L'Oro Verde

by Coralie Hughes Jensen

  She inhaled the damp air, drawing in the scent of yellowing grass—musty, not unlike the dregs of the red wine in her glass. That odor would get stronger as the season progressed. The grapes were just about ready for harvest. Soon they would hear the hum of the machines in the valley, cleaning and crushing them. Still over a month away, the autumn here was not the end of the year—it was another beginning. There was also the scent of salt, just a hint from the sea over the next hill. Both aromas reminded her of the graveyard where she sat and watched the towers and steeples that distinguished the Montriano skyline. It was not the same now, of course. Recent history had changed the character, but time would alter her feelings about that too—it always did.

  The wedding was beautiful. One would never have imagined that it had been such a well-kept secret. Yes, the bride was beaming, and Carlo looked so happy. Who cares what others said behind their backs? Gone were the red spikes. Gisella’s short brown hair was combed to the side and pinned behind her ears. There was no earring in her nose. Sister Angela knew the inspector was relieved about that. On a cord around her neck hung a large purple stone, probably glass, the only hint of her unique personality. She was radiant in the eggshell-colored satin gown that draped off her shoulders. Tiny seed pearls dotted the short bodice. The neckline was low—the straps, lacy vines gracefully preserving the maiden’s modesty. The skirt dropped straight down just under her breasts. All the excess of silky material, and there was an abundance of it, was drawn up into a stylish bustle. Elegant embroidery flowers embellished the scalloped hem, and the train crawled meters behind.

  And then there was the bouquet—a long line of roses, creamy Ash Wednesday buds dappled with apricot queens trailing to her knees. The flowers reminded the nun of things fresh, new, and untouched, appropriate for this young couple—almost too young some would say. But Sister Angela reveled in their innocence. Neither seemed harmed by the cynicism that surrounded them, which was surprising after all the families had gone through recently.

  The nun listened intently to the music. The organ at Santa Maria gave up a haunting sound deftly coaxed from the keys by a talented organist. He played Vivaldi’s “Largo” as the guests were seated. Then he switched to Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring as the members of the bridal party slowly inched up the center aisle.

  The usually gloomy church was divine. The sunny day lit up its large stained glass windows, creating colorful patterns on the white marble floors and faded frescos along the opposite walls. The statue of the Virgin Mary stood on a pedestal to the left of the altar. The sun glinted off the gold halo and rosary beads hanging from her marble girdle. Along the aisle at the end of every other pew, a candle lit the way. Not a flame flickered—each of the candles glowed steadily.

  Flowers festooned the bare wood of the candlestands—bright mums of assorted colors wreathed the base of each candle. The antique-pink satin ribbons that held them fell gracefully toward the floor, rustling as the attendants marched by. They may have done so when the bride passed too, but no one noticed. Their eyes were glued to her beautiful face.

  Two larger candles framed the altar. Pots of mums and lilies circled the base of each. The odors of stone, humanity, and flowers mingled, reminding Sister Angela of the powerful strength and simple sweetness that complement each other in the glorious sacrament of matrimony.

  Sister Angela thought about the candlestand used to take Bernardo’s life. How could Enzo carry the somewhat heavy and awkward piece up the stairs without Bernardo seeing it? She shook her head in an effort to free her mind of Garibaldi and the evil wrought with a candlestand that was meant to bring beauty and blessing to the altar. It angered her to think of the businessman. The nun asked God to calm her mind and then put such thoughts aside—at least for today.

  Kindly Father Rossi faced the couple. A smile appeared on his normally stern face, and two cherry cheeks blossomed on each side of his nose. Sister Angela had not noticed them before.

  And when Carlo kissed his bride, the nun felt the electricity. The couple looked at each other as if that was all they saw—all they chose to see. Santa Maria Church never looked so bright, so alive, or so hopeful.

  *

  “More pasta or bread, Sister?” DiMarco asked.

  “Yes please, the pasta would be wonderful, but excuse me for one minute. I think I’ll just call the hospital and check on Nicola one more time.”

  The inspector had arrested Garibaldi in the haven that protected the precious frantoio olive trees as soon as Sister Angela urged Nicola back to the main house. Even though the DNA evidence was not in, he charged Garibaldi with the illegal adoption twenty-five years earlier—the crime he had already acknowledged committing.

  “Clearly, Bernardo visited him and gave him reason to worry that the young man would tell Gina the details of his birth and Enzo’s affair with Nicola,” the inspector said. “We searched the office and found the clip to the gun Gisella retrieved from the ashcan so Bernardo must have been there.”

  “I’m not sure Bernardo knew that Garibaldi was his father,” Sister Angela said. “Nicola didn’t seem to be aware of it.”

  Using presumption of guilt as a charge, the police could not hold Garibaldi for long, but they hoped the arrest would provoke a confession. Of course, Enzo would call a lawyer as soon as any questioning began. That would make it more difficult, but Garibaldi had practically confessed already. DiMarco was confident his men could collect circumstantial evidence that might also force a confession. Maybe Sister Angela could help, too, at least for a while. The nun said she has to go back to the classroom soon. A confession would end the case and tell her about Bernardo’s last hours.

  After seeing Garibaldi escorted back into town the day before, the inspector dropped off Sister Angela and Nicola at the hospital. Nicola was calmer and no longer resisted treatment. Sister Angela knew all that had happened to her would hit her later. Nicola would need support while she grieved and sifted through the events of the last few weeks.

  “Will she ever forgive Enzo?” the nun asked him later. “Probably not. Will she forgive Bernardo? Most likely. But we still all have to find out what really happened between the boy and Enzo.”

  Yes, it would take a long time for Nicola to heal. Even if Bernardo did blackmail Enzo or try to make him jealous, in Nicola’s eyes, the transgressions would fade quickly.

  Sister Angela doubted that Nicola’s love would ever really change. Indeed, the nun remembered her early love like it was yesterday. Not that she would alter anything if she had the chance.

  But caring never ends, she thought. It nourishes my vocation and still warms me on lonely nights.

  *

  Having finished eating, Sister Daniela leaned back in her chair. “But I don’t understand where the weapon came from,” she said. “If the gun was Carlo’s, how did it get there?”

  “It was Carlo’s to start out with,” Tortini said. “He told me he kept it with some ammunition in a kitchen drawer.”

  “Evidently, Bernardo somehow found out where it was,” DiMarco said. “He must have confronted Garibaldi with it, though the older man didn’t say that—he only alluded to being blackmailed by the boy at some point. Bernardo had the gun when he left Garibaldi’s office but didn’t leave the factory with it. Instead he stuffed it into an ashcan near the entrance. Gisella Lupoi—um, the new Mrs. Vitali—said he showed it to her and told her he would use it to scare Garibaldi to stop him from harassing Nicola. If anything happened to him, Bernardo instructed her to look in the ashcan. When she heard about her friend’s death that first afternoon, she retrieved it and left it on Nicola’s desk so she could return it to the kitchen drawer at home. Gisella didn’t want Carlo implicated in the crime in any way. Unfortunately, Nicola didn’t know that Gisella left her the gun Bernardo used and decided to hide it in her desk. I’m not sure why she kept it. Perhaps she hoped to use it if she ever discovered the identity of the murderer.”

  “Maybe she thought the police might imp
licate Carlo if they found his gun at the house,” the novice said. “But Sister Angela said that Nicola later threatened Mr. Garibaldi because he made her abort the baby. Maybe she thought about keeping the gun to use it on him.”

  “She was nearly right about our suspecting Carlo,” DiMarco said. “At one point, we looked at him as a suspect. Sister Angela knew better, however.”

  *

  Sister Angela returned to the table and noticed that Father Sergio now sat in her seat. When he saw her, he immediately slid over and poured her more wine.

  “I am here to congratulate you, Sister Angela,” he said as she sat down.

  “Thank you, Father,” she said. “But why do I feel that you’ll pop up again in the middle of the next case?”

  “That is my job, Sister—to help the bishop run this diocese. I too sense that this will not be the last time we are forced to deliberate on your activities.”

  “I only dispute your vocabulary. I believe squabble might better describe the summits you organize for my benefit. Perhaps God has assigned me the task of keeping you busy.”

  Father Sergio smiled as he filled his own glass.

  “I don’t see the Renis here,” Sister Daniela said. “If Bernardo was given away because he was retarded, how did Mrs. Reni know she was going to get that baby?”

  “She acted like she was pregnant in front of the neighbors, but remember that she did it in March, bringing young Bernardo home in April and presenting him as a few weeks old. Mariella Vitali gave birth in February. Mrs. Reni must have already known she would receive Bernardo.”

  “Is everything all right with Nicola?” DiMarco asked.

  “Yes. Nicola is accepting the therapy she needs. They didn’t have to sedate her quite so much today. I think she’ll make a good witness—eventually.”

  Sister Daniela picked up an olive and studied it before popping it into her mouth. “So Nicola had a gun on her at the picnic, but she couldn’t find Carlo’s ammunition because Bernardo had evidently taken it,” the novice said.

  “That ammunition was found in Enzo’s desk at the factory,” Sister Angela said. “Two of the guards corroborated Enzo’s story that Bernardo was there and had threatened him. Since they didn’t actually hear the conversation, however, they couldn’t back up Enzo’s claim of blackmail. The ammunition in the oil executive’s desk drawer also proves that Nicola couldn’t have used the gun, thank the Lord.”

  “Knowing it was empty did Nicola only want to scare Mr. Garibaldi with it?”

  “Yes. She didn’t need to kill him,” the older nun said. “She had already attempted to kill him another way. While she didn’t find the ammunition in the kitchen drawer, she did discover ant poison in the pantry and added some of it to the oil Antonella put out for the picnic.”

  “While Sister Angela was taking Nicola to the hospital, we had to rush Garibaldi there to have his stomach pumped,” DiMarco said. “He was in a lot of pain. The young woman could have killed him if she had added more. I like to think that common sense prevailed, and she only wanted to make him sick.”

  “On a more positive note, Nicola just asked about the wedding,” Sister Angela revealed. “I know she misses being in it, but I really don’t believe she could have handled it yet. I described everything to her. She’s proud of Carlo and feels the couple will be very happy.”

  “Do you think she believed what Garibaldi told her—that Bernardo knew Garibaldi was his biological father and had been blackmailing him?”

  “I certainly don’t believe Enzo,” Sister Angela said.

  “I imagine it’s something we have to look into,” DiMarco said. “It’s definitely a stronger motive”

  “And Bernardo’s baby—why do you suppose Garibaldi wanted to get rid of it?” Sister Daniela asked. “Do you think it was for moral reasons?”

  “Unfortunately, Nicola didn’t know she could go to the hospital to abort the baby and believed Enzo knew what he was doing,” the nun said. “I suppose he worried that if they went to the hospital in Petraggio, the fact that the baby wasn’t his might not matter. He would lose everything if Gina ever discovered what he was up to. His wife called his office often—even more frequently in recent days. It was her money that built the company, and she wasn’t going to let her husband mess up everything. In the end, I think Enzo’s motive was simply jealousy. He didn’t care about Bernardo. As Nicola pointed out, he probably asked Mariella to abort that baby too. But I suppose Enzo helped Vittorio with the burial because Mariella stood firm about him showing some responsibility. After all that happened, he didn’t insist on seeing his own baby. To tell you the truth, I doubt Enzo Garibaldi is capable of loving children. It’s a good thing he and Gina never had any.”

  “You know we have to arrest Vittorio for Bernardo’s illegal adoption too,” DiMarco said. “The bus driver and the Renis won’t be charged if they agree to be witnesses.”

  “I think Vittorio will be relieved. I hope he doesn’t get jail time for it though. I guess I’ll have to follow that closely to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

  “So you feel it all goes back to the oil and money. Where’s the love?”

  “Sorry, Alessandro, but I believe there was love between Nicola and Bernardo, don’t you? And look here around you now. This is love. And these are new beginnings.”

  Along the table at one end, the best man stood up and waited for everyone to quiet down. “I have a request from the groom,” he announced. “He has asked me not to toast him and his stunning bride as is normal at this sort of function. And that’s good because I wasn’t ready anyway. I put it off, figuring that the bride would find out about her husband-to be and shun the whole affair. Fortunately for him, she’s still innocent and will have to wait to find out what he really does when he climbs those trees. Seriously, though, that isn’t the toast. Instead, let us drink to Nicola who’s ill in the hospital. We know she really wanted to be here today. To Nicola…”

  “To Nicola,” the guests responded.

  And then the music started. It was not the usual waltz. The bride and groom got up and started dancing to wild swing music. They boogied all over the dance floor before others joined them. DiMarco politely asked Sister Angela if she wanted to dance.

  She giggled and then declined. “Maybe when they play the soft rock,” she said. “And only after I change into my sneakers.”

  Author Bio

  Coralie Hughes Jensen loves to travel. While living in Europe, she was able to visit and make friends in northern Italy. Tuscany’s beautiful landscape inspired her to place her first amateur detective in a tiny hill village set among the olive trees and grapevines.

  L’Oro Verde was first published in print in 2008 under a pen name, but Coralie has decided to use her own name for the eBook. Soon to appear in electronic form, her other print books include a historic suspense novel, Winter Harvest, published by Five Star, and Lety’s Gift and Passup Point, both set in Labrador/Newfoundland, published by LRP and The Pukeko, set in New Zealand. She has received honorable mentions in the Writer’s Digest Short Story Competition and has published short stories here and abroad.

  Excerpt: WINTER HARVEST

  By

  Coralie Hughes Jensen

  1 Lucy

  “It was a moonless night. The darkness was so heavy it tumbled down over the grassy field. The pond, a black syrupy molasses, swallowed the speckled starlight. Mary usually liked her walks, the clatter of late autumn keeping her company—the persistent whirr of crickets, the crackle of dried leaves underfoot, and the swoosh of wind through the straggly branches. But this night was hushed, the cloak of shadows muffling all sounds. Mary didn’t even hear the approach. She felt it, the ground shuddering restlessly, like a spasm that sends concentric ripples through water—a signal that launched dread in the pit of Mary’s stomach,” Elizabeth whispered, her face contorted by the flicker of flames from the hearth.

  We young girls sat cross-legged in front of her. Our mouths agape, we wrenched our
skirts and twisted our fingers. Charity closed her eyes in an effort to stop the flow of words from reaching her brain. Molly’s gaped so wide, you would have thought her mouth would be stuck open forever. But I did not move. I could not move. My ankles and wrists were frozen in place. A scream hovered just below my vocal chords, thrusting upward, but my throat was constricted and unable to release any sound at all. My chest throbbed in anticipation as I waited for the climax.

  “Mary could feel the hot breath on her neck before she heard him,” Elizabeth continued. “She smelled it too—burnt flesh and dung. Her skin prickled, but not enough to make her move, to step away, or, God forbid, to run. And when he touched her, she closed her eyes, trying not to look at his tortured visage, knowing who he was by the stories that preceded him. He caressed her arm, ripping her sleeve and leaving a track of blood to her elbow, his long nails having become claws so he could survive in the forest. Then he grabbed her waist and pulled her to face him.”

  The screams began to escape from the mouths of Elizabeth’s young audience who had already scattered like leaves in the wind, hiding behind chairs or tables but unable to escape because Elizabeth had locked the doors. I still sat cross-legged before her, trying to act stoic but unable to move or even close my eyes to the ugly scene I knew Elizabeth was about to reveal.

  “Mary pushed him away. She poked at his eyes, but the skin of his eyelids came loose in her hands. He clung to her, trying to get her to kiss him, but when she twisted to pull back, his grip slipped, his talon-like nails running along the front of her torso. Blood and insides oozed from her wound. He grasped at her neck to turn her toward him once again, but she wrenched away—too hard, slitting her throat on his claws. As her knees buckled from loss of blood, she slid from his arms, feeling the repulsive hirsute skin against hers. Suddenly, he howled, piercing her eardrums. He thrust the swooning body above his head in triumph before flinging Mary into the pond, the thud producing numerous wavelets along the shore.”