Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death

by Sheila Connolly

  Had he seemed despondent? the policeman asked. I shrugged. Since I didn’t know the man, I didn’t know what his usual frame of mind was, therefore I had no idea if he had strayed from that the night before. If I had to guess, I would say no. I did not voice my thought that in fact he had seemed to be in his element, surrounded by adoring women. Well, mostly adoring.

  Had I heard any voices coming from above? For example, female? I shook my head. I hadn’t heard anything except the footsteps, and I had no idea how long they had lasted because I had fallen asleep very quickly. I had pointed the sounds out to my roommate, who had stayed awake longer—perhaps she had noticed something more? I was sorry that I couldn’t offer more help, but that was all I knew.

  The policeman was looking at me oddly, and I wondered if my calm disturbed him somehow. Would he believe me if I had hysterics? Would that seem more authentic to him? But tears wouldn’t help either the professor or the investigators now.

  While we had been talking another vehicle had arrived, this one unmarked, and I surmised it belonged to a coroner or medical examiner or whatever passed for one around here. Several men headed down the steep hill with a gurney; one came up the hill to speak with the policeman. I caught only a few words, but they weren’t hard to guess at: collo probably was neck, and accidente was self-evident. So this was already being classified as an accident. Jane started talking again, gesturing down the hill toward the dining hall, and I assumed she wanted to know what she could and should tell the rest of the group, who were even now gathering for breakfast, unaware of the drama unfolding up the hill. The policeman made reassuring noises, and I guessed that the gist of the conversation was that she could tell her friends that there had been an unfortunate accident and the poor professor was no more. And we were free to go on about our business, if a touch more sadly.

  That suited me. It seemed a bit peremptory, to declare this death an accident without more detailed analysis, but I had no evidence to contradict their finding. I had to agree that the most likely story was that Professor Gilbert had gone for a walk to clear his head after a heavy dinner accompanied by much wine, and, being unfamiliar with the path, had slipped and fallen. Period.

  I must have been drifting because I realized that Jane was standing in front of me with a hand on my arm. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

  I nodded. “I’m fine, Jane, really. After all, I didn’t know him, and I saw his body this morning only from a distance. I’m sorry that this had to happen to you—you’ve put so much into planning all this. What comes next?”

  “The police will take him away. I’ll tell everyone at breakfast, but we’re all free to do what we’d planned. They’re calling it an accident. Is that all right, do you think? Are our friends going to want to spend a day in mourning or something?” She looked at me anxiously, waiting for an answer.

  I was so the wrong person to ask, but she wanted guidance, or reinforcement. “I would say, tell them the bare outline, and say that we intend to continue with the schedule, but that if anyone wants to stay behind here, they’re welcome to.”

  She nodded. “Good, good. I mean, it’s a shame, but it has nothing to do with us, really. Come on, let’s walk down the hill together. You don’t have to say anything about finding him unless you want to. I won’t mention it.”

  I had never known Jane well, but I thought she was handling this unanticipated situation with grace. I would have granted her a moment or two to whine at the gods that had dumped this on her, in the midst of everything else. But I knew that we were all tough women, and we could take it. I was pretty sure some people might ask me questions, maybe later, like, what was it like to find a body? I’d deal with those when they came up, but I wasn’t about to volunteer the information. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

  But I wasn’t going to deal with anything without coffee. Jane and I walked down the hill and let ourselves into the dining hall. Jane had a quick word with the staff, a couple of whom crossed themselves. Then they went on dishing out food. The big room was half filled, with more people arriving every minute. I helped myself to a cup of coffee and some tasty pastries left over from dessert the night before, and found Cynthia and one other person I barely knew sitting at one of the small round tables. Cynthia took one look at me and asked, “What’s up?”

  I shook my head. “You’ll hear in a minute.” Then I focused on my breakfast. Cynthia didn’t press.

  Jane conferred briefly with Jean, and it was interesting to watch their interaction without sound. Jean looked appropriately horrified, and then asked the logical question, now what? Jane rushed to reassure her, and Jean ended up nodding in agreement. The plan would go on.

  When it looked as though the majority of women had arrived and were seated, Jane reluctantly went to the end of the room, and several people rapped on their glasses or cups until all eyes were on Jane. I sat up straighter in my seat. My table was well positioned to watch everyone’s face when Jane said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but there has been an unfortunate accident. Professor Gilbert was apparently taking a walk after dinner last night. He slipped on a path and fell to his death.”

  I expected the collective gasp that rose from the group. What I was watching for were the flashes of expression on faces that suggested something other than grief—and there were a few, I noted. I wondered what those meant, and filed the names away for later.

  Jane was still talking. “While I am sure we are all saddened by this news, we don’t need to let it interfere with our plans for today. If you would like to take a few moments to collect yourselves, we can delay our departure for, say, half an hour. There is also a small church up the hill, if you’d like to take advantage of that to remember the professor. And of course if you’d like to stay here, that’s your choice. Is everyone all right with that?”

  People exchanged uncertain glances. Most probably had no template for something like this: an unscheduled half hour to mourn the passing of someone they might or might not have known, but had at least seen, very much alive, the night before.

  Someone’s hand shot up. “Are the police investigating?”

  Jean said quickly, “The police are here now, and they have called this an unfortunate accident. We are free to come and go as we like. Anything else?”

  Cynthia looked at me and arched one expressive eyebrow in question. I mouthed “Later.”

  Jane seemed relieved that nobody else had anything to say. “Then we’ll meet at the vans at nine thirty. I’m so sorry this had to happen while we’re here together, but I hope you won’t let it put a damper on your trip. Please, go ahead and finish your breakfast—there’s no rush.”

  My plate was empty but I wanted more coffee. I stood up and walked through the crowd, back to the serving area, catching snippets of conversation along the way. “Think he was alone last night?” “Oh, the poor man.” “What a waste.” “He was probably drunk.” “I knew those paths were dangerous—we should all have been given flashlights.” It was a curious mix.

  I carried my refilled cup of coffee carefully back to my table. As I walked, I was thinking: nobody knows I found him. Who knew which room he was in? I hadn’t, until we spoke after dinner. Was he alone, after? Did I really believe his fall was an accident? Did Cynthia hear anything after I fell asleep? How many people in the room had known him back in the day? And how many of those had unhappy memories of him?

  I had reached our table, so I sat down. Diane, whom I vaguely recalled hearing say she was a doctor, said, “Isn’t it too bad about the professor? But I’m glad Jane and Jean are going ahead with the schedule. I’ve been looking forward to seeing the lemon garden at the Villa di Castello. I read that it was designed by Cosimo di Medici when he was quite young, and then improved by Vasari later.” I gave her a perfunctory smile.

  Cynthia, after one more glance at me, chirped, “Oh, that’s right—you’re interested in plants, aren’t you, Diane? Can you tell me anything else about the garden we’ll b
e seeing?”

  Their empty conversation carried me through the second cup of coffee, by which time the crowd had thinned. I stood up. “Cynthia, I’m going to go on up and get … my sweater.”

  “I’ll come with you. Thanks, Diane, now I’ll know what to look for when we get to the villa.”

  Cynthia and I walked out of the dining hall together, but we didn’t say anything until we were halfway up the hill—out of earshot of our classmates. “Okay, what’s going on?” Cynthia demanded.

  “You were still asleep this morning, so I took a walk, over to the swimming pool. I found the body.”

  Cynthia gave me a probing look and apparently decided I wasn’t emotionally devastated. She knew me well. “Was it awful?”

  “No. He’d fallen down the hill, so I didn’t see anything up close. No blood or anything, but he was obviously dead.”

  We’d reached our small patio and I stopped. It might be more private to talk inside, but I wanted to be able to see if there was anyone around who might overhear.

  We sat at the small table and I began tentatively, “Cynthia, I told you that I spoke to him after dinner. He was staying in the room right over ours. I heard him, or someone, walking around after I got into bed. Did you hear anything?”

  Cynthia was not stupid, and she got my drift immediately. “I heard those footsteps that you did. Are you asking if I think someone was with him? Not that I noticed. But if she—I’m assuming it would be a she—was barefoot, I don’t suppose she would have made any noise. Laura, what’s going on here? Are you thinking this was something other than an accident?”

  I hedged. “It certainly looked like an accident. It was dark, the paths are slippery, and he didn’t know the place well. And yet he went out again, after we heard him upstairs. It was clear he’d been drinking—heck, we all saw him drinking—and when we talked for a moment after dinner, he was a bit unsteady. So what happened?”

  Cynthia looked around: no one in sight. “You’ve already jumped right past the part about a nice little tryst followed by a walk to, uh, cool down, right?” Then her expression changed. “Wait—you’re guessing maybe he had a little help in falling off that path?”

  I took a moment to reflect. I had known Cynthia since I was eighteen, and I’d lived with her for several years. But I hadn’t seen much of her in the past couple of decades. I had to decide right now: did I trust her? I had no reason to believe that she had any animus against the professor, but people lied. And people changed.

  But I didn’t want to do this alone, so I decided that I needed to confide in her. “Yes. When he talked to me he said he was headed to bed—he as much as admitted he was getting old and needed his rest. Although of course he could have lied, although from what little I saw of him, I would have guessed he would be more likely to brag about an assignation than to conceal it. I can’t imagine he would decide to take a walk after that. But there’s more to it than that. Did you notice the weird undercurrents in the group every time his name came up? I get the feeling some people weren’t happy to see him here, that they had some kind of history with him. Not a happy one.”

  Cynthia nodded. “I know what you mean. I told you earlier that there were rumors about him, when we were in school. That he hit on students. I can’t point to anyone in particular, but there were hints. God, we were such babies then! Nowadays if a professor makes an unwanted move, a student would head straight for the administration to report it. And it would probably be in the paper the next day, or on the morning news. But do you seriously think that someone who, uh, suffered his unwanted attentions over forty years ago would take action now? After all this time?”

  I didn’t know what I thought. I’d never been placed in that position, when I was in college, and I couldn’t guess how I might feel about it now, after so many years. Who was I to decide how others would feel? “Cyn, I don’t know. Maybe. The shock of seeing him unexpectedly, in an unfamiliar setting like this, could have set someone off—someone who thought she’d put it all behind her.”

  “What do you want to do about it?” Cynthia asked quietly.

  I met her gaze. “I’m not sure. Something doesn’t feel right. The police have declared it an accident, so they aren’t going to look any further, or at least I think that was what they said. I can’t blame them—it looks pretty straightforward: he was old, he’d been drinking, he fell. And I’m certainly not going to deliberately mess up this trip for everyone, not after we’ve been looking forward to it for the better part of a year. But just in case, I plan to keep my ears and eyes open.”

  “Laura, do you seriously think that one of our classmates came to Italy and murdered the man? Nobody even knew he was coming until after we arrived.”

  “I think it’s a possibility that they saw a chance and grabbed it. I will be happy to be proved wrong.”

  “And if you can’t prove anything, either way?”

  “Then it will go down as an accident, period. By the way, you didn’t happen to take a stroll in the moonlight after I went to sleep, did you?”

  A peculiar look flashed across Cynthia’s face before she burst out laughing. “You calling me a suspect, huh?”

  “Maybe.” I grinned at her. “I never assume anything. You had opportunity, and all it would take is one push.”

  “But I had no motive. I didn’t know the man. I didn’t like the man, from what little I saw of him, then and now. Besides, if you’re going to investigate this, Sherlock, you need a Watson, so you have to trust me.”

  “I always thought Watson was kind of thickheaded.”

  “I’m the smart Watson. Am I in?”

  “Of course.”

  “So let’s get ready to go admire more Medici monuments. While we’re driving, while we’re wallowing in art and history, we talk and we listen. Somebody is bound to say something about the professor’s death. Good thing you and I are in different vans—we can listen to two sets of people.”

  “Good thinking, Watson.”

  Chapter 10

  Cynthia had made it sound simple, but I had to ask myself what I thought I was doing. I don’t go by gut reactions or woo-woo “feelings.” I’m an analyst by trade and by choice. But something about the death of Anthony Gilbert troubled me, and I wanted to know why—without making it painfully obvious what I was doing and why I was asking questions.

  Point one: He was a charmer, and I distrust charmers from the get-go. Point two: I’d be willing to bet he had directed his charms at some of my classmates gathered here, based on the curious range of responses to his presence. I wasn’t ready to say who, but I’d guess it was more than one of them. More than five? I shuddered at the thought—that would definitely put him in the sleazeball league. Point three: I was angry that he’d somehow insinuated himself into our gathering and then ended up dead. That wasn’t fair. This was supposed to be fun, with a bit of a trip down memory lane—good memories only. He’d screwed that up, although since he was the victim he couldn’t exactly be blamed—but I wanted to blame someone, and that meant his killer, assuming there was one. I made a mental note to check exactly how he came to be invited in the first place. Whose idea was it originally? Had Professor Gilbert said it was Gerry’s?

  I wasn’t exactly “doing” anything about it. As I’d told Cynthia, all I wanted to do was watch and listen and see what people had to say. That wouldn’t be evidence of anything, but it might be suggestive. I certainly didn’t want to label any one of the women here a killer, but I had a suspicion that there were a few people who were happy to see the professor dead. I wondered if I should show some of the others the pictures I had taken of the professor’s body, sprawled on the ground, just to watch for their reactions. I’d have to be discreet, of course; otherwise I would come across as ghoulish and insensitive. No, probably a bad idea. I wondered why on earth I had taken those pictures in the first place. Because I’d been planning to photograph the landscape, and somehow captured a body by mistake?

  No, Laura—you thought t
here was something wrong with the whole thing, so you took the pictures just in case … I made a mental note to off-load them when I had the chance. Did I have any faith in the Italian police? Not necessarily, but I wasn’t about to butt into their investigation—or lack thereof. I had no idea which unit was in charge of murder investigations here, or whether it was regional or even national. In any case, it looked as though they were content to do nothing, and I couldn’t fault them, exactly. Old drunk man falls down hill—not precisely big news. But if anyone came asking, I’d be ready.

  It wasn’t clear to me where Cynthia fit. I didn’t really suspect her of killing the professor, but I wasn’t sure if she was taking this seriously or just humoring me. Still, I knew she could keep her mouth shut, and I could use a second pair of eyes and ears. And from what she’d hinted earlier, she knew I was serious.

  Up at the parking area in front of the main house—the only place on the property with room enough to accommodate four oversize vehicles—the drivers huddled over maps and printouts and GPS devices, plotting our next move. I climbed into my seat—on the left, behind the driver, Brenda. A couple of the others were already in the van, waiting.

  “What an awful thing!” Dorothy said in a hushed voice, clearly relishing the drama. “Poor Professor Gilbert. Although I suppose he went as he might have wished, in the region he so loved.”

  I tried not to gag at the saccharine platitude.

  “Could it have been a heart attack? Or a stroke?” she went on, with unhealthy glee. “After all, he wasn’t young.”

  “He was fifteen years older than we are, tops,” said Ann, throwing cold water on Dorothy’s commentary. “He seemed fit enough.”

  I was debating asking the innocuous question “Did you know him?” when Dorothy beat me to it. “I was in his Florentine Poets class one semester. Did any of you ever take any of his classes?”