Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death

by Sheila Connolly

  There was tea, and there were cakes, and there were antipasti of varying description. I marveled that any of us could still eat, even out of courtesy to our hostess, who roamed from table to table and in and out of the house, talking nonstop. The house was modern, nestled among others like it, but with views of the white mountains of Carrara in one direction and the sea in the other. I could get used to living like this, although I had to remind myself that I hadn’t seen a market or a store of any sort nearby. I wondered how one found the amenities like food. Maybe I could hire a servant—no, a couple, husband and wife—to take care of all those mundane details like cleaning and shopping, while I worked at my computer (assuming there was anything like an Internet connection) or stared dreamily at one view or the other with a cool drink in my hand … I realized I was drifting, and Jane was talking.

  “There’s a nice walk down to the cliffs, over that way”—she waved vaguely down the hill the way we’d come—“and from there you can see Portovenere and the islands south of the Cinque Terre. It’s a real path, you won’t miss it.” Some people lurched to their feet and started meandering in that direction. I figured I might as well join them—it was that or go to sleep in my chair. After all, I had a mission. And I needed to work up an appetite for the no-doubt huge dinner we were going to have in, what, another three hours? I extricated myself from my seat and took off after the herd, not that I was in any hurry to catch up with them, but I wanted to keep them in sight so I didn’t get lost.

  The path was indeed clearly marked and more or less paved, which made sense after I had walked past several private homes, none of which seemed occupied at the moment, with securely padlocked gates; and what seemed to be a hotel or condos or something larger on the opposite side, where there would no doubt be magnificent sea views. The path ended with what appeared to be a World War II concrete structure, and I recalled dimly that Jane had said something about the Americans shelling this small town during the war. Off to the south was another similar concrete box. Their presence was an unsettling reminder of a more recent past.

  Our little band hopped from rock to rock and peered over the chain-link fence (thank goodness for a fence) at the black sand beach far below. I wondered how on earth one reached it. We all duly observed the islands marching off to the distance, each one paler the farther away it was. I had to admit I had a much better understanding now of the history of representing distance in paintings: all those early Renaissance artists had only to look at the views around them.

  We all took pictures. A young Italian couple, who had been there all along, completely ignored our little army of middle-aged women milling around them and engaged in a serious make-out session, or whatever it was called these days. At least they kept all their clothes on, and their hands didn’t stray … too far. For a moment I felt a pang for young love, or lust, that could render them so oblivious to anything but each other. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been that focused on another human being. Well, maybe my daughter, when she was very small. Not my husband, and that made me sad.

  They were still there and still ignoring us when we began to straggle back to Jane’s cousin’s house. I realized I had never figured out what her name was, even though she had opened her home to us.

  I caught up with Gloria, one of the few women I hadn’t talked to before. “I’m glad I don’t have a fear of heights!” I said fervently.

  “Even a short fall can be dangerous,” she said, continuing at her original pace, looking straight ahead, barely acknowledging my presence.

  “Like the professor’s?” I asked, since she’d left the door wide open.

  “Exactly. He couldn’t have fallen more than, what, twenty feet? But it’s all in the angle. Land the wrong way and it’s all over.”

  “Think we’ll ever know what really happened?” I asked. Maybe the question was overly direct, but I was too tired to think of polite ways to sneak up on the issue.

  Gloria stopped abruptly and turned to face me. “I for one don’t care. I never liked the man.”

  “You knew him?”

  “From one class, a long time ago. I pegged him for a sexist pig right away.”

  “Did you transfer out of the class?”

  “Why would I? It was kind of fun watching him operate. It was a learning experience in its own way.”

  “But weren’t there other people who weren’t as … objective as you?”

  Gloria looked around us briefly. We were alone on the path, or at least there was no one in sight. “You mean the ones who fell for his line? Sure. Was I supposed to play their mother and warn them about the big bad wolf? They had to learn to judge character sometime.” She studied my expression. “You don’t approve. What would you have done?”

  I faced her squarely. “Probably the same thing you did: let them figure it out for themselves. And if the whole experience proved too much for them to cope with, well …”

  “Then they weren’t Wellesley material?” she challenged.

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. As I’m sure you know, there’s a difference between intellectual intelligence and emotional intelligence, and they don’t go hand in hand. We had a lot of bright but possibly fragile people in our class back then, and some got hurt.”

  “But that’s life, isn’t it? What do you want? Am I supposed to weep for this guy who had a good life getting away with the kind of crap he pulled, and then he retired covered in glory to his dream villa in Italy, and drank too much one night and fell down and broke his neck? I don’t think so. And do you think anybody on this trip is really sorry?” And with that she turned on her heel and resumed her brisk walk back to the house.

  I followed more slowly, trying to sort out my impressions. I didn’t disagree with what she’d said, exactly, but she had been so vehement, so … cold. Did that stem from her own negative experience? Or was she just a cold person?

  And had she really been so detached, back in the day—or was she lying?

  I would have to compare impressions with my vineyard colleagues when I had the chance. Which was not going to be possible on the drive to this castle, wherever it was, where we would eat dinner, since we were in different vans and there was no privacy anyway. I hoped they had made some progress talking to the others on the list.

  Of course, there was no way to guarantee that anyone was telling us the truth. They’d had forty years to practice their lies, or craft their rationalizations. Had any of his “girls” ever told anyone what had happened with Professor Gilbert? Friend, spouse, therapist? If it mattered enough to kill over now, it must have affected their lives all through the intervening years. I thought that Cynthia had collected marital statistics on our group, but we hadn’t paid much attention to them. What would they tell us, anyway? There were so many variables to a marriage, or a long-term partnership, and it would be hard to point to any one as the major factor in a failed relationship. I should know; I had a list of causes, none of which was large, but the sum of them was too much for the unstable infrastructure my husband and I had cobbled together. And nowhere on my list was sexual harassment, or even workplace harassment. My failings were my own, and I couldn’t lay the blame for my doomed marriage on any event or person from my past.

  When I got back to the house after most of the group, people were beginning to clean up and count heads, to make sure everyone had returned before we set off on the last leg of our journey for the day. There was a little confusion when one person appeared to be missing, but when we arrived at the parking lot where the vans were parked, she was waiting—and taking pictures. All present and accounted for, so our wagon train moved on to the next meal.

  The town of Fosdinovo, home to the soaring medieval castle of Malespina, was not so far as the crow flies, but there were mountains. Again. Our already rattled quartet of van drivers made slow progress on the hairpin turns, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief when we arrived at our destination without further mishaps and parked in an ample parking lot. Dinner was planned for seven,
and since it was only six thirty now, we had half an hour to wander around the narrow medieval streets, admire the views, and take more pictures. Once again we scattered in small groups; our vineyard group gravitated together.

  “Let’s find a place where we can talk,” Cynthia said after looking around carefully to make sure no one could overhear. Accompanied by Pam and Connie, we struck off on a road leading to the left—and downward. Most people had gone up to the right, no doubt searching once more for the perfect view. We found a quiet corner with a handy stone wall to sit on—carefully, since as usual the land dropped off steeply to olive groves and vineyards: lean too far back and it was a long way down.

  “Where’s Xianling?” I asked.

  “She’s been taking pictures all day, usually on the fringes of a group,” Pam said. “She must have quite a collection by now. I hope she’ll share them.”

  “We don’t have long. What’ve you got?” Cynthia said quickly.

  “More disgruntled people,” I said. “Gloria said she saw exactly what the professor was up to, and too bad for those women who fell for his line. She seemed kind of bitter.”

  “Nice,” Pam said sarcastically. “But then, a lot of people knew—more than we ever imagined—and they did nothing. Does anybody stand out as looking particularly guilty? What are we supposed to do, take each of the people on our shortlist into a small windowless room and intimidate a confession out of her?”

  “Is that what the police would do?” Connie shot back.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said. “We’re trying to fix this before the police get too involved. Look, we can do a little more poking around tonight at dinner and compare notes after we get back. Then we can decide what our next step is.”

  “Laura, tomorrow is our last day,” Pam reminded me, as if I needed it. “We’ve got the excursion to Carrara, and then the big banquet in the evening. Do we really want to mess those up for everyone? And we certainly aren’t going to have a lot of time for tête-à-têtes.”

  “Do we want a killer to go free?” I protested.

  “Maybe it really was an accident,” Pam replied. “Maybe whoever it was had no intention of killing the professor, but maybe he made a move on her that night and she panicked and shoved him.”

  “But he’s still dead, accident or not. If—and that’s still an if—we identify who his late-night date was, are we supposed to turn a blind eye?”

  “First we have to find her, Laura,” Cynthia reminded me. “Then we have to talk with her. I’m not going to jump to any conclusions. So let’s go enjoy this banquet that Jane has set up for us.”

  We went back up the hill, over cobbled streets. The banquet was held in the main castle but in an adjacent building that had probably started life a millennium before as a stable. It was built of stone, with a relatively low ceiling. There was a small kitchen at the rear and long tables draped with white linen cloths. We shuffled ourselves among our colleagues once again. Wine appeared, along with the antipasti, and the noise level ramped up, making conversation close to impossible. Which was something of a relief: we were off-duty and we could enjoy ourselves.

  “This is incredible!” I yelled to Vicky, sitting next to me.

  “What?” she yelled back.

  I waved my hand around the room. “Incredible!”

  “Yes!” She nodded vigorously. We raised our glasses to each other, grinning.

  And then the food started arriving. Platter after platter appeared and was handed around the table. I lost count after three different courses, but still they kept coming. It was all wonderful: pasta, fish, meat, whatever. A flock of ravioli appeared on one platter, filled with ricotta and something green. “Spinach?” I asked Donna, on my other side.

  “Nettles!” she yelled back.

  I never would have guessed. I speared another one and ate it happily.

  The next time I looked at my watch it was nearly ten o’clock. The platters were empty, and it had been at least ten minutes since the last one had appeared. More important, the wine bottles were empty too.

  Jane stood up. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your dinner.”

  Vigorous cheers broke out.

  “Let’s congratulate the cooks—can you believe they produced all of this wonderful food in that tiny kitchen?”

  More cheers and loud clapping. The kitchen and waitstaff grinned happily. I hoped we were going to leave them a large tip.

  Jane pressed on, “I hate to break up such a lovely evening, but we need to start driving back, and you know what the road to Monterosso is like.”

  A few people laughed. Not the drivers.

  “Plus we have to make an early start tomorrow. We’re going to visit a marble mine in Carrara, then have lunch in the town, and our final stop will be at the ruins of the Roman town of Luna, where they shipped the marble from Carrara all over the known world a couple of millennia ago. And then back to Monterosso for a final banquet in the vineyard on the hill. And! Since it’s a long drive, and the ride up to Carrara is mountainous, we’ve rented a bus that will hold us all.”

  Now the drivers cheered. I couldn’t blame them.

  “So go ahead and finish your desserts, we’ll be leaving for the vans in about ten minutes.”

  I looked down at my plate. It was empty for the first time in three hours. “Isn’t it amazing how much food we’ve consumed in Italy?” I asked Rebecca, seated across from me—and realized that she could actually hear me, for the first time in hours.

  She agreed quickly. “And it’s all been good. I think I’ll have to rethink my attitude toward Italian food. Sadly, most of the Italian restaurants I know don’t produce anything remotely like what we’ve had.”

  “Isn’t it a shame? But any of us can work with fresh tomatoes and olive oil, right? Can’t we re-create at least some of this?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  We emerged eventually into the blue dusk, with swallows swirling around the tower of the castle. The rolling hills below were growing indistinct as the light died. My belly was full and I felt a slight buzz from the wine. Life was good—except for that pesky murder. Which we had only one day to resolve or risk the wrath of the polizia. I hoped we could pull it off.

  Half the people in the van dozed on the way back. It was dark by the time we trudged back to our vineyard hideaway. Our small group looked at each other. “This is not the time to try to think. Breakfast?”

  “Agreed. See you then.”

  And we went to bed.

  Chapter 22

  There must be something different about Italian wine, because on this trip I had consumed far more than I would at home, yet I hadn’t had anything approaching a hangover yet. Maybe it was all the exercise we were getting. Or maybe all the food sopped it up. Either way I was content, particularly because this morning I needed a working brain.

  Cynthia and I bumped into each other on the way to the bathroom. “After you,” I said. “I’ll go out and admire the view.”

  “Thanks,” she replied. “I can’t believe it’s our last full day.”

  “I know, I know.”

  I went out, dried the dew off the chairs on the patio, and sat, listening to the clucking of the chickens below and watching the mist burn off in the valley. It was early yet, so there were few sounds from the town. A worker went by in a farm truck on a graveled lane below but didn’t look up to see me sitting there in my sleep shirt.

  On this whole trip my only real regret was that there hadn’t been more time to explore Florence. Even though I’d seen it before, a long time ago, one day was not enough to reacquaint myself with it. Maybe I should come back. Maybe with my daughter? We hadn’t traveled together in a while.

  My happy daydream was interrupted by Cynthia, now dressed. She dropped into a chair. “All yours.”

  I took a quick shower, dressed, and joined Cynthia again. “I’m going to miss this,” I said.

  “I know what you mean. Look, Laura …”

  I turned to
look at her. “What is it?”

  “I don’t want to leave this death hanging over us all. I don’t want it to trash our memories of the trip. But there’s so little time left, I’m afraid we won’t be able to fix this.”

  “I know what you mean. You still have that diagram?” When she nodded, I said, “Let’s go over it again, with what we know now.”

  “But we haven’t been able to talk to everyone yet,” she protested.

  “We can’t afford to wait. Let’s fill in what we can and see where we are.”

  Cynthia disappeared inside and came back with a bigger, better version of her original napkin diagram. The larger size had allowed her to fill in names, which made the overview a lot clearer.

  “I see you filled in the circle for who had a kitchen or somewhere to cook,” I said.

  “Jean said there were three buildings that had cooking facilities, although she thought the one next to the dining room might be too large for one person. And she told me who was in which.”

  “Would you go back to Capitignano alone? Or were you thinking of the twins?” I arched one eyebrow.

  Cynthia laughed. “You’re bad. No, I probably wouldn’t come back on my own. I think if I returned to Italy my first choice would be to find a nice hotel in Florence and spend a few days there, although Capitignano was a great place to unwind.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Anyway, what does Jean’s information add?”

  “Not much,” Cynthia said glumly. “Turns out that most of the people on our shortlist were in one or another of them, or had a close friend who was. Can’t you see someone popping in, particularly when it was so cold, and asking if she could brew up a cup of tea? It would be that easy. And how can we find out? ‘Excuse me, but did you cook anything while you were at the villa? Did you let anyone else in to cook anything?’”