L'Oro Verde

by Coralie Hughes Jensen

  DiMarco smiled. Sister Angela noticed it. She must have sounded like she was taking charge of the investigation, telling him what to do. But, as usual, the inspector was kind enough to let her continue.

  “Dr. Piombo called and said you had been there,” he said. “Do you have doubts about the weapon?”

  “It does kind of limit us. It has to be a man, a big man,” she answered. “But the wound didn’t point to that weapon in particular. I thought it would. And then there’s the question about how the killer got out of there. Where would he stash the weapon and clothes?”

  “That all points back to Father Domenic again. I guess we’ll have another chat with him too. Anything else?”

  “What have you found?”

  “My men and I completely scoped the scene, including the rectory. There were items which had to go to the lab. We too asked the questions about how the assailant escaped unnoticed. I’m trying to come up with a list of possibilities.”

  “Did you talk to Mr. and Mrs. Reni?”

  “Yes. I’m going to Roma tomorrow to talk to this Paolo, the brother. Based on what you told me concerning the birth certificate, I ought to ask him directly about the hospital. I assume you planned to assign me that task next.”

  Sister Angela smiled. “Good idea. I had the feeling Mrs. Reni and Mrs. Giannini were holding back something.”

  “And you are going to Petraggio to talk to the boy’s employer?”

  “Yes. He worked for Garibaldi’s, the largest olive processing plant in the valley.”

  “Good luck.”

  *

  The brakes squealed. This was Sister Angela’s stop. She had to walk another eight blocks to get to the factory. She did not mind because she had worn her sneakers, something the school forbade and Mother Margherita frowned upon. But she had good reason today and would change back when she reached the building.

  It was nearly two when she sat down on a bench in front of Garibaldi’s Olive Oil Incorporated. The air was thick, but the smell heavenly. Sister Angela was raised around olives.

  Her father owned a small olive orchard. She used to take a basket of drupes into town to be processed by Mr. Tutti, who had a small olive press he used for himself and his neighbors. The old man would soak them for her and then crush them with his press. The procedure was slow, and it took lots of olives to produce enough oil. She and Mr. Tutti would sit and dip Mrs. Tutti’s homemade bread in it.

  The process here was different. She had read that once the olives were defoliated and washed, they were poured into a huge press, crushing olives into a paste. A large centrifuge then separated the paste into olive residue, water, and oil. The oil rested in a large cistern until it cleared and then it was strained, bottled, and sent around the world.

  When she went inside, Garibaldi was coming out of his office. He had just finished a meeting with one of his vendors.

  “Sister Angela, I suppose. Your timing is perfect. Have you met Mr. Vitali? He’s one of my biggest suppliers.”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding and then extending her hand. “Mr. Vitali is a parishioner of San Benedetto Church, though I’m not sure he has heard of me.”

  “Of course I have, Sister. Aren’t you the famous detective from Montriano?”

  He turned to Garibaldi and shook his hand before leaving. “Enzo, we should talk more about the problem.”

  “Please come in and sit down, Sister Angela,” said Garibaldi. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No thank you. I always carry a bottle of water with me. It’s a fine day outside—not a bit sticky. Too bad you are in here all day,” she said, pausing before mentioning her purpose. “As you are aware, one of your employees was found murdered in Montriano a few days ago.”

  “Yes, let me see.” He looked down at sheet of paper on his desk. “A Bernardo Reni. He worked in bottling, I believe.”

  “If you didn’t know him, perhaps I can talk to someone here who did.”

  “I have already called his supervisor. He may be able to give you more names, Sister, but we would prefer you talk to the others outside of work. We are very busy. Business is good and we don’t want to disappoint our customers.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Garibaldi. I understand.”

  Suddenly the door opened, and a middle-aged man walked in.

  “Sister, this is Mario Rota, the young man’s supervisor. Mario, you can sit here. I must excuse myself for another meeting.”

  Sister Angela was surprised but waited for him to exit.

  “Mr. Rota, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Sister Angela from Montriano. Your name sounds familiar. Are you related to Abbot Adriano Rota in Callanius?”

  “No, Sister, just the Rotas of Petraggio.

  “Mr. Garibaldi tells me you knew Bernardo Reni. I’m sure you are already aware of his death.”

  “Yes. I knew he didn’t show up for work, and I learned of his death later that day.”

  “Mr. Rota, did you know Bernardo well?” the nun asked.

  “I knew him as an employee. He was very conscientious. I never really had trouble with him. So when he didn’t phone the next day, I became concerned he wouldn’t return.”

  “Did he have many friends?”

  “I wasn’t aware of any close friends. In the cafeteria during breaks or meals, he never sat with anyone in particular,” Rota said, his voice monotone. He folded his hands on the table and looked directly at the nun when he spoke.

  “Are there many women in the bottling department?” she asked.

  “Yes, a few. Most are middle-aged or married with young families if I understand where you are headed.”

  “Did he get along with everyone?”

  “I saw no problems during working hours. And let me anticipate the next question. Bernardo never came into work on drugs or with a hangover that I could see. If he had an active nightlife, he was very good at covering it up.”

  “Who informed you about his death? When you became concerned about his disappearance, did you call his aunt, Mrs. Giannini?”

  Rota paled. “Let me see. Maybe I didn’t hear until the following day,” he said. “But I’m not sure who told me. I mean, it was probably the talk of the shop, but I’m not certain who specifically came to tell me.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rota. I guess that covers most of my questions,” she said standing up. She noted the man was very good at guessing what she was going to ask. But that last question threw him, she thought, smiling to herself.

  Rota’s tone softened for the first time. “We are sorry for Bernardo’s loss. Please let his parents know we thought he was a good employee.”

  “May I see where he worked?”

  “I can show you my department, but he worked as a courier most of the time.” Rota said. “That would mean he interacted with the other departments too. Please follow me.”

  The supervisor led her down the hall through double doors. The bottling department was loud, and Sister Angela realized she would have to yell to ask any questions of the fifteen or so workers standing around several machines.

  “Did he also do something in here?” she asked. “Did he work with any of the equipment?” Sister Angela circled a long labeling machine as a line of full bottles inched its way toward a steaming box-like structure.

  “Most likely, but never for very long. Listen, I’m sure he filled in at most of these at one time or another.”

  “But he wasn’t good at any of them?”

  “Please step into my office here,” he said, opening the door to a room surrounded by glass panels. When he closed the door, much of the noise faded.

  “What was your question, Sister?”

  “Why didn’t you keep him on a particular machine? I mean, was he too slow to pick it up?”

  “No, I believe most of the positions were already taken when he arrived so I used him to fill in for illness and vacations.”

  “And the courier position?”

  “That opened up about the beginning of the yea
r. Someone in the company suggested we could use a messenger who delivered items or plans from department to department.”

  “And you suggested Bernardo?”

  “I guess so,” he said, scratching his head. “Actually, I wanted him to continue to fill in, but evidently the other managers didn’t think I needed someone to do that job and slipped him into the new position.”

  “Did you ever replace him?”

  “Not at first, but I was finally allowed to look for another head.”

  The nun blinked.

  “Excuse me, another worker.”

  “May I talk to some of the workers who knew him?”

  “I would prefer not. It’s important they finish their work.”

  Sister Angela found it difficult to hide her frustration. “Which machine actually bottles the oil?” she asked.

  “The pipes from the next chamber carry the oil directly to the machines along that wall. We can pass them as I show you out,” he said, opening the door for her.

  After pointing to the overhead pipes, he quickly led her back down the hall to the front lobby where he waited until she exited into the afternoon sun.

  When the nun got outside, she sat on the same bench to change her shoes. She was disappointed—convinced the answer lay at the Garibaldi plant. Why did she have the feeling that both Mr. Garibaldi and Mr. Rota had staged a production? She had been so stunned, in fact, she could not think of anything to ask that had not been anticipated. She would have to regroup—go over the clues again in her mind in order to get past this dead end.

  “Hello, Sister,” a voice said.

  Sister Angela glanced up. It was Mr. Vitali. A beautiful woman with long black hair clung to his arm.

  “Buongiorno, Mr. Vitali, I was just getting ready to leave.

  “Vittorio, please, Sister. May I present my daughter, Nicola? She has an office here to make sure our product is processed properly.”

  The girl pushed her hair back. Her skin was clear and white, her eyes like dark pools framed in long lashes. She was nearly as tall as her father but slender and wore a bleached linen suit with a bright red blouse. The young woman confidently held out her hand.

  “How do you do, Sister? My father was just telling me you and Enzo had a meeting inside. I hope you had a pleasant visit.”

  “I’m afraid my purpose came from unpleasant circumstances. I came to find out about Bernardo Reni’s colleagues at work. I’m sure you have heard about his death.”

  “Yes. Everyone here is saddened by his loss,” she said.

  Sister Angela noticed Nicola leaned into her father as if he were holding her up. “Did you know him?

  ”No .”

  “Sister Angela, I’m afraid my daughter has been ill and is still weak,” the grower interrupted. “Please feel free to come to my home, however. When she feels better, my daughter or I would be happy to show you around the groves. We are very proud of our trees. The place is called L’Oro Verde, just down the road from the Montriano stop.”

  “Thank you. This industry is so fascinating. I was raised on the hill and should know more about it,” she said. “To be shown around by an expert would be an honor.”

  “We are headed there now. May we give you a lift?”

  “No thank you. I have other business to attend to.”

  Sister Angela was tempted, but it was better not to get too close until the investigation was over. The fact that his daughter worked in such close proximity to Bernardo but did not know him intrigued her. It was quite possible, however. She heard that the Vitali children attended an expensive school in Firenza. Perhaps Bernardo would have been too old to notice her anyway. Other than seeing Bernardo when he served mass at San Benedetto, there was a good chance Nicola never met him.

  There was a question Sister Angela had not asked that was now taking shape in her mind. Just how did Bernardo get his job? She could not imagine him going out and applying for it on his own. Someone must have helped him.

  Bernardo’s aunt’s farm was too far to walk. Sister Angela decided to head back to Montriano and call the Gianninis when she got there. Did Mrs. Giannini find him the job? The nun doubted that. Carmela Giannini probably would have mentioned that if she did. Who else, then, did Bernardo know? Evidently, he was familiar with someone outside the family—someone who met him late at night—someone who wore a specific perfume, a clue Sister Angela had yet to reveal to Inspector DiMarco.

  Eight

  Sister Angela sat on the edge of her bed directly under the dim bulb in the center of the ceiling, pouring over the notes written by teachers before her—the teachers who taught Bernardo from grade one on. The notes were copious even then. His first grade teacher, the ever-patient Sister Maria, noted trouble with speech, reading, numbers, and fine motor skills. She wondered if he was mature enough to be in school. After meeting with his parents, she decided to help by tutoring him in the afternoon.

  In second grade, the problems continued, and he was evaluated by a psychologist at age nine. His parents provided copies of the results for school records. Bernardo’s teachers and psychologist concurred—the boy was slow. Some mental impairment was possible although there were neither hospital records to detail a traumatic birth nor a family history of mental illness. His defect did not fit all the criteria for specific mental health diagnoses, so the professions continued to use the ambiguous and ill-defined term slow.

  After due consideration, the headmistress and his teachers recommended that Bernardo remain in the normal classroom. Expectations for academic growth, however, were low. In sixth grade, his teacher recommended they keep Bernardo back until he caught up in all subjects, but the final decision rested with the headmistress. After much thought and prayer, Mother Margherita denied the classroom teacher’s request.

  Sister Angela remembered him the same way in the scuola media. He could read and write by then but only at a fourth year level. Socially, he was also immature. She once found a book that fell out of his pack at the church. It was a science book designed to teach sex education to primary school-aged children. Sex education was not taught to younger children at the school and certainly not in the detail found in this book. When she leafed through it, Sister Angela found numerous scribbles in the margins on it. One of them was a ring of daisies encircling an illustration of the female body.

  *

  The nun must have fallen asleep. When the nagging ring of her cell phone roused her, it was already seven-thirty, and the morning sun was even with the top of the next hill. She had missed the morning service and would be in hot water for that. But where was the phone? She searched the nightstand and then ran her hand over the top of the bed covers. It must be in her skirt pocket. She pulled herself out of bed and dug it out.

  “Hello?” she managed, still trying to figure out where she was.

  “Sister Angela, DiMarco here. Please come to the station. We are about to question Father Domenic and need your assistance.”

  “What? Father Domenic?” she asked, her voice rising in panic. Was she still asleep? But her only answer was the buzz on the line. The inspector had already hung up.

  While she bathed and dressed to go to the interview, she let her mind wander to her conversation with Mrs. Giannini the previous afternoon.

  Having called ahead, Sister Angela was expected. However, the noon bus from Petraggio had stalled out, and waiting for its back-up made her later. It was nearly two o’clock. By the time she walked up the gravel drive of the Gianninis’ house, Mrs. Reni’s sister was outside hanging clothes.

  “Hello, Sister Angela. Why don’t we sit out here today? It’s so lovely and not too hot. I have some cold juice on the table. Sit down and help yourself while I finish hanging my wash.”

  Sister Angela was grateful for the moments to relax in the sun. While the Giannini farm produced little in its dry sandy soil, she noticed that the property backed onto a small grove of fruit trees with rows of grapevines behind them. Suddenly, there was a rustle of leaves.
The nun watched Mrs. Giannini’s sheets billow and then whip to the side as the breeze forced its way through them. Sister Angela held onto her veil.

  “I hope Mr. Giannini’s well. How is his job going?”

  “Emilio’s fine. This is a good time for him. The plums are ready for harvest. There’s a good crop of fruit—especially the grapes this year. Pretty soon, he’ll be in demand all over the valley.”

  “When we talked a few days ago, Mrs. Giannini, you mentioned that Bernardo might have been meeting someone in the evenings,” the nun said. “I went to the plant where he worked and learned there are no single women in his department—no one to whom he might have been romantically attached. Do you know anything more about how he might have met someone?”

  “Well, sometimes I’d find papers in his pockets when I sorted the laundry. One of them, a half-piece of letter paper, had the name ‘Gisella’ on it. I assumed she worked at the same place because the paper had Garibaldi’s logo at the top.”

  The nun retrieved a notebook from her bag and scribbled across the first clean page. “Gisella,” she repeated as she wrote. “No last name?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll look into that. You say he went out with her often?”

  “He was gone almost every evening. I’m still unsure who he was with, but as you already know, I suspected it was a girl.”

  “On another subject, can you to tell me more about Mrs. Reni’s pregnancy? When did you find out your sister was expecting a child?”

  Not answering right away, the woman bit down on a clothespin and pawed at her pockets, presumably searching for a fresh cigarette.

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone in your family, but I must find out who had a motive to murder Bernardo. Sometimes mistakes are made when a woman gives birth. I don’t know why Mrs. Reni went to Roma to have the child, but I need to find out. Be aware that we have no plans to prosecute anyone who may have erred during the delivery.”

  Unable to procure a smoke, Mrs. Giannini pulled the clothespin from her mouth and slowly exhaled. “I honestly don’t know what happened in Roma, Sister Angela. I just know my sister and Giuseppe tried to have children for years. She was so happy when she found out she was pregnant. When Valeria started to show, she threw a big party for the neighbors. I was there. Mind you, she wasn’t that big. She was never very big. He was a small baby. If she hadn’t thrown the party, hardly anyone would have noticed.”