The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy

by Margaret Moore

  “Well, I have, and as you may remember, I always did favour a mid-night tryst and possible complications arising from that. I mean just because we think he looked like a jerk, doesn’t mean that women didn’t find him attractive. You know he looked real flashy, but some women love that kinda thing. So, I suppose, I still kinda feel that he was meeting a woman there and that either she did it, though God knows why, or her husband did. I ask myself, why meet someone there? and the answer is, because it was clandestine, therefore, there’s more likelihood of there being a husband, and quite frankly, if my wife was meeting someone like that and I found them at it, why I would probably do the same myself.”

  “John, have you got an alibi? You sound quite heated. It wasn’t you was it?” said Ben seriously.

  “Really Ben, of course not, how could you even think that…” he broke off as Ben chuckled, “Oh I never do know when you are joking. Anyway I’m off or Terry will beat up on me.”

  “What picturesque phrases you use John. I am always more amazed by the similarities in our two languages, than by the differences. Buon appetito, and I’ll see you tomorrow at the party.”

  John left him, and Ben sat back in his chair, soon he would order a soup made with farro and healthy vegetables, but he would follow that with a steak and very unhealthy chips. He was enjoying his retirement.

  Alda and Rosaria reached San Giovanni very late that evening. Rosaria had prudently booked a hotel room in a nearby village and they thankfully went up to their room. Alda was exhausted. She had been woken at four in the morning by the carabinieri, and had spent the day in the hospital, had then rushed home and got straight into the car with an overnight bag packed in haste. Added to that, had been the journey here, which had seemed never ending. She knelt beside her bed to say the simple prayers taught her in her youth that had accompanied her throughout her life. She added one of her own. “Dear God, you gave me this child, when I had given up hope of ever having one, let me keep him a little longer. Heal him, don’t take him yet.”

  She set the alarm clock, as she and Rosaria intended going to matins. She knew this was the right thing to do, the only thing to do. She had phoned Gino and been told that there was no change in her son’s condition. She took that as an encouraging sign. Tomorrow there would be a change, a change for the better. She turned out the light and slept deeply through the rest of the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  “Amanda Odescalchi pulled her wheeled suitcase into the hall. “Oh it’s lovely to be back. I always forget how beautiful it is here.”

  “You always say that. Still I’m glad you feel that way, at least you’ll always want to come back.” said her mother, Hilary.

  “Wouldn’t anyone want to?”

  “Oh not everyone feels the same way about it. You remember Brenda Saponara? Well her kids both went to University in England, both married there and now Brenda and Mario are going back to England for good.”

  “I am surprised, no, I’m not, now I come to think of it, Brenda never felt very happy here, did she? I seem to remember she never really made any friends. She was always rushing off to Tunbridge Wells to see her family, and her husband’s parents are both dead now, so I suppose the only relatives they have are there. Still it does seem a bit like burning your bridges, I mean for the girls. It seems sad that their children shouldn’t know the place.”

  “Well they can always come to an hotel if they feel nostalgic. You won’t ever have to do that, because I would never go back to England to live now. I’d be a fish out of water. My life is here.”

  “How’s Bruno?” asked Amanda rather abruptly.

  “Fine, as always.”

  “Are you going to marry him?”

  “Amanda, you are still standing in the hall, with your suitcase in your hand, and you start asking questions like that!”

  “Ma, not questions like that, but that question, which you so adroitly avoided answering, and look I’ve let go of the suitcase and I’m moving into the kitchen to have a coffee, I hope, so you can answer me.”

  “The answer is - none of your business really, but no, not in the near future.”

  “Ah, well, I suppose I’ll have to wait for the far future and see what happens then.”

  Hilary prepared coffee for her daughter, a ritual, greeting her return. They sat at the kitchen table to drink it.

  “So, it’s my turn now,” said Hilary. “What’s going on in your life?”

  “Well, quite a lot actually. You remember I told you about James? Well we’re thinking of moving in together. Actually he’s looking for somewhere for us while I’m here. As you know we both have tiny flats, neither of which would really do for a couple.” She looked up at her mother.

  “Good. That sounds a good idea.”

  “I knew you would say that.”

  “Then I must be pretty predictable.”

  “Not always. Do you know, I would have predicted that you would marry Bruno. I thought you were so suited, but you don’t seem very keen now. You’re so non committal, or do I mean non committed!”

  “Am I?”

  “There, you’re doing it again.” She paused, “Do you love Bruno?”

  “I suppose I must do, in a way. He’s certainly quite important to me. He’s become an important part of my life. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you love James?”

  “Of course I do, why else would I want to move in with him?”

  Hilary took the cups from the table and put them in the sink. She turned back to Amanda. “At my age things are not as simple as that. Let’s leave it there.”

  “Fine. Change of subject. What’s new in town? You never tell me what’s going on when you phone, or is it still the same as always?”

  “Oh no. Not this time. I’m afraid there’s been a murder.”

  “You’re kidding. Who?”

  “Who was the victim?” she paused. “It was Ettore Fagiolo. They don’t know who did it.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said quietly.

  “No.”

  “Oh my God. I don’t believe it, or well, I suppose I do. How did it happen?”

  Hilary told her.

  “And you found the body. Well, well, I don’t know what to say. Was it awful for you?”

  “Not too bad. There’s a plainclothes policeman, well he’s the magistrate, in charge of the inquiry and he was quite kind.” She wondered if kind was the right adjective.

  “Do they have any suspects?”

  “Well they seem to think he disturbed an intruder and got himself killed, anyway that’s the official version.”

  “I see.” She thought for a moment. “I bet the town has been a hotbed of gossip. What a golden opportunity for wagging tongues and inventive minds. I can’t say I’m sad about it, but it must have been a terrible blow for his parents. Well, well. I can hardly take it in,” she said looking at her mother, who said nothing. “Right, I’ll take my case up and then have a shower.”

  “Oh Amanda, changing the subject; there’s something promising on at the theatre tonight, I have got you a ticket if you feel like coming,”

  “Thanks, I’ve brought a decent dress with me, and is Bruno coming too?

  “Of course.”

  “I must phone James later, as he’ll want to know I’ve arrived safely.”

  “You don’t have to wait until after nine o’clock anymore, I’ve got a new telephone line and it’s the same price all day.”

  “Brilliant.” She clumped upstairs dragging her suitcase.

  Ruggero di Girolamo took the post from his desk and shuffled it. He had had some pretty disgusting anonymous letters since he’d arrived and expected there would be more. Quite a lot of people seemed to think that any opportunity to vilify their neighbours should be made the most of. Some even went so far as to cut out words from newspapers, but most were happy just to use block capitals, and two had used a computer. He was duty bound to take some note of them, but
it was very rare that any contained any useful information. He opened one marked personal and private. In block capitals it screamed at him:

  “PERVERT: I KNOW YOU ARE FUCKING THAT ENGLISH COW. I SAW YOU GO TO HER HOUSE. WELL YOU AREN’T THE ONLY ONE. SHE DOES IT WITH EVERYONE AND SHE’S A MURDERESS. SHE KILLED ETTORE AND SHE WAS FUCKING HIM TOO.”

  He set it on one side, and opened the next, a photo fell out. It was of a naked young man, who was in a state of sexual excitation and seemed to be wearing make-up. He had long black ringlets and smiled impudently at the camera.

  A note accompanied the photograph:

  “THIS INSTRUMENT OF SATAN TRIED TO CORRUPT ETTORE FAGIOLO, A BLAMELESS MAN WHO WAS KILLED BY HIM FOR REFUSING TO SUCCOMB TO EVIL.”

  He smiled at the biblical overtones. The photo had to have come from Ettore’s mother, who had no doubt found it amongst her son’s things. He phoned the Maresciallo. “Could you come and look at a photo please, I think I can guess who it is, but it will be quicker if you come and see it.”

  Five minutes later the Maresciallo, with a red face, confirmed his guess.

  “It’s Marco Rossi. My God I don’t want this left lying around, do you understand?” he said almost belligerently.

  “I always exercise the utmost discretion, Maresciallo Biagioni,” he replied coldly.

  “Forgive me, it’s just that I can’t bear the thought of his parents ever knowing of this. Where did you get it?”

  “Look,” said Di Girolamo handing him the note. “I think the note is the work of Ettore’s mother, and I think she found the photo in his office which she cleaned out the other day. You remember the videos?”

  “Yes of course. Satan, eh. That’s her alright. So you think Ettore took the photo, eh? Do you know that boy is only just 18. Ettore must have corrupted him, and it looks like you were right about him being bi-sexual.” He rolled the unfamiliar word around in his mouth like something with a bad taste. He looked unhappy, as though it was Di Girolamo’s presence that had revealed a maggot in the healthy looking apple that was his town.

  “I never imagined anything like this here, you know. There’s always been a bit of adultery, that’s normal, and a couple of queers,” he glanced at the other man, “I mean homosexuals, but not this sort of thing, and since you’ve been here there’s been so many disgusting anonymous letters. We used to get them, but not so many, and now…” he tailed off and looked at Di Girolamo, who seemed very composed, and thought to himself that it must be everyday stuff to him. He thanked God he would be retiring in a couple of years. They’d sent him back to his home town to finish off his undistinguished career, and although he was aware that he wasn’t very popular, and some of the letters had dealt at length on the subject of his lack of popularity, he had been glad to be somewhere so quiet, and relatively trouble free. Di Girolamo was speaking again.

  “A murder of this kind is an exceptional event in a small town. It brings out things that have been hidden, sometimes things that exist only in peoples’ minds. There is a shift in the balance of everyday life, as though people think that as murder has happened and has gone unpunished, anything is licit. The letters will stop when the murderer has been caught. This town is as normal as any other, and it will return to normality. Ettore was evil. You are right, the boy was possibly an innocent, his innocence may well have been corrupted, but now he is legally a man, and if he chooses homosexuality, that is not evil; you must recognise that.”

  The Maresciallo sighed, “I know. Everything’s allowed these days. It will be hard for his parents, if he lives of course.” He sounded hopeful, as though the boy’s death would solve the problem.

  “He must live. I feel sure this boy has the key, the answer. He knows who murdered Ettore, or thinks he does, and he is the witness we need. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that this wasn’t a simple robbery that escalated into murder. As you said yourself, what sort of stuff gets stolen around here? Peanuts. Certainly nothing worth killing for. I’ve been looking at the statistics. The only murders in this area in the last fifteen years have all been domestic, and there were very few even of those.” He paused. “ It could well be the Englishman you know, we already know that things are not what they seem there, but only this boy can tell us, and if it is him, then you can feel happy that none of the townsfolk is a murderer.”

  The Maresciallo looked a bit more cheerful, “Oh well I’ll light a candle for Marco Rossi myself then. We can’t go losing a key witness”

  He stood up and his eyes glanced on the other letter there. “Shred that” he said, having taken in the contents, He looked Di Girolamo straight in the eyes, “Just somebody’s idea of a joke. They love to get at the police.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” He picked it up and put it through the shredder. “I’ll put the rest of this stuff in the folder in my locked drawer, and when this whole thing is over, it will be destroyed too. I don’t think this photograph will ever be needed as evidence.”

  The Maresciallo nodded and left the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Hilary and Amanda looked at each other with approval. Amanda was wearing a very dark green dress, a sheath that made her look even slimmer. Her long red hair was freshly washed, and curled down her back. She wore earrings of jade that matched the eye shadow and gave her green- blue eyes an almost unreal look.

  She said, “People will think I’m wearing coloured contacts.”

  She had emphasised her pallor with a creamy pale foundation and wore a fake jade choker.

  “Does it look terribly false?” she asked, fingering it.

  “No, but anyway who cares? You look absolutely stunning.”

  “I thought you didn’t go in for compliments.”

  “You are the exception to the rule. Who are you doing all this for?”

  “For myself of course. I should know the answer to that one by now.” They both laughed. “You look good in black Ma. You should tart yourself up more often. It’s good for the ego.”

  “My ego is quite alright as it is.”

  “I wish you would wear jewellery.”

  “Sorry, but no way. Come on let’s go.”

  They walked down the steep road arm in arm, Hilary giving some support to her daughter, who had insisted on wearing high heels and was in danger of slipping.

  “I always forget how steep this hill is.”

  “Now you know why I couldn’t bear it when you used to bicycle down it so fast.”

  “I couldn’t do that now. I’d be terrified. It’s only kids, who believe they are immortal, that can do that sort of thing. Hey, I see Villa Rosa is all dark. Do you think they’ll be at the theatre?”

  “Possibly. Did I tell you that tomorrow evening they are throwing a ‘Back to the Status Quo’ party.”

  “Really! Are you going?”

  “Yes, and so, I hope, are you.”

  “Oh am I invited too?”

  “Yes, everyone is. All people you know, plus some friends of theirs from the coast. They told Terry when she phoned to accept and ask if they needed help. You know how Terry is.”

  “Well it sounds like a good idea, a sort of exorcism I suppose.”

  “Mmm, I suppose it is. No one’s really seen them since they got back. They’ve been to the police station a few times, and now I think they just want to forget the whole thing, and as they say, get back to normal. I think they want to meet everyone all together and get it over and done with.”

  “Why, were they suspected or something?”

  “I don’t think so, but as it was in their house and they knew the victim, I expect they had to clear up a few points.”

  “But they weren’t even there when it happened.”

  “No.”

  “That sounded like a maybe, not a no.”

  “Well it is barely possible that they hadn’t quite left when it happened, but anyway that’s obviously all been cleared up now.”

  “You sound like you know more than you’re willing to say.�
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  “Maybe. One can’t always say everything one knows, but as I said, it has all been cleared up now.”

  “Alright I’ll ask nothing else. You know Ma, they are a strange couple. He is unreal, and she is the pits. All that make-up and all those rings and earrings and bracelets and necklaces. Ugh! I don’t really know why you’re friends with them.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why go to their party?”

  “Well it would look awkward if I didn’t, you know. It would look as though I had something against them.”

  “Since when have you decided to be so diplomatic. I hardly know you.”

  “I hardly know myself. It’s very difficult. I don’t even like them, and I only have contact with them because we’re all British. No, don’t laugh. It’s awful. I was sort of hoping to keep them at arm’s length, which is difficult when their garden adjoins mine, but I thought I could keep the whole thing on a very cool level and sort of gently freeze them off. But I can’t do that in this situation. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do. You’ll just have to freeze them off later. I thought you were all getting very pally.”

  “Well that’s the trouble. You see, they are so kind and generous and thoughtful and it’s very difficult to be boorish, although quite frankly all our contacts are totally superficial. Somehow you just slide off the surface with them. It’s hard to explain.”

  They had reached the theatre by now and joined the mass surging towards the open doors. They nodded to some friends and stopped to chat with others. Amanda said, “I’m going to leave you for a bit Ma. Give me my ticket and I’ll join you later. It won’t start on time anyway.” She teetered off towards a group of younger people, waving and shouting greetings.

  Bruno watched Hilary approach the door. She looked very good. Her black dress swirled around her as she moved. She was wearing heeled evening sandals and had slim tanned legs. Her blue eyes were devoid of make-up. Her face was tanned and serene. She smiled at him as he stepped forward, and he knew better than to comment on her looks. She really hated it. It wasn’t pretence or a form of coquettishness, but a sincere dislike of appraisal by others.