Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death

by Sheila Connolly

  As I sat, people began straggling out, taking their various paths toward bed. Lights began going out. I saw Gerry come out with the professor; Gerry pointed, and there was much nodding between them. Then Gerry went back along the road to the main building—and Anthony Gilbert headed up the hill toward where I sat.

  When he reached my little patio, he seemed winded and was swaying slightly where he stood. “May I join you briefly? I’m afraid I’ve let myself get a bit out of shape—my place is not so steep.”

  “Of course.” I gestured toward the other chair at the table.

  “We never met at the college, did we?” he asked.

  Hadn’t we already had this conversation? Maybe his memory was going—or he was more drunk than he appeared. “Not that I recall—and I have a feeling I would have remembered. A lot of these women remember you.” Not necessarily for the right reasons.

  “Times were different then,” he said, more to himself than to me. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have accepted the invitation to come.”

  There was a slight slurring to his words, although he was articulating very carefully. All those years of academic recitations seem to have served a purpose. “How do you know Barb and Gerry?”

  “Gerry and I have participated in a couple of symposia together—I hope you realize he is a scholar of some renown in his field. It was only recently that we discovered we were neighbors of a sort. When your colleague Jean was assembling this delightful event, he thought my lecture might be a nice diversion and reached out to me. Of course I was very pleased—I have such fond memories of the college. Barbara wasn’t sure at first—she thought I might put you all to sleep—but I thought it went well. Didn’t you?”

  “Your audience was definitely paying attention,” I replied. To what they were paying attention, I wasn’t sure.

  “I was so happy to see so many familiar faces …” he said, almost to himself. “Well, I suppose I should find my lodging.” He stood up and then wobbled, laying a hand on the stone wall of the building to steady himself. I wondered if he could manage the stairs.

  “Do you know the way to your room?”

  “I believe I’m right above you, but the entrance is on the uphill side, facing the other way. Good night, bella donna. It has been my pleasure to make your acquaintance, however belatedly.” He walked off into the darkness, grasping whatever handholds he came across, until he disappeared around the corner of the building.

  I restrained myself from snorting, because no doubt he would hear. Bella donna indeed! The man was incorrigible.

  Chapter 8

  Cynthia straggled in after I’d crawled into bed and was trying to read the brief histories of the Medici castles we were scheduled to see the next day. I wondered idly what the total count would be. Had those Medici nobles built or seized them all at once or over time, grabbing every castle that tickled their fancy just because they could? What would that kind of power be like?

  “Damn, some of those women simply won’t stop talking!” Cynthia said, sitting down to pull off her shoes. “I wonder if their spouses or family members have stopped listening altogether and they’re hungry for a new audience?”

  “Maybe. Are they still down there?”

  “A few. The staff was running around turning off lights—I think they want to go to bed. At least there’s no rush tomorrow morning. And it’s our last full day—after that, Liguria!”

  “About which I know next to nothing,” I said. “I can’t even figure out where it is, or where the boundaries are.”

  “You probably ignored it because there were no major artists working around there. Or maybe I should qualify that: no visual artists. It’s known for its rugged scenery and difficulty of access. Various writers and poets loved the place, maybe because they were trying to escape their adoring fans. Or maybe because all their friends were there. Can you imagine the luncheons and parties, with all the glitterati of the day? Anyway, we’re supposed to see where Shelley managed to drown in sight of land.”

  “The fun never stops, does it?”

  “Hey, chill out. This is a vacation, remember? A time when you have fun? You are having fun, aren’t you?”

  I stuck the papers back in the file. “Actually, I am. Don’t blow my cover—I like cultivating a curmudgeon image.”

  “Whatever for?” Cynthia asked.

  “Habit, I guess. Act prickly and people don’t bother you.”

  Footsteps sounded on the floor above us—a first.

  “Who’s up there?” Cynthia asked, gesturing at the ceiling.

  “The great professor. He told me that was his room.”

  “What, you actually talked to him?”

  “He had to walk right by me to get up there, and you know he can’t resist flexing his charm.”

  “Did it work?”

  “He called me bella donna. I did not melt. Maybe he was off his game—he seemed a bit the worse for drink.”

  “A lost opportunity. Maybe he’ll look like hell by morning sunlight and everyone else will let go of their long-cherished illusions.”

  Cynthia went into the adjoining room, I hoped to restore some order to the jumble of clothes she had spread over every surface. I didn’t envy her the job of repacking when we left, the day after tomorrow. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to packing myself—I couldn’t even remember what I’d worn and what I hadn’t, and it all seemed to expand when I wasn’t looking. Our departure seemed so soon—how had it sneaked up on us? With a sigh I turned out the light by my bed and was asleep before she came back into the room. Without benefit of romantic fantasies involving septuagenarian professors.

  • • •

  Once again I woke early—would this jet lag never end? I thought I spied sun filtering in from the other room: the weather was certainly being kind to us, after those first few chilly days. I could hear the same blasted dove cooing away. Weren’t there any other birds around? A little variety would be nice.

  I checked the clock: barely seven. All right, today I would slip out and enjoy the morning, check out the flora and fauna and all that good stuff. I probably wouldn’t have the time tomorrow. I was pleased that my creaky body was holding up well—I wasn’t used to so much walking, but if I was going to keep on eating at the current pace, I’d better keep walking or I’d have to roll home. Actually all the members of our group were managing the rigorous pace. Maybe those who knew they couldn’t handle it had wisely stayed home, but surely there would have been some among us who were in denial and clung to the belief that they could deal with it—or that sheer willpower would prevail. Happily everyone had done just fine, so far. Maybe Liguria would be the true test—I’d read that it was more hills than anything else, at least until you hit the sea.

  I tiptoed into the bathroom and pulled on clothes and shoes, then struggled to open the door without rousing Cynthia, not that she showed any sign of moving. Outside the air was fresh and just the right amount of cool—it promised to be a warm day. I saw a couple of the staff heading down to the dining hall, but none of our classmates were out and about this early.

  Where to now? What hadn’t I seen? I was afraid if I ventured into one of the groves or vineyards they would be slippery with dew, and my shoes would get wet or I’d fall on my butt. I knew where I’d been, so it had to be somewhere I hadn’t been. Maybe I’d go hunt for that mythical swimming pool—not that it was what I considered swimming weather. I stood up and headed toward the right and around the building. Past the ratty tennis court (I thought the space could be better used, since it was unlikely that anyone would be playing on the pitted surface again). Past the library with its siren Wi-Fi. Ah, around the next corner lay the pool. Actually it was surprisingly tasteful, a sheet of water reflecting the sky, tucked out of sight from most of the buildings. It looked almost tempting. Almost, if the weather had been about twenty degrees warmer and I had brought swimwear, which I hadn’t.

  The far edge all but overhung the olive grove below, and there was an uninterru
pted view of the valley. I walked carefully to the end of the concrete bordering the pool and peered out, then pulled out my camera and took, yes, a few more pictures of the view. Hey, this was the seven o’clock view, rather than the eight o’clock one or the noon one or the four o’clock one. They were all different, weren’t they?

  I don’t know why I looked down. Past the edge of the pool. Past the stone retaining wall that supported it while still blending tastefully into the hill. And that’s why I saw that the body of Professor Gilbert lay twenty or thirty feet below, sprawled in a way that made it very clear that he was dead. A neck did not usually bend in that direction. I knew immediately who it was. I didn’t have to get any closer to recognize the silver hair and the bespoke tweed jacket. Professor Anthony Gilbert had met an untimely end.

  Since I’ve been reading mysteries since high school, I’d always wondered how I would react to finding a body. I’m told that some women shriek, burst into tears, faint, run around in circles and do other inappropriate and useless things, but that wasn’t me. I shut my eyes and opened them again, just to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating. No, the body was still there.

  It occurred to me that I should sit very still before doing anything else and make sure I wasn’t disturbing anything that could be evidence—finally all that reading was paying off. I looked around me. No footprints (except mine), no bloodstains, no obvious weapons. I peeked down at the professor once again: no sign of blood. He could have slipped in the dark and fallen. There were many corners of this beautiful piece of land that were not lit, and someone unfamiliar with the terrain could easily make a fatal misstep. Especially after a dinner accompanied by much wine.

  A fall would be the simplest explanation. Why couldn’t I accept that?

  Because I remembered that curious pause, that little hitch, in the flow of chatter when the professor’s lecture had been announced, the uncomfortable glances, the odd comments. Enough little details that I had to wonder if maybe someone had helped him over the edge. One of us.

  No one else had appeared yet. Still without moving from my spot, I reviewed what I remembered. When the professor and I had talked the night before, he’d told me he was looking for his room, and I’d heard him—or someone?—overhead not long after that, around eleven, when I was already in bed. Cynthia could attest to that, which meant that I had an alibi. Not that I could possibly need one: I hadn’t even met the man until the day before. I had no motive for killing him.

  But could I say as much about the other women here?

  And why had my imagination gone straight to murder?

  But the immediate question was, what was I going to do about it?

  I remembered suddenly that I had my camera in my pocket. I should take pictures, in case something was disturbed later. I stood up and peered gingerly over the edge once again, then snapped a few shots, regular and zoom. I looked around me and snapped others, showing the absence of any sign that anyone else had been there lately. I noted the time on my watch, in case anyone asked. I looked up at the windows overlooking the view, to see if anyone else could have witnessed or overheard what happened. None were in a direct line of sight. This side of the main building housed primarily storage or work-related areas, not bedrooms. If this had happened near midnight, it would have been hard to see anything, even a few feet away.

  I sat down again to think. One of the resident cats—mouse catchers rather than pets—came out and butted its head against my knee, then lay down, baring its belly to the warmth of the rising sun. I absently rubbed its tummy. I had found a body; it was my responsibility to tell someone about it. To the best of my knowledge, Barbara and Gerry’s rooms were in the main house up the hill from where I sat. This was their property, therefore they should take charge. They should know what to do. I assumed someone would have to call the polizia or the carabinieri or whoever handled deaths in this country—I wasn’t familiar with the local pecking order. I should have paid more attention to the details of the Amanda Knox case, but I had never thought I would need such information.

  I wondered how it would affect our plans. Or would it? If the professor’s death was determined to be the result of a fall, a misplaced step in the dark, then it would have nothing to do with us. If it wasn’t an accident, things could get a lot more complicated. I was first on the scene, and I thought that maybe the way I told the story might, just might, set the tone for the police response to this death. Accident or something darker?

  I still hadn’t done anything. I took a deep, steadying breath. The cat got up and stalked away after something in the bushes. Time to talk to Barb and/or Gerry.

  But first I made a phone call. I would have done it anyway, given my job. I wanted to put someone higher up on alert that not only was I the person who had found the body, but I had some suspicions about the manner of death. And I was in a foreign country and I didn’t know protocols in Italy. I didn’t plan to share those suspicions with my friends here. In fact, I’d try my best to support the accident theory, unless something came along to upset that. This was supposed to be a happy vacation, a reunion of old friends. The death had happened, sadly, but it didn’t have to tarnish things for the rest of us. Unless … No, I wasn’t going to go there.

  When I was through with my call, I stood up and brushed off the seat of my pants, then turned and skirted the pool to climb the stairs on the other side. I knocked on the front door of the main house, and it was Gerry who came to the door, fully dressed, his hair neatly in place.

  “Good morning, Laura. You’re up early. Is there a problem?”

  “I’m afraid there is, Gerry. Professor Gilbert is lying dead on the hill below the pool. I just found him.”

  Gerry’s expression betrayed everything it should have: disbelief, shock, then something resembling calculation. “I’d better call the authorities in Borgo San Lorenzo. Are you sure he’s dead?”

  Based on the angle of his neck, I had little doubt. “About ninety-eight percent. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Just keep anyone else from going near the pool, if you don’t mind. Are you okay? You seem very calm.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m fine. If anyone does come by, should I send them all to the dining hall?”

  “Oh, right, yes. Let me make that call, and I’ll see what the police say. Thank you, Laura.”

  Thank you for finding a dead body on your property? I stifled a laugh: there was such a thing as taking courtesy too far. But I’d done my duty, so I took myself back down the stairs and stationed myself in a chair to block anyone from approaching from the lawn; I figured I’d hear anyone coming from the graveled drive above.

  No one had appeared by the time I spotted an official car coming up the long driveway, without sirens or flashing lights. Now what? I realized that since I didn’t speak Italian, it might be challenging to explain what I had seen. I had no idea how good Barbara’s or Gerry’s Italian was. Which left Jane, the only one of our group who spoke conversational Italian. What the heck was the word for “dead”? I pulled out my cell phone and called up the translation app: morto, defunto, deceduto, spento. Il professore è morto. Who here would mourn him?

  I stayed put while I heard tapping at the front door above, followed by the door opening and voices, one fast (the polizia) and one slower (Gerry). Then a female voice: Barbara must have joined the discussion. Then the sound of booted feet on the stone stairs. I rose and turned to face the newcomer, a tall fortyish man in a neatly pressed uniform, accompanied by Gerry and Barbara.

  “Mi scusi, signora, ma posso parlare con te? Capisco che hai trovato il morto?”

  I knew what he was saying, but I wasn’t going to take any chances about being misunderstood. “Mi dispiace, signore. Gerry, I think we need a translator.”

  “Of course. Barbara, can you go find Jane? She’s the most fluent speaker here.”

  “Right away, Gerry. I won’t be long.” She turned and hurried down a path. I realized I wasn’t even sure where all the others were hou
sed, scattered as they were around the property.

  So there we stood—me, my host, and a handsome Italian policeman in a nice uniform, and below us lay the broken body of Anthony Gilbert, professor emeritus and self-declared charmer. Not quite what I’d expected from this vacation.

  Chapter 9

  Barbara returned quickly with Jane in tow. Poor Jane—she didn’t deserve this. She and Jean had put so much effort into planning this event for us all, and I seriously doubted that there was a contingency plan for a dead guest speaker.

  Apparently Barbara had briefed her on the basic outline of the situation, and Jane went straight to the senior official and erupted into quick Italian. I stayed where I was, assuming someone would want the details of how I found the body. The policeman, or whatever he was, was scrupulously polite to Jane. Well, why not? She was old enough to be his mother—as was I. Italian men were famously polite to their mothers. Would that help here?

  After a few minutes of gesturing and pointing, Jane turned to me. “Can you tell me, him … us what happened?”

  I ran through the brief story of my early rising, my stroll over to the pool to take pictures of the landscape, and my discovery of the body, while Jane translated quickly. No, I hadn’t seen anyone else, unless I counted the cat. No, I hadn’t seen any signs of a struggle or a fall—everything had seemed to be in place, although since I hadn’t visited the pool before, I couldn’t swear to whether anything had changed. I had recognized the body because I had met the man the day before. For the first time. And had spoken briefly to him after dinner, outside my door. And I had heard him—or someone wearing shoes—walking around in the room over my head after that. He appeared to be wearing the same clothes I had last seen him in.