“Was the baby supposedly still alive when you got there?”
“I don’t think so because Vittorio and his wife were very distressed,” Garibaldi said, squirming. “You know, Sister, I have ordered lunch for us. Please join me in the cafeteria. We can talk more there, if you like.”
“I still don’t understand,” she said, not getting up. “Why did Vittorio want you to come? I mean, did he only want you to help him with this sham burial? What was the purpose?”
“I suppose he wanted a friend to give him strength—to assure him he was doing the right thing. Come now, we can talk during lunch.”
“Please sit down, Mr. Garibaldi. I have another question. How did you get my number?”
Garibaldi chuckled. “I must admit I cheated a little there. My brother, Aldo, works for the cell company to which you subscribe. I mean, the records are public for anyone who applies. I just took advantage of a shortcut. Time is money, Sister.”
*
The cafeteria was large and bustling. The manager showed her to a table at the far end of the room and indicated a chair that placed her with her back to the others. Soon, a salad and entrée arrived, and someone offered her coffee. The nun did not really feel like eating. Was she ill?
“You know, Sister, this is not the only reason I invited you to come. There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
The nun sat quietly, waiting for him to continue. She did not touch her food.
“I’m concerned about Inspector DiMarco’s visit to Eduardo Adriano, Vittorio’s lawyer.”
If the nun had eaten, she would probably have lost it all right there. How did he know about the visit? Had the counselor or his secretary told him? She tried to look calm. “How did you become aware of an interview between the inspector and Mr. Adriano?”
“Eduardo is my counselor too, Sister,” he said, looking guilty, “and I know things that maybe I shouldn’t know.”
“For instance…”
“Well, I know about the will. I have known about it for quite a while, you see,” he said. “I know that Bernardo Reni was in that will.”
“And that information suggests that Vittorio didn’t actually commit the crime,” she said. “If you are such a close friend, you would want to make sure we knew he didn’t murder his son. You might therefore tell me this whether or not it was true. Thank you, Mr. Garibaldi, but I’m afraid your friendship precludes you from being a good character witness.” Sister Angela rose from her chair.
“No, no, Sister, don’t go. That isn’t the information I wanted to share with you. If Vittorio killed his son, he would deserve the punishment.”
“Mr. Garibaldi, who got the job here for Bernardo?” she asked, sitting down once more.
“I did.”
“And who asked you to hire Bernardo?”
The manager coughed.
“Was it Vittorio?”
“I don’t remember. It may have been.”
“Surely you remember who came to you and asked you to give Bernardo a job. It wasn’t so long ago.”
“I know it came through the Vitali household. It was probably a request from Mrs. Reni originally, but I honestly don’t remember who actually asked me,” he said. “Just hear me out before you leave. According to Vittorio, except for Mr. Reni and his wife, no one knew Bernardo was his son, correct?”
“But now we realize that you did. And probably Stefano knew.”
“Yes. No one, including myself, was supposed to know that Bernardo would inherit something. Am I right?”
“Yes, but evidently you and your informant were aware of it.”
“I confess that I didn’t keep the secret.”
“What? Are you saying others were aware of both the adoption and the inheritance?”
“Not others. Other. I told one person,” he said. “And I’m surprised he hasn’t acknowledged it.”
“Who?”
“Carlo”
“Carlo? Why would you ever tell Carlo? You are not close to him, and Vittorio would not want you to tell his children.”
“It was business. The boy is practically in charge of where all the Vitali olives go. He wanted to send my olives elsewhere. He was negotiating the contract and was trying to increase his prices. I’m not proud of it, Sister, but what could I do? I told him I had information—that he should check with his father about who would run the orchards when Vittorio retired or died.”
“Why didn’t you go directly to Vittorio to complain about his son?”
“Because I didn’t think it would help.”
“So you essentially told Carlo that he was being disowned by his father. Did it work?”
“Yes. Soon he lowered the price and gave me more olives.”
“And did he ask his father about it?”
“I don’t know. He never mentioned it again.”
“You never really told him Bernardo was his brother, did you?” she asked.
“No. I never said directly,” Garibaldi said. “But certainly he must have guessed.
After all, why would a father give the orchard to anyone but his eldest son? Carlo must have realized that Bernardo was the oldest.”
“Why are you telling me this? Surely you don’t want to see Carlo arrested for murder.”
“I tell you because you would have come to me in a few days and asked me to tell you. You already talked to Stefano. It was only a matter of time. I too want to see the person who did this arrested. It doesn’t matter if he’s a colleague. It’s essential that you get whoever did this heinous act against poor Bernardo Reni off the streets. I’ll reveal my improprieties to a priest, Sister. But I also feel that it’s my duty to confess them to you so Carlo can pay for his crime.”
The nun stood up. She had not eaten a thing, and her head spun. Walking out of the cafeteria, she quickly made her way to the exit. The sun was hot. The warm wind burned her cheeks, but she did not notice. Somehow she made it to the bus stop and caught the one o’clock shuttle back to Montriano.
Her heart ached. If what Garibaldi had told her was true, she would have to tell Alessandro to arrest the young olive grower immediately. However, for some reason she did not think Carlo would murder his brother for money or for land even if he was excited about owning L’Oro Verde. The nun bit her lip and thought again.
What did Vittorio actually will to his eldest son? Did Enzo know that Vittorio bequeathed the orchards to Bernardo? Or did he just guess what was said in the will? The Vitalis gave up the child at birth because he was impaired. Why would Vittorio now give everything to Bernardo, who remained “slow” as an adult? Had the father not trained Carlo to run the business? Bernardo knew nothing about growing olive trees. Maybe Garibaldi’s transgression was not that he had revealed the secret of the will, but that he had grossly overstated Vittorio’s bequest.
*
It was done. She did not have to do anything else. Alessandro would take over now and question Carlo about the family’s situation. That night, Sister Angela dreamt Enzo Garibaldi was the devil, luring her into his tangle of deception. In addition, it was hot. She tossed and turned as if she could feel the flames licking at her feet. The following morning, she realized the real transgression was probably that she turned Garibaldi into God’s archenemy. Oh well, she could not help it. It was a dream and beyond her power. She would try not to think about it—at least for a while.
In the meantime, Mrs. Torrisi invited Sister Angela and Sister Daniela to tea. The kind woman enticed them, offering to squeeze fresh orange juice for the occasion. The nun looked forward to that and, of course, the air-conditioning at the rectory. She hoped the housekeeper would serve them inside. The garden, a haven of colorful blooms and decorative tiles and pots, would be the ideal spot. Today it was just too hot. Surely she would not want to remain outside.
The heat did not stop the housekeeper, though. She was out early, watering her precious blooms. The spring bulbs were gone, but there were still late-blooming azaleas left and eve
n some lacy pink camellias. More profuse, however, were the snapdragons and summer iris. There were also lilies—bold oranges and reds, bursting forth from dark foliage. At her feet, the first mums were beginning to peek through the manicured soil. Enough water would ensure a colorful fall.
The small garden had a high stucco wall that protected it from too much exposure to the sun. In the center, moss grew between and over the tiles that made a patio-type floor. Noting the lush growth along the garden wall, Sister Angela wondered if neighborhood children or small animals ever hid there.
Perhaps Bernardo had done so with other altar boys.
She sighed. Thinking about Bernardo’s childlike innocence and tragic death upset her. She quickly crossed herself and said a quiet prayer, asking God to grant him eternal peace. Looking around the garden, Sister Angela decided she would hide in the brush along the wall if she were ever in trouble near the church.
“Ah, Sister Angela, Sister Daniela, how nice to see you. I so looked forward to visiting with you again. Please enter through the gate here. Let’s get in out of the sun, though. Surely you are already too hot from the hike up the hill.”
“Father Domenic isn’t in today?” Sister Angela asked.
“No, no. He is visiting the bishop in Petraggio. I’m sure he would have liked to talk to you, though.”
“He’s healthy then?”
“Oh yes, quite healthy and busy. He returned right after Father Sergio did. I believe the bishop’s assistant assured him he is no longer in danger of being removed from the parish. I guess anything is better than the accusations that were flying only a month ago. I assume he is no longer a suspect in the boy’s murder.”
“No. I think the suspicion was based on the charges made in Umbria. When the young man recanted his story, the police realized Father Dominic lacked motive to kill Bernardo.”
“How are they coming with identifying the murderer? Mrs. Torrisi asked. “It’s hard to believe it took place in our little church.”
“Always closer. I believe the location had little to do with the act.”
“That’s a relief. Father Domenic has two baptisms this Sunday, and confirmation is in two weeks. He doesn’t complain.”
“Everyday tasks can be a blessing,” the nun said.
“Something came up this morning, however, Sister. Father Domenic told me to make sure I showed you. He said you would want to know,” said Mrs. Torrisi. “Let me just get your drinks and cookies. No use being thirsty when there’s plenty to drink.”
The housekeeper brought out the pitcher of juice, and Sister Angela helped her pour it into the matching glasses with painted flowers. In the middle of the tray, a small vase held some pink hybrid tea roses.
“Oh how beautiful!” exclaimed Sister Angela. “That reminds me that Sister Daniela and I have to get busy with the garden at the convent. Everything is drooping in the heat.”
“Now, let me see,” the hostess said. “Where did I leave it? I know I put it somewhere obvious so I wouldn’t lose it.” The woman checked the kitchen and then the dining room. “Oh yes, I remember now,” she said, walking to the hall closet. She brought out a long narrow object, wrapped in newsprint and began to open it.
Sister Angela caught her breath. “It’s the cross, isn’t it?”
“The processional cross, yes,” Mrs. Torrisi said. “I confess I forgot that I sent it out in April because the enamel was chipping off. I mean, I thought I told Father Domenic, but in April, Father Domenic was in Roma for a meeting. I’m not sure I ever told him because Father Reynaldo at San Francesco loaned us a similar cross. The problem was solved so quickly I guess I didn’t think about it again. Then a few weeks ago, Father Reynaldo asked for the cross back because there was a burglary there. San Francesco’s processional cross was one of the items returned.”
“Did he tell you or Father Domenic he was taking it back?”
“Father Reynaldo says he left a note in the sacristy. Maybe Father Giulliano read it and threw it away. I don’t know. We haven’t asked him.”
“Just weeks ago. That would mean…”
“Yes, that it wasn’t used as a murder weapon,” she said. “Father Domenic wanted me to show you the receipt for this one. It gives the date here. The manufacturer could have kept it for all we knew. I doubt I would have ever remembered that I sent it out. What a surprise.”
“Yes indeed, Mrs. Torrisi. It sort of changes the whole theory.”
“What do you mean, Sister?” asked the novice.
“We assumed the weight of the cross determined the sex and strength of the murderer.”
“You mean the assailant had to be a man to do such damage with the light instrument.”
“Yes, Sister Daniela. Now we don’t have a murder weapon.”
“Technically, you never had one,” said Mrs. Torrisi.
“That’s true. We assumed it was the processional cross. ‘We should never have presumed anything’ is what you are saying, and you are correct of course.”
The two nuns sipped uneasily on their drinks.
Suddenly, the elder nun looked up and asked, “Mrs. Torrisi, have you ever thoroughly cleaned that basement?”
“You mean the one under the sacristy?” She bit her lip. “No, I’m embarrassed to say. It’s too hot down there this time of year. I was putting it off until fall.”
“Remember that pile of furniture in the far corner, Sister Daniela? Did anyone ever look at it more closely?”
“I didn’t.”
“Neither did I,” said Mrs. Torrisi.
“Shouldn’t we check it—just to make sure?”
“Since I didn’t do the clean-up, I’ll join you now,” said the housekeeper.
“By the way, do you have some clean rubber gloves?” the nun asked. “Bring them along—just in case.”
“Just in case,” the novice repeated.
Sister Angela made a note to have the police check into the circumstances surrounding the cross. One of them could quickly ask Father Reynaldo for the details and then find out what really happened to his note. As for the murder weapon, there was a good chance the actual weapon might not be in the sacristy basement. After all, many investigators had come and gone since the murder. How could they all have missed that pile of furniture? Sister Angela had a feeling they had not covered everything, and she was not going to leave until they checked it out. None of it would matter, though, if the murder weapon was never found.
Twenty
The basement door was closed.
“This doesn’t look good,” Mrs. Torrisi said. “Without some ventilation, it’s probably very hot down there.”
Indeed it was. But at least it was not dark. Sun streamed in through the high panes, and dust specks danced in the spotlight. Mrs. Torrisi went directly to the windows and opened them up, driving the tiny particles into a frenzy.
“That’s better,” she said.
But the nun and novice were already at work pulling articles off the pile. There were some old credence tables. One had a missing leg and would not stand up.
“I wonder where the leg went,” Mrs. Torrisi mused.
Then there were some flagpoles. Sister Angela, having donned the gloves, swung each one over her head and then examined its surface. Sister Daniela tried not to giggle, but the sight of Sister Angela swinging the pole probably reminded her of the time the nun tried to teach her students cricket. She had told the story often, saying that Sister Angela was better at hitting the ball than most of her athletic students. It was funny nonetheless.
“Any one of these could be the weapon, I suppose,” the elder nun finally said. “But I see nothing telling me that any of them are. I hope we don’t have to take them all into the station. The chief would be quite upset.”
“Look under the poles, Sister,” the novice said.
A sphere-shaped incense burner rolled down the pile and across the floor.
“At the candlestands? I can’t even lift this one.”
“But
behind the wooden candlesticks is a set of metal ones—brass, I think,” Mrs. Torrisi said. “I remember those being Father Augustus’s favorites.”
“These? Oh yes,” she said, tugging.
The pile started to tumble.
“Wait, I think the sea is parting for me! It must be a sign.”
“Leave the ones that fall,” said Mrs. Torrisi. “Father Domenic and I need to go through them anyway.”
The nun pulled out the first of a set. The polished brass candlestand was a little more than a meter tall. It was still shiny in most places, but some parts had been rubbed until dull. She grasped the narrow shaft and lifted it over her head. “It’s heavier than the cross,” she said. “But I have little trouble lifting it.”
“Are there any marks, Sister?” the novice asked.
“No, it’s actually quite shiny. The person who stored it must have been a busy bee wiping off the prints. That doesn’t help,” she said, picking up the other and looking at it carefully. “Oh my, was this like this before?” she asked.
“I don’t remember it being that way. I’m sure Father Domenic would know. He must have used those at least once since he got here. I wonder why they were at the back. Do you think the rest of the pile could have bent it?”
“The damaged part was facing to the side. And I don’t think the pile was heavy enough anyway.”
Sister Angela held up the second base in front of the window. Under the tray, the artisan had curled three arms around, fusing them to the long shaft. The tray itself was askew, and one of the arms, slightly flattened.
“The embellishments can’t be brass, can they?” the nun asked. “The metal must be softer.”
“That’s ruined now,” said Mrs. Torrisi. “I suppose we must send it away to be fixed.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to take it to the station,” Sister Angela said. “I presume there’s DNA or something on this. That would make it evidence. Since you and Father Domenic didn’t even know it was here, I don’t think you’ll miss it for a while longer.”
“What about the assailant? Do you still think it was a man?” asked Sister Daniela.
“It could still be a man, but with the added weight, our murderer could also be a woman,” she said. She walked to the windows and dialed the station. “Alessandro? Can you please send someone to San Benedetto Church right away? I think we have found something here in the basement that looks like evidence, and we don’t want to compromise it. Yes. We’ll wait for him. Have Lazaro use the stairway in the sacristy.”
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