L'Oro Verde

by Coralie Hughes Jensen

  Blood encrusted the face, but the wound still glistened. His russet-flecked green eyes were open, looking directly ahead. In recognition? Sister Angela could not tell. But the chin was up, almost defiant. There was no real smile. She doubted he even noticed the angels who escorted him to heaven.

  Surely death was instantaneous. He didn’t have time to contemplate the changes, she thought. But then, this young man would have needed more time than the average person.

  The inspector stood quietly beside her. His jaw twitched. Sister Angela knew he was upset too. He had children, three of them already, and another on the way. The three were young, but the nun was sure the inspector felt for the parents—even if he never showed the fears that sometimes ate away at his insides. Luckily, murder was not common in Montriano. The inspector spent most of his time keeping the peace among the young and making the elderly feel safe.

  DiMarco looked at her expectantly. “Did you know him?”

  “Yes, he was one of my students at the scuola media,” she said. “I remember him because of his special needs. Poor Bernardo. He was always so polite. I’m sure Father Domenic has told you he was an altar boy here. Have you contacted the family?”

  “How was he in school, Sister?”

  “Such a nice boy—rather quiet but always alert and interested. Having learning disabilities, he wasn’t strong in academics. He tried hard but was always a step behind.”

  “Was he retarded?” he asked.

  “Just a little slow.” The nun felt for the phone in her pocket—a nervous habit. “I heard he had a job in Petraggio,” she continued, trying to recall how she had heard about it. Was it Sister Maria? Bernardo was one of her students too. She told Sister Angela someone recommended him for a job at a Petraggio olive oil factory. Sister Angela thought it would be a wonderful job for the boy. Crushing olives and bottling them were repetitive so he would be able to learn that type of job. “I wish I remembered the name of the company.”

  “We have to follow up on that,” DiMarco said.

  “Have you determined the murder weapon?”

  “The processional cross is missing,” DiMarco said. “Father Domenic noticed it right away.”

  “The cross is awfully light,” she said. “That would mean the murderer would have had to be a man, wouldn’t it? He would have to have been a big man at that—able to bring it down hard enough to do that much damage. Is it still missing?”

  “Yes. Dr. Piombo will examine the wound further to see if he can better describe the murder weapon,” the inspector said.

  “Andreus, you must check to see if it could come down with enough force on top of the head to leave such a wound,” she said. “Have you checked for fingerprints on the other staffs, Inspector?”

  “My colleagues are doing that now. The body was stuffed over here,” DiMarco said.

  “Stuffed?”

  “Yes, in an attempt to delay discovery, I guess.”

  “But Father Domenic found it right away?” she asked, trying to mask the confusion in her voice.

  DiMarco must have caught her hesitation. “Are you saying we should include Father Domenic as a suspect?” he asked.

  “I should think everyone is a suspect at this point. But that said, what made him think to look over here?”

  “Maybe you should ask him.”

  Father Domenic stood away from the group but close enough to hear the discussions.

  “Father Domenic, it’s good to see you.”

  “And you, Sister Angela. I can’t say I didn’t expect you to appear,” he said, his demeanor rather cool.

  Sister Angela was reminded of their last meeting.

  “It’s unbecoming for a sister to be involved in this line of work,” he once declared to Father Sergio. “It doesn’t, or rather shouldn’t, involve the Church.”

  Of course that was not the case in this particular crime. But he had given the impression that the police work should be left to the experts, and the mature nun should concentrate on her vocation. Sister Angela knew how he felt, but that did not deter her. Father Domenic was young and impressionable. He could still be convinced to view her gift as a benefit to all.

  She remembered when he first came to Montriano a few years earlier. He was fresh out of seminary, his cheeks beaming his innocence. With clear olive skin and dark eyes, he was tall and trim, a perfect build for his clerical robes.

  “I think that one is headed for trouble,” Sister Clara once noted.

  “What do you mean?” Sister Angela asked, taken aback by her fellow teacher’s reaction.

  “I’m surprised you don’t see it,” said Sister Marcella. “You seem to think you know everything else going on in this village.”

  “That man is far too handsome to be a priest,” Sister Clara said. “I probably wouldn’t have taken my vows if one like him had shown any interest in me.”

  “And I have heard he came to us with a trail of rumors concerning his vows,” Sister Marcella said. “Maybe the bishop thinks it’s okay for priests to break theirs, but I can assure you, it only brings trouble to the rest of us.”

  Sister Angela agreed there was something about him, though not necessarily trouble. Her vow of chastity had never kept her from admiring some of God’s other work whether the man wore a collar or not. She looked at the young priest as if she were studying a painting. Was he trouble?

  The young women in the parish admired him too, whispering among themselves, hushing each other when Sister Angela passed. And she had heard her own students talk about him. Yes, he was attractive and not much older than a boy.

  Father Domenic did not appear to be distracted by the attention he received, however—did not even seem to notice it. With the retirement of Father Augustus and the reassignment of a number of interim pastors that followed, Father Domenic’s confidence grew. The parish had been between priests now for three months, and he was forced to fulfill the pastor’s duties in addition to his own. He seemed to do it easily. But the diocese probably would not promote him yet. Not only was he still too young, but as Sister Marcella pointed out, there were rumors about his past that had to be cleared up.

  Rumors about attractive priests were nothing new, of course. Scandals seemed to blossom in most of the dioceses worldwide. Did Sister Angela think many of them were true? Probably. The vow of chastity was contrary to human nature. It was difficult to imagine any of them sticking to it. Was it impossible? Of course not. Sister Angela managed though she found it easier as the years progressed. Did she believe Father Domenic had broken his vow? If his sins did not emerge now, they would come out in the next world. All Sister Angela could assure everyone was that sins committed against the townspeople of Montriano would not be covered up for long.

  When it came to rumors, Church policy moved like a hundred-ton truck—it plodded, tremors radiating out, and everyone felt the effects. Nonetheless, barring the release of more evidence, Sister Angela recognized he would soon be ready whether or not his superiors were. His face was more chiseled now, his forehead wrinkled in thought. But he still looked like a prince, and every single female in the parish lingered, perhaps hoping he would attempt to whisk her away.

  “Father Domenic,” DiMarco said, “maybe you could fill in Sister Angela on your movements and how you found the body this morning.”

  “As I always do, I walked into the church at five-thirty this morning,” he began.

  “Through the front door?” Sister Angela asked, needing the picture right in her mind.

  “No, no,” he said. “I entered by means of the gate and then through the sacristy.”

  “Was the gate locked this morning?”

  “Yes. I had the key.”

  “Was the sacristy locked too?”

  “It’s never locked,” the priest said. “There’s no lock, you see. The door was closed, though. There was no sign anyone had entered there.”

  “And was there anything amiss in the sacristy?”

  “I noticed nothing out of
place.”

  “When did you sense something was wrong?”

  “I already told this to the police, Sister. Is it really necessary to ask me the same questions?” He certainly appeared to be anxious. Sister Angela noticed perspiration sprouting on his upper lip and his weight shifting from foot to foot.

  “I understand this is difficult, Father, but I’m afraid I’m more successful tracking down criminals when I talk to witnesses directly. I do hope I’m not delaying you,” she said, knowing she had to watch her step here. Keeping the clergy on her side was critical so this was no time to make a bid for women’s rights.

  The young priest glanced in the direction of the group that had now thinned considerably. No one else seemed to need him.

  “I walked directly through the sacristy into the nave. I didn’t look around because I had things on my mind. I needed to pray.”

  “Mmm,” Sister Angela said, deep in thought. Was the killer standing right in front of her? Could he have a penchant for other young men or boys? The nun made a mental note to check into his file at the seminary. Maybe there was something to the rumors.

  “When did you look around, then? Did you hear anything?” she asked.

  “No. Or maybe I did. Something made me look to the side—to where we stack the processional cross and staffs,” he said, his face strained in thought. “I’m not sure if I heard something but I felt a sudden chill. That would only happen if someone opened the sacristy door to the garden. I glanced over my shoulder to see who was coming and noticed the staffs were strewn across the floor. The cross wasn’t among them.”

  “Other than as a weapon, would there be any reason for someone to take the cross? Was it worth money?”

  “A small amount, Sister,” he said. “I’m sure you are already aware that we don’t use any valuable or historic relics here. Those are all stored at the museum off the piazza. Some are on display this summer, I think. We wouldn’t use them because we have no safe place to store them.” He seemed to have relaxed.

  “After you discovered it was missing, what did you do?”

  “I started to search for it. Sometimes the altar boys play games after mass and leave it elsewhere.”

  “So you walked back to the sacristy…” she said.

  “No. I circled the church. I started on the other side, eyeing the memorials to see if it was resting against them. I scanned down the rows of pews. It wasn’t lying across a bench or on the floor.”

  “I would think if an altar boy were going to leave it somewhere, it would be where he put it down when he disrobed after mass,” she said.

  “But I didn’t see it in the sacristy when I came through earlier.”

  “Oh,” she said, surprised. “Go on.”

  “When I got to the vault, I peeked over the top and saw some cloth. There was a shoe sticking out the side. I immediately went for help.”

  “You didn’t try to pull the body out?”

  “No.” The perspiration had started again. A drop began to run down the side of his face.

  “Didn’t you think he might still be alive?”

  “No,” he said, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “I guess I didn’t think at all. I walked back to the rectory and used the phone.”

  “Why didn’t you use the phone in the sacristy?”

  “It doesn’t work. The parish had trouble paying the bill, I think. It hasn’t worked since I arrived. Most people carry a wireless anyway. There’s no need to pay for a phone no one uses.”

  The nun glanced at the priest’s feet. “Did you wear those shoes, Father?”

  The priest hesitated.

  “Those are that expensive Italian brand, aren’t they? What with the cassock you wear now, I had forgotten how well you dressed when you first arrived. Perhaps those shoes would have paid for a more convenient phone this morning.”

  “Durability often makes up for cost, Sister.”

  “You should probably find another pair until the lab tests these shoes. Alessandro, do you have an evidence bag? And when the police came?”

  “Pardon?” asked Father Domenic, sliding out of his shoes.

  “Where were you when the police arrived?”

  “I met them outside the rectory and let them in through the gate.”

  The nun looked up. “And where were you last night?”

  Again the priest fell silent, scowling. He must have been angered by this less than tactful approach by a subordinate.

  “Father?” DiMarco said.

  “I was in the rectory from dinner on. The housekeeper, Mrs. Torrisi, left some time after eight. I fell asleep on the couch, woke up around midnight, and went upstairs to bed.”

  “Did something awaken you at midnight, Father Domenic?” Sister Angela asked.

  “Not that I remember,”

  “No dog barking or conjugal quarrels in the neighborhood?”

  “I assure you, Sister Angela, I was awakened by nothing in particular.”

  “Thank you, Father. You have been very cooperative.”

  *

  Enzo emerged from his office on the first floor of Garibaldi’s Olive Oil Incorporated, closing the door and locking it. It was late, nearly eight o’clock. He was both tired and hungry. Sauntering through the front lobby, he noticed the receptionist had already left and turned out the lights. Suddenly he heard footsteps and paused. Someone was coming down the stairs.

  “Ah yes, Ms. Vitali. You worked late, I see.”

  “I’ve been very busy trying to make the reports as thorough as possible for you this month.”

  He looked her over. The sun through the glass doors spotlighted her directly. Though the shadows were growing, it was still light outside. Her slim figure was highlighted by her long legs. Straight black hair accentuated her pale skin. She had not tinted it with red streaks as was the style. Instead, she let it pick up any color the lights offered.

  “I’m impressed,” he said. “I’m sorry to work you so hard. You aren’t having trouble with the load, are you?”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Splendid. I’m glad you are on our team. He deftly turned the key to the front door and held it open for her. “You know it’s late. Perhaps you would like to join me for dinner.”

  “I would enjoy that. I have an idea about how to make the flow on the shop floor more efficient.”

  “I would love to hear it,” he said, putting his free hand around her waist and guiding her toward his car.

  *

  The nun looked at her watch. She had to get back. “I feel like Cinderella, Alessandro, but I must return to class. I would like to be there when you inform the parents. Can you wait a few minutes while I find someone to teach my next class?”

  “Yes, Sister Angela. Meet me at the station in about half an hour. We can go together.”

  DiMarco almost looked relieved she would accompany him. She knew he did not like facing the family alone.

  The nun wished she felt less angst too, though it was not about talking to Bernardo’s parents or about having to face her mother superior. Sister Angela had a feeling this case was going to rock not only Montriano, but shake up many of the surrounding towns. The murder might even affect the very infrastructure of the quiet hill villages—something that had

  not happened since a simple fruit helped build an economic boom that has lasted for centuries.

  Four

  In spite of the splashes of shade from the lush greenery, the small courtyard inside the gates was sunny. Inhaling the scent of bell peppers and garlic wafting from the open windows,

  Sister Angela suddenly had the urge to run the other way. She did not remember having been to the Bernardo’s house before. Fumbling through her pocket for her rosary beads, she froze as the inspector rapped on the door.

  Inside, the shutters were open wide, inviting cool morning breezes before the sun was too high. But the room just beyond the front door was still dark. Sister Angela turned to look at the picture on the wall. It was the paintin
g of the nativity surrounded by an intricate gilt frame. A crucifix hung in the opposite corner. The rest of the walls remained bare, but the dun color did not reflect the sunlight. Perhaps it was the shadows the two messengers carried inside with them—the pain they were about to inflict on the unsuspecting inhabitants.

  Giuseppe Reni let them in. After calling his wife into the room, he stood frozen, apprehensive. Wiping her hands on an apron tied around her waist, Valeria Reni emerged from the kitchen. She seemed younger than her years. Her face was kindly, motherly, as if she could wrap her arms around a whole host of children at once. She wore a broad smile, ready to greet her unexpected guests. But the minute she saw Sister Angela and DiMarco, her smile faded.

  The inspector nodded. He had dropped the usual greeting of buongiorno, something the hosts almost certainly did not miss. “I’m afraid I have brought bad news for you both. Your

  Son…” DiMarco said.

  He did not need to finish. Mrs. Reni let out a low moan. The two supported her on either side, and Sister Angela guided her to the sofa.

  “What happened?” Reni asked.

  “Father Domenic discovered his body this morning at the church.”

  “I told you he wasn’t ready to move out,” Mrs. Reni wailed, turning to face Sister Angela. “He was still just a boy. He had no business being on his own. Giuseppe knew that. I told him.”

  “What was he doing here in Montriano, Inspector?” Reni said. “He lives with his aunt in Petraggio. Has anyone informed my wife’s sister, Carmela? As Valeria must have told you, he lived with her and her husband, Emilio, in Petraggio. We felt—I felt he needed to take care of himself—to become a man. I assure you, those were my intentions. He seemed very happy with the Gianninis and was very proud of his new job. It made him feel important. Heaven knows, Inspector, we all need to feel that way once in a while. I had no idea he would be in danger, or I would never have convinced my wife it was the best course,” he said, his voice trailing off. Reni sighed before turning to the inspector once again. “You are talking about San Benedetto, aren’t you? Why was he here? Why didn’t he come to us?”