would have questions when he was finished.

  He was just about done when the waiter arrived with their order and put empty plates in front of them. A rectangular white platter had the three unadorned mozzarella balls, and on a wood board lay paper-thin slices of reddish-pink prosciutto. In a bowl sat two small artichokes in oil, prepared Roman style.

  “This one is the delicata,” said the waiter, pointing to one of the balls. “It is sweeter than the middle one, the intensa, which has a stronger taste. The third is the affumicata, with a smoky flavor. Buon appetito.” They thanked him, and after he departed decided to go from sweet to smoky. Each of them cut off a slice of the first and put it on his own plate, along with some of the prosciutto. The carciofi would wait.

  “Your capo is quite the man,” said Piero, after a bite. “But I wouldn’t have been happy if someone involved in one of my cases was found to be carrying a weapon.”

  “Do you think Crispi did the right thing?”

  “By closing an eye to it? Since your Mr. Rondini was an American, and one you said knows your ambassador, Crispi avoided a monumental headache by finessing it. But what fascinates me is how he handled it with his boss. It’s a side of Crispi I hadn’t seen before.”

  “Do you know the questore in Mantova, Zio?”

  “I do.” Two words, but Piero’s tone of voice told Rick volumes about the Mantova chief of police. “He will be retiring soon, Riccardo, but don’t tell that to Crispi. Which do you think is best?”

  Piero’s question referred to the mozzarella, since they had tasted pieces from all three, and eaten half the prosciutto.

  “The smoked is definitely the winner. But they all melt in your mouth like pudding.”

  “I agree.” Piero took two more slices of prosciutto, one of the artichokes, and another piece of bread. “Did you tell your boss about the gambling problem of his niece’s husband?”

  “No. I didn’t think he needed to know, and he had enough on his mind. My guess is that Livia will deal with it. Just in the few days I was there I could see her changing, taking charge, becoming the head of the family. Francesco will be brought into line, I would be willing to bet on it.” Rick put a piece of prosciutto on his fork. “No pun intended.”

  “What fascinates me,” said Piero, “is that the plot of land was never used.”

  “I’ve thought about that myself,” said Rick. “All those years ago Enzo Rondini may have bought it simply to demonstrate that he could, to show everyone that he had the power and the money, and leaving it fallow just added to that impression. At the time he was starting to have higher political ambitions, so acquiring land was the perfect way to show he was a force to be reckoned with. After that he may have lost interest.”

  “Or felt some guilt?”

  “From what I read about him in the newspaper archives, he wasn’t the kind of person who felt guilt, but one never knows what’s in someone’s head.” Rick took the other artichoke. “The question is whether Enzo’s son Roberto knew the whole story of the land, since it was only recently that he started thinking about selling it. That was about the time he appeared at the funeral of Marco’s father. ”

  “That’s a bit bizarre.”

  “Yes and no. The man at the newspaper archives told me someone else had been in doing a search on the Rondini’s, and I suspect it was Roberto Rondini himself. His lady friend had told Crispi he had been doing a lot of thinking about his parents and his own mortality. He must have read about the land episode in the newspaper archives and found out that the descendants were not only still around, but one of them had just died. So he went to the funeral, perhaps to clear the air after all those years.”

  “If that was his intention, it backfired. Your man, the driver, must have found out who he was, wasn’t happy, and then stalked Roberto, ending in a confrontation at the river.”

  “That’s the scenario I came up with too.”

  Rick had more wine and looked out the window at a dark Mercedes passing slowly along the narrow street. “What bothers me in all this is why I didn’t suspect Marco. I was so focused on all the other suspects—the neighbor, the manager, Livia’s husband, even the demonstrator—that I didn’t see what was right before my eyes. Every time something happened, from the first threatening note on the windshield, to the falling cheese, he was there, and yet it didn’t cross my mind he could be involved.”

  Piero wiped up the oil from the artichoke with a piece of bread and popped it in his mouth. “Hiding in plain sight, so to speak.”

  “It’s a cliché, Zio, but it’s true. I’ve gone back over the days in my mind and recalled other things. Like when Marco dropped us at the church that first morning, mentioning that he’d been to a funeral recently, and later Crispi told me that Roberto Rondini had been to one as well. That should have at least made me wonder. And a couple days later Angelo made a comment in the car about how he was going to tell Livia to sell the land just to annoy Folengo, the demonstrator. He was joking, but our driver heard it and must have taken him seriously. What happened immediately after that? Someone tries to push thousands of pounds of cheese down on us.”

  Piero took the final slice of the first ball of cheese. “A waste of good Parmigiano-Reggiano.”

  “Especially since we e
scaped relatively unscathed.” Rick had not told his uncle about the slight injury to his leg, which was now back to normal.

  “Zio, I may not have mentioned about Marco trying to run us down.”

  Piero was about to take a drink of wine but stopped before the glass got to his lips. “No. I don’t believe you did.”

  Rick recounted their exciting walk back from the restaurant. “Once again, I didn’t see the obvious,” he added when he’d finished. “Angelo had said that people at the reception suggested restaurants near the hotel where he could take Lexi to dinner.”

  “So you concluded that someone who was at the reception, who knew he was going to dinner on foot, was the one who tried to run you down.”

  “Exactly.” Rick splashed some wine in his glass and drank it. “Which brought me back to the same list of suspects since they were almost all at the Palazzo Te. Instead it was Marco, who had been given the night off.”

  “And decided it would be a good opportunity to run Angelo down, though I’m not clear why the American was in his sights in the first place. What was the threat?”

  “At first I thought it was because he didn’t want the land developed, and Angelo appeared to be pushing her toward doing that. But then it occurred to me that Marco may have considered that Angelo could have some claim on the land.”

  “As a cousin? I don’t think so. The property would have gone to the deceased’s daughter.”

  “Ah, but when we went to the registry office in Voglia, the clerk said someone had been in checking on the same year’s records. I would bet that was Marco. He knew the truth, that Angelo was in fact Roberto’s brother. When Angelo said he wanted to go to his birthplace, Marco feared that Angelo would find out and try to claim the land for himself.”