by Aaron Elkins
“And you probably ought to wear a shirt with a collar,” Gideon said. “I can lend you a shirt with a collar.”
Phil looked wildly around the lobby, as if for help, found none, and gave in, letting his shoulders sag in utter dejection. “What I don’t do for my friends.”
EIGHTEEN
DURING his morning walk Gideon really had researched the town’s restaurants, and it was to the Grand Hotel des Iles Borromées that he brought them. The graceful, wedding-cakey Belle Epoque pile had been open for business since 1863, with a well-publicized celebrity guest list that had included the usual European royalty, plus Mussolini, the Rothschilds, Clark Gable, and ambulance driver Ernest Hemingway, who had recuperated there from his wounds in the First World War, and had later used it in A Farewell to Arms as the peaceful retreat where Frederick Henry lies low, planning his escape to Switzerland. Nowadays the celebrity clientele was mostly rock bands with names that Gideon couldn’t keep straight and frequently couldn’t believe.
They had before-dinner drinks on softly padded Empire-style chairs in a gleaming lobby with gilded wall and ceiling sculptures, huge chandeliers, and terrazzo floors ornamented with Oriental carpets. Naked marble infants— putti—stood on one chubby foot atop pedestals, holding multibranched bronze candelabra. The drinks were carried from a teal blue bar by a tuxedoed waiter who wore rubber-soled shoes and spoke in whispers.
“It’s wonderful,” Julie sighed as her Cinzano was set down on a low marble table. “Just what I had in mind.” She rubbed her bare arms. “I feel so clean.”
As expected, Phil didn’t agree. “I think I remember this place. My grandfather used to take us here for lunch sometimes, in the days when he still went off the island sometimes. I always felt like I didn’t belong.” He held up the glass of Beck’s beer he’d ordered and shook his head. “Seven bucks for a beer, and you don’t even get the bottle. Sorry, folks, but this place is not going to make it in the On the Cheap guide.”
“I’m sure they’ll be desolated,” Julie said. “Didn’t some superstar chef kill himself a few years ago when his restaurant didn’t get into On the Cheap?”
“No, that was Michelin,” Phil said seriously. When it came to On the Cheap, his sense of humor was rarely in evidence.
They paused to watch half a dozen slim, attractive, trendily dressed people in their twenties and thirties come out of an elevator and sit down at the far end of the lobby, chattering and laughing like movie extras who’d been told to look rich and happy. “Look at them. So confident, so . . . entitled. They act like they think they deserve to stay in places like this, like they have it coming to them—”
“Strange talk coming from a bona fide representative of the gentry,” Gideon said. “You sound like your buddy, Dante Galasso.”
“Representative of the gentry, where do you get that from? Bite your tongue, man.”
“You are, though, Phil. You’re a member in good standing of the de Grazia clan. I’ve seen you at their consiglio with my own eyes. You might as well face it.”
“Might as well own up to it,” Julie said. “No point in denying it. What’s true is true.”
“I,” said Phil, squaring his shoulders, “am an Ungaretti and damn well proud of it. As far as I’m concerned, you can take that whole bunch of patronizing, condescending, self-satisfied . . . well, except for my grandfather . . . you can take them and . . . hell . . .” He subsided, muttering, into his Beck’s.
“If you feel that way about it,” Julie said, “why are you staying on with them at the island for our last few days? Why not keep your room at the Primavera?”
“Yeah, well.” He wiped foam from his upper lip with the back of his forefinger. “My grandfather, you know . . . if I didn’t spend a couple of nights there, Cosimo’d really be hurt.”
“Uh-huh, I see,” Gideon said, letting a moment go by while he took a flinty, freezing sip of his martini and set down the stemmed glass. He’d ordered it straight up instead of on the rocks for once because it seemed like the right drink for the Grand Hotel. “Oh, by the way . . . will your cousin Lea still be there? Just wondering.”
“Well, what the hell—”
“Inquiring minds wish to know,” said Julie.
“Jesus,” Phil said, looking around the room with a sigh. “What do you say we pick on someone else for a while now, or is that too much to ask?”
“Phil,” Julie said, “seriously—are you sure it’s such a good idea to be there? I mean, one of them could be a murderer, a kidnapper . . .”
She looked at Gideon, who had told them earlier about the extraordinary string of events in the forty-eight hours or so since he’d last seen them: the abortive theft of the bones, the attack on him, the identification of Big Paolo (both as a kidnapper of Achille and as Gideon’s assailant), and the death of Dr. Luzzatto.
“One of them almost certainly is a murderer and a kidnapper,” Gideon said. “Big Paolo ties Achille’s kidnapping and Domenico’s death together, and the de Grazias are the only ones who knew about finding Domenico’s bones. And they’re sure as hell the only ones who heard Luzzatto say he knew what was bothering Domenico. Counting Achille’s driver, that’s three murders we’re talking about. That’s some family you have there.”
“Shee,” said Phil.
“Oh, and you’re a suspect too. Caravale’s going to be talking to you. I thought you’d want to know.”
“I’m a suspect?”
“Because you were there with them when the news came about Domenico. And you heard what Luzzatto said too. I tried to tell Caravale that you probably weren’t guilty, but of course I couldn’t say for sure.”
Phil grumbled something and swilled the last two inches of his beer. “Boy, I’m sure glad I came out with you guys. This is turning into a swell evening.”
The waiter glided over, whispered that their table was ready, and pointed the way down an arched corridor lined on either side with gilded mirrors that alternated with nineteenth-century paintings.
“Who has any appetite anymore?” Phil grumbled.
But once they’d taken their seats in the quiet, softly lit dining room, he found his appetite again, and all three of them ordered the fixed-price, multicourse menu of the day, choosing to see what the chef came up with.
“For sixty-five bucks this better be good,” Phil said.
It was. They worked steadily through the antipasto, the seafood crepes, and the port-laced consommé, and started on the main course of poached Lake Maggiore whitefish stuffed with prawns and olives before the talk veered away from the food.
“I’m telling you, I just can’t believe it,” Phil said, putting down his fork. “One of those people murdered my uncle Domenico? It’s been going round and round in my mind. I mean, yeah, they had some grudges, like any family—you saw the way they are, Gideon—but kill him? I don’t think so.”
“I wouldn’t quite say like any family,” Gideon said. “What do you mean, ‘grudges’?”
“Well, like . . . you were talking about Dante before.” He paused. “Dante’s married to Francesca,” he explained to Julie. “Francesca is—”
“Vincenzo’s sister,” Julie said. “I know. Gideon explained your family tree to me.”
“As far as I can figure it out,” Gideon said.
“Okay, well, the thing is, Domenico couldn’t stomach Dante. You have to understand, at the time Dante Galasso was this wild-eyed radical professor. You name it, he was for it: armed revolt, aristocrats to the wall, the elimination of private property and differential incomes, the whole schmear. It was really hard on Domenico, because Francesca’d always been his favorite, even more than Vincenzo. Everybody knew it. You know, firstborn and all that.”
He paused to extract a stray bit of crayfish shell from his teeth. “Francesca was nuts about Dante—I know, it’s hard to believe now, but she was—but Domenico put his foot down and told her he wouldn’t have the guy as a son-in-law. He’d disown her if she married him. So she did and
he did. But then she got on his good side again, even though he wouldn’t let Dante in the house. Wouldn’t even allow her to say his name when she came over. Seriously. She was welcome, but Dante had to stay home in this dinky apartment they had in Modena.” Another longer, more meditative pause as he chewed.
“And?” prompted Julie.
“And then Domenico dies, and, like, two months later they move in. Free room and board for the rest of their lives, and Francesca has a whole household staff to boss around. But Jesus, be serious, that’s no motive for murder . . .”
The three of them looked at each other.
“. . . is it?” Phil finished weakly. And then: “Yeah, I guess maybe, in a cop’s mind, it would be.”
“No, in a cop’s mind, it would be two motives,” Gideon said. “One for Dante, one for Francesca. You need to tell Caravale about this, Phil.”
“But won’t he just think I’m trying to cast doubt on others to disguise my own dastardly motives?”
“Seriously. You need to tell him. And you said ‘grudges.’ Is there something else?”
Phil shook his head. “Aw, this is ridiculous. I mean—”
Julie put her hand on his arm. “Phil, it’s not ridiculous. We’re not playing some kind of gossip game. One of those people is a murderer. If there’s something else you know—”
“Well, there’s Basilio—I can’t believe I’m saying this—but I guess if you’re going out of your way to dig up stuff, you could say Basilio had a reason to kill him too.”
Basilio Barbero, it seemed, had gotten himself into a mess not long after a payroll supervision position had been found for him at Aurora Costruzioni. Whether it involved embezzlement or incompetence had never been firmly established (although Phil, knowing Basilio, leaned toward the latter), but it was common knowledge that the angry Domenico was thinking of firing him, expelling him from the nest at Isola de Grazia, and possibly even prosecuting him.
And then—as with Dante’s case—Domenico had conveniently died, and the situation had blown over. Vincenzo, the new man in charge, had kept him on, and even made him the chairman of the morale committee.
“I guess you’d have to call that a motive, wouldn’t you?” Phil said disconsolately.
“Two motives again,” Julie said. “Don’t forget his wife. Bella.”
“Actually, Bella makes more sense. I can’t see Basilio killing anybody.”
“Either way, you have to tell Caravale about it,” Gideon said. “Anything else?”
“You want more motives yet?” Phil, never a big eater, pushed away his half-finished plate and thought about it. “That’s it, I’m afraid. Nobody else would have any reason to do away with Domenico. Not that I know about, anyway.”
“Sure, you do,” Gideon said. “Vincenzo.”
“Vincenzo? What are you talking about? All right, the guy’s an asshole—sorry, Julie—but why would he kill his own—oh. The inheritance, you mean.”
“Yes, the inheritance. When Domenico died, Vincenzo became padrone—of the Isola de Grazia, of the company, of everything. And I assume the money went to him too. Right?”
Phil shrugged. “As far as I know, sure.”
“A lot of people have been killed for a lot less, Phil. Even by their own sons. Or maybe it was because he didn’t want to wait any longer to get control of the company.”
He offered around the bottle of wine they’d ordered, a straw-colored, fruity Lugana from Lake Garda. Phil, who wasn’t much of a drinker either, covered his glass with his hand. Julie held hers up.
“Damn, Gideon,” Phil said, shaking his head, “I never knew you had such a nasty mind.”
“It’s the first axiom of the forensic scientist,” Julie said. “When in doubt, think dirty.” She sipped some of the newly poured wine. “I even have a motive for your grandfather, if you’re interested.”
“For Nonno Cosimo? That sweet old man? You gotta be kidding me.”
“Now, I’m not saying I believe this. I’m just trying imagine what Caravale’s probably thinking.”
“Which is?”
“Which is that, on some level, Cosimo must have hated him—well, resented him anyway—because it was Domenico who got everything, who became the padrone. He was even a count. And all because he was born a few years earlier. Cosimo, as the kid brother, got nothing at all. Or don’t I understand the way that works?”
“No, that’s the way it works, all right, but if what you’re saying is true, which I don’t buy for a minute, why didn’t he kill him years ago, before Vincenzo was born, so he would’ve inherited? What good does it do to wait till they’re both in their seventies?”
Julie dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “Mm, yes, that could be a sticking point.”
“Not necessarily,” Gideon said. “It could have been from emotions that finally got out of hand from playing second fiddle his whole life. From what you told me, Cosimo lived his entire life, first in his brother’s house, and then in his nephew’s house. Never even had his own home. That could build a lot of resentment. Who knows what might have kicked it off?”
Phil leaned back in his chair and regarded them both. “Do you people really believe what you’re saying, or are you just playing with my mind?”
“We’re just playing with your mind,” said Gideon. “But you can bet Caravale will have it on his list of possibilities. He’d be crazy not to.”
“Okay, as long as we’re covering all the bases, what about Lea?” Phil asked, bristling. “Anybody got any reasons for her to bump off Domenico?”
“Not me,” said Julie.
“Not me,” said Gideon.
“Huh. Okay, then. All right, then.”
They had finished the vegetable course of stewed fennel, begun on their salads, and ordered their espressos before Phil picked up the conversation again.
“And something else. You said whoever killed Domenico was probably behind Achille’s kidnapping too. Well, how the hell do you figure that? What would be the motive there?”
“How about five million euros?” Gideon said.
“What do any of them need money for? How could they spend it without everybody else noticing? Even if they moved off the island, it’d be obvious.”
“I don’t have any answers for that, Phil.”
“Well, all right then,” Phil said. “Huh.” He continued picking at his salad, his head down. “Listen, Gideon, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. About Lea. I’m kind of . . . well, interested in her.”
“Really?” said Gideon.
“Really?” said Julie.
“But I’m worried about . . . well, she’s my cousin. I mean . . . you know, should I . . . well, what are the genetic implications? I’m not too good at that stuff.”
Gideon drank the last of his wine and set the glass down. “Let’s work it out. Let me make sure I have it straight. Lea is the daughter of Bella and Basilio, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And Bella is Vincenzo’s . . . what?”
“Half-sister, I think.”
“No, describe the relationship. Exactly how is she related?”
“Bella? She’s the daughter of Domenico’s wife from her first marriage. Vincenzo’s half-sister, right?”
“So they have the same mother? That’s their relationship?”
“Uh—no, actually. It was Domenico’s second marriage too. They were both widowed. Vincenzo was his first wife’s kid. Stefania, I think her name was. I don’t really remember her. Bella’s mother’s name was Clara. Nice lady.”
“Okay, then Bella is Vincenzo’s stepsister, not his half-sister.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A big difference. As far as you’re concerned, a huge difference. You want to know how close your relationship is to Lea, and whether there’d be any danger if the two of you had children together, right?”
Phil blushed, literally to the roots of his hair. “Well, I wouldn’t put it that way . . . I’m just exploring .
. . I mean, we’re not even close to thinking about . . . we don’t even . . . well, yes.”
“And the answer,” said Gideon, “is that there’s no genetic problem at all. She’s not related to Vincenzo, and you’re not related to her.”
Phil was amazed. “You’re right, of course! I guess I never thought it through.” He frowned. “But she’s always been my cousin. Everybody thinks of us as cousins.”
“Among the Arunta, maybe, but not here. Look, you can call her whatever you want to call her, but you don’t have any blood in common. None.” Gideon reached for his pen. “It’s not that hard. Here, I’ll draw it out for you.”
“No, that’s okay.” He grinned stupidly at them. “Not related. Son of a gun.”
“Not yet,” Julie said with a smile.
NINETEEN
AT the Primavera, there was a message waiting from Caravale. “Please call.” The message listed his cell phone number.
Gideon made the call from their room while Julie settled down with a Time magazine she’d bought earlier that day. “I’ll be damned,” he said softly as he hung up five minutes later.
“What’s up?” Julie asked distantly, not quite looking up from the magazine on her lap. “Anything new?”
“Not on the cases, no. But . . . well, they’ve found Phil’s father.”
It took a couple of beats, but that got her attention. “They found Phil’s father?” she exclaimed, flipping the magazine shut. Then she knit her brows. “Wait a minute, what does that mean, they found Phil’s father?”
“Caravale has a couple of people poking around up in Gignese; that’s a few miles from here, the village that Dr. Luzzatto lived in—”
“The one that got killed in the motorcycle accident.”
“Right. And they were going through his records and talking to people, looking for any kind of lead, and the name ‘Franco Ungaretti’ came up as a recent patient of Luzzatto’s, and since they’d been out at the Isola de Grazia doing interviews, they knew who Phil was, and they asked this Franco if he was related to those Ungarettis, and he is.” Gideon came and sat on an ottoman beside her, his elbows on his thighs. “He’s Phil’s father.” He tapped a notepad on his knee. “I have his address and phone number.”