“How do you know it was the first blow, Andreus?”
“Because if the side blow came first, how could the attacker maneuver the weapon to hit him on top with the second? The youth would have been lying on the floor,” he said, the volume of his voice increasing with his annoyance. This much was obvious.
“Does it look like the cross?” she asked, placing her fingers around the wound.
“It could have been,” he said. “Father Domenic hasn’t found the cross then? But it would have left a deep gouge back here. It isn’t perceptibly deeper at this end.”
“What if it missed? The crosspiece could have fallen beyond the skull.”
“Then why the sharp cut on the forehead?” he asked. “Is the cross long enough at the bottom? This wound didn’t come from a wooden pole.”
“I think it’s long enough, but I can’t remember. We don’t have it to measure.”
“Anyway, the object was long and sharp. I see no bits of debris like paint or patina in the wound, so it was probably a polished metal.”
“And do you agree the killer had to have been strong—too strong to be a woman or a small man?”
“That depends on the cross. How long and heavy is the processional cross?”
“If I remember correctly, the processional cross was about two meters and five kilos at most.”
“Then yes. The attacker was most likely a man. The body must have been hit very hard to make this kind of wound.”
“There was some blood around the body—blood that had been hastily mopped up. That must mean the killer had blood on his clothes, right?”
“Yes. There would have been a lot of blood. Do you have any idea what the assailant used for a mop?”
“There was nothing missing in the church. The linens and albs are all accounted for, I believe,” she said. “Maybe the killer used his own clothes.”
“And remember he took the cross with him.”
“Those items can’t be very far from the scene, Andreus. The killer wouldn’t have wanted to run into someone in the morning hours who might question him. If they were his own clothes, he wouldn’t walk the streets naked or covered in blood. He must have been wearing a robe.”
“Or didn’t have to walk very far.”
“Father Domenic, you mean. I find that almost incredible.”
“You haven’t searched the rectory yet, then,” the doctor said. “It’s probably too late anyway. I’m sure the killer would have found a great hiding place for the evidence by now.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
“Nothing physical. The victim was a bit dirty, probably from running and trying to find a place to hide. I did a tox screen. The results won’t be in until next week. I found nothing to indicate he had been using drugs.”
“But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t selling them.”
“True. But I don’t think he was using them. And I checked the fingernails. No material underneath, and there are no scratches or bruises that would indicate a fight.”
Sister Angela winced, the first indication the scene had gotten to her. “That means he either knew the killer or gave up rather quickly,” she said, biting her lip.
Not wanting to take advantage of the slight show of emotion, the doctor covered the body again and walked her to his office. She grabbed her bag and ambled toward the door, stopping just before she pulled it open.
“One last thing, Andreus. As you know, this boy was slow in school. Could you see anything obvious that might have caused that?”
But he had already returned to his desk, savoring his pasta from the restaurant across the street. He did not reply.
*
Garibaldi swiveled his chair to look directly at his guest, sitting across the table. “These are the numbers. I need more but will go elsewhere if you insist on raising the price, Vittorio.”
“I told you, Enzo. The weather hasn’t cooperated with your needs. Those olives didn’t do well this season. Too little sun, I’m afraid. You can approach any supplier in the region, and you’ll get similar quotes.”
“Give me a few days to make sure of the numbers. I’ll get back to you—through Nicola, of course. By the way, where is Nicola? She hasn’t been here all week. You haven’t sent her to another factory, have you? She’s employed here, you know. She begged me to hire her.”
“No. I’m afraid Nicola’s been ill. She should be back in a day or so.”
“Not something serious, I hope.”
“I don’t believe so. She’s a woman so I don’t understand her. Only mothers comprehend their daughters. If only…”
“I get the picture, Vittorio. Her mother would have known what to do,” Garibaldi said, turning his back to Vitali again. “As I told you, give me a couple of days so I can assess what I need. You will show yourself out, Vittorio, won’t you? I’m late for a meeting and have to pull some papers together for it. Please tell your daughter we all hope her health improves.”
*
Sister Angela glanced at her watch. It was after three-thirty. There was not enough time to make it to Bernardo’s place of work. His aunt’s house, though, was only five or six blocks from the Dr. Piombo’s office. If she hurried, she could visit the aunt and still catch the six o’clock bus back to Montriano.
Petraggio was bigger than Montriano—bigger and more spread out. Many of the houses incorporated into the town were small farms. The Gianninis lived on one of them—a small farm with chickens and a few goats. The land was not much good for growing crops, but Mrs. Giannini had started a vegetable garden, and the tomatoes seemed to be doing very well.
Sister Angela was warm by the time she got there, and Mrs. Giannini poured her some apple juice. The woman chased a cat from the table on the porch before sitting down across from her visitor. She seemed to know why the nun was there.
“I talked to my sister, Valeria, yesterday afternoon. She was very upset. I’m afraid we have let her down.”
“Surely you did nothing on purpose, Mrs. Giannini. Mrs. Reni never blamed either you or Mr. Giannini. Please tell me about Bernardo—how he spent his days and evenings.”
“He left for work each morning at about eight-thirty,” she said. “I had breakfast for him and made a lunch too. He worked until six.”
Mrs. Giannini stopped to light a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, letting her breath out slowly. The woman was younger than her sister. The nun guessed she was less than forty. With
her long fingers, the aunt pulled back her dark bangs and then released them. They fell forward once more. She repeated the gesture again and again during their conversation. There was no hint of gray in her hair, only streaks of dark red that were professionally applied.
“How did he get there?”
“He took a bus,” Mrs. Giannini said.” I don’t know if he had to connect somewhere. I suspect he did. Anyway, he was always hurrying so he wouldn’t miss it.”
“It was nice of you to take him into your home. Wasn’t his mother worried about him?”
“Yes. She called often, wondering if he was all right. Valeria never really wanted him to leave, you know. She thought he wasn’t ready to be on his own.”
Mrs. Giannini snuffed out the half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray and lit another. Sister Angela would have understood the gesture if it had been chewing gum. Gum lost its flavor after a while. Cigarettes did not. The woman then put her foot up on the edge of her chair and cradled her knee.
“But he wasn’t really on his own, was he? I mean you were taking care of him. Did you resent the implication?”
“No, not really. The trouble she had endured since the day she brought him home, I can’t begin to imagine. What a shock to us when we found out he had problems.”
“Trouble?” the nun asked, hearing only the first lines. “What kind of trouble did she endure?”
“He was retarded.” She seemed really agitated now, the puffs coming in closer intervals. “You know what he was like, Sister. He was your stu
dent, wasn’t he?”
“But you still let him live here with you.”
“What’s the difference between cooking and cleaning for one and doing it for two? At least Bernardo paid for it.”
“He paid rent? Mrs. Reni didn’t mention that.”
“It wasn’t much, but it helped pay for the food.”
“Did he pay you, or did the Renis do it?”
“He did. I’m not sure Valeria knew about it.”
“Did Bernardo like working at the plant?”
“Not at first,” she said, taking a long draw on the cigarette, “but more recently he seemed very happy—I would say especially in the last six months or so. I never told Valeria, but sometimes he came home late.”
“Late for dinner?’
“Late like after eleven,” she said, releasing her bangs to flop forward again. “He had to grow up some time, didn’t he? My sister would never let him out of her sight.”
*
Sister Angela barely caught the bus. It was just after six, and waving her arms, she ran the last hundred feet. She doubted the bus would have waited if it were not for her habit.
Out of breath, she found a seat by the window and fanned herself with a sheet of notepaper. The houses got farther apart, and soon the bus was out in the countryside. Larger farms began to appear. Rows of grapevines whizzed past the window, their propped branches heavy with grapes. The sun had not yet sunk below the hills, and the nun used her fan to protect her eyes. The road began to narrow, and the driver revved the engine as the bus started up the hill. It took an hour to travel from Petraggio to Montriano. Half an hour had already passed between the numerous stops at the edge of town and the short hop through the valley. The trip would have been shorter, but the road circled the large vineyards and olive orchards. The last half hour, the bus would wind up and around the hill, stopping for farm families along the way.
Montriano was at the top, the last stop. The bus would then turn around and retrace its route. This was the final trip to Montriano until morning.
Sister Angela was relieved when she stepped through the town gate on the piazza. It was a long walk up to the school, but she would make it just in time for dinner. And she was already hungry.
During the trek, the nun thought about the murder and what she had discovered. According to Andreus, the killer had to be a strong man. But of course, the medical examiner could not identify the murder weapon definitively. She and the inspector would have to concentrate on finding the bloody clothes and cross. Then there was Mrs. Giannini who told Sister Angela more than she knew. Yes, his staying out late probably resulted in his murder. But the fact that he seemed happy was a real puzzler. There were the long periods in the bathroom in the morning. The household had only one bathroom. Mrs. Giannini had to remind him to hurry more than once. And she mentioned that the reason he stayed out late might have been a girl. The smell of perfume mixed with smoke permeated his laundry, which Mrs. Giannini did for him once a week. Sister Angela patted her bag. She was glad she had not forgotten to ask for a shirt or part of his uniform—anything that had not yet been washed. It had taken a while to find something. Mrs. Giannini was quite efficient in cleaning his room. Yes, the nun verified the shirt still reeked of cigarette smoke—no surprise since every crack in the small house smelled the same. But underneath, very faintly, she could also smell another scent. The nun hoped that by placing the shirt in a plastic bag and sealing it with tape, she could preserve the odor which might hold the key to his having a friend—maybe even a special one.
The front of the old building of Scuola di Santa Donata was now in sight, and even though she was winded, Sister Angela could not wait to eat and take time to think about the clues. She already knew, however, that this was only the beginning and that the investigation into the murder would undoubtedly be more complicated. An evil and unsavory part of human nature loomed among the trees and vines that flourished in the hazy sunshine hovering over Montriano.
Seven
Sister Daniela was anxious to share her notes with her mentor. She was not sure if the clues were significant, but she would find out. Sister Angela opened her door on the first knock.
“What do you have, my dear?” she asked.
“I did as you instructed. Father Domenic led me down the sacristy stairs to the basement of the church. I had never been down there before.”
“Nor have I. What did it look like?”
“Closest to the stairs, there were washing machines, ironing boards, and a woodstove. The documents were kept behind the boiler in a room along the back wall, though. It was darker and scarier back there.”
“Was it full of junk, messy, or kept up?”
“It wasn’t bad. In the corner, there was a pile of old furniture and supplies. Toward the middle of that wall, there was a door to an office. Father Domenic unlocked it for me. That’s where the mess was. He said some of the crates were over a hundred years old.”
“Were the boxes in some kind of order?”
“No, but they were labeled. Once I found the correct years, it became a matter of leafing through the envelopes.”
“And you found one for Bernardo?” Sister Angela asked, surprised.
“Yes, and I compared it to others like you said. Let me see, each had at least three documents in them—certificates for birth, baptism, and confirmation,” she said, peering at her notes. “Sophia Dosso’s also had a marriage certificate because she was already married. Bernardo’s documents were no different except his had a funny-looking birth certificate.”
Suddenly excited, Sister Angela looked at her.
“I left everything there because I was told not to remove any items.”
“I’ll have to go over there tomorrow and confront Father Domenic about it,” Sister Angela said.
“Don’t worry, Sister, I didn’t remove the birth certificate, but I did hide it. It’s on the back of the stove.”
“Did Father Domenic say anything else to you afterward?”
“No. He hardly said a word the whole time. He seemed to know what you wanted, directed me to the correct place, and then left. He returned and stopped at the top of the stairs just as I was about to leave. When I came up a few minutes later, he was already gone. I let myself out.”
Sister Angela smiled. “You have done excellent detective work, Sister Daniela. I’ll probably have more for you soon. Tomorrow I’m going back to Petraggio to visit to the place where Bernardo worked. I would like to speak with the inspector before I leave. Could you handle my eleven o’clock class as well as those in the afternoon?”
“I’d be happy to.”
*
Nicola had not joined Vittorio and Carlo at dinner, and Carlo told his father she was not well enough. Concerned, Vittorio made his way down the dark hallway to his daughter’s room. Suddenly, the lights went on as Nicola entered through the outside door at the other end.
“Nicola,” he said, surprised. “I didn’t expect you to be out.”
“You shouldn’t be surprised, Father. I’m an adult and can leave whenever I wish to.”
“But Carlo mentioned you were ill. Where were you?”
“I don’t tell Carlo where I’m going either.”
“But—”
“I had a marvelous time. Don’t have Antonella save anything for me. I already ate. The food, the entertainment—everything was perfect.” She glared at him. “And that’s all I’m going to tell you. That’s all you need to know.”
Pushing open the door to her room, she quickly shut him out and threw herself across her bed. The restaurant Enzo took her to was wonderful—cut crystal stemware, starched linen tablecloths, and attendants—five of them, all satisfying their every whim. And his car! He served her champagne and drew the curtains so his driver could not see him pull her toward him, could not ogle as she straddled his lap, unbuttoned his shirt, and pressed her hard nipples against his warm chest. The thought of his tongue in her mouth sickened her, but she forced herself
to dream of other things until he was through. When he talked about his yacht and the places they would go together, she knew it was all worth it. Her luck was about to change.
“This is love,” she whispered walking into the bathroom and turning the tap to fill the tub. She watched the steam rise as she pulled her top over her head. “There won’t be more pain, more loss, because I feel nothing.” She shivered at the thought of his semen staining her panties, and stepped into the hot soapy water without removing them.
*
The bus made it to the bottom of the hill and accelerated through the first straight stretch of road. Sister Angela thought about her conversation with Alessandro that morning. He seemed happy to get the information about the church documents, but it puzzled him.
“So you think there’s something fishy going on with Bernardo’s birth records?” he asked her.
“It’s a possibility.”
“I talked to a neighbor, a Mrs. Nigrelli.”
“I remember her. Some of my students called her Nosey Nigrelli.”
“Nevertheless, she said she recalled seeing Mrs. Reni just days before she left for Roma. That’s when she first heard the couple was expecting.”
“Did Mrs. Reni look pregnant?”
“Yes, very,” he said. “Was Mrs. Giannini’s story the same?”
“I didn’t ask her about the pregnancy per se. She told me about the baby’s arrival home, about the gathering Mrs. Reni has pictures of,” said Sister Angela. “I think that’s one thing you can follow up on.”
“On what?”
“Make sure there are no discrepancies in the stories,” said Sister Angela. “I’ll check with Mrs. Giannini. Maybe you can talk to more of the Renis’ friends. There were several other people in the snapshots of the party. How much do they know?”
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