They’d enjoyed themselves immensely, and this time around, being more or less in the neighborhood, they had pretty much invited themselves back. Linda and Luca’s response had been gratifyingly enthusiastic. It would be at the tail end of the annual Val d’Arno Wine Festival, put on by the valley’s winery consortium, the program committee of which was chaired this year by Linda in her role as Villa Antica’s public relations manager. So, it would be a busy time, but a lively one.
And the very next day, Villa Antica itself would be putting on its third annual Vino e Cucina program, a four-day course, conducted in English, that was primarily a cooking class, but was richly leavened with material on Italian wines and culture. The program would be led by Luca, who had founded it.
Although John and Marti had never met Linda, she had invited all four of them to attend the program free of charge. Julie and Marti had accepted but had insisted on paying the €500 fee (they were, after all, already being put up at the villa for the better part of a week), while John and Gideon had politely and unsurprisingly declined. They would find other things to do, and Thursday morning was already allocated: they would be at Borgo Ognissanti 48 in Florence.
When the antipasto plate came, they automatically adopted the gastronomic division of labor they’d become accustomed to when the four of them ate together: John, Julie, and Gideon tucked into the salami, prosciutto, and paté, while Marti no less happily went after the olives, the roasted peppers, and the marinated artichoke hearts and eggplant.
“Well, everything’s on, and they’re expecting us,” Julie said, slipping her iPhone into her bag. “Linda told me about finding Pietro and Nola, and about the police investigation and all. It was a little awkward pretending we didn’t know anything about it, but . . .” She shrugged. “Anyway, we’re supposed to meet Linda and Luca at the wine festival tomorrow afternoon. At three, if we can make it. It’s in the main square of Arezzo.”
Gideon nodded. “That’ll work. Seminar’ll finish up at one.”
“Oh, and she’s taking us up on our offer to help out at the festival—your offer, anyway,” she said to Gideon. “They want you to be a judge.”
“Do they now? For a wine tasting?” Gideon, who thought rather more of his wine expertise than was strictly warranted, was flattered.
“Um, not exactly. For the grape stomp.”
“Grape stomp,” Gideon repeated suspiciously. “And what is a grape stomp?”
“It’s a contest. Teams of people take off their shoes and socks and stomp around in barrels of grapes to see which team can squish them and produce the most juice. Being a judge is an honor,” she added but she couldn’t help laughing.
Gideon’s visage remained somber. “What do they need judges for? Wouldn’t it be easier just to measure the amount of juice?”
“Well, yes, and that’s what they do, but you’ve written books, you’ve been on television. You’re a celebrity.”
“Only one of my books has been published in Italy, and its sales were in the low three figures. And I’ve never been on Italian television, so how am I a celebrity?”
“Oh, don’t be such a grump. Linda said you’d add gravitas to the situation. You’d be a cultural ornament. You’ll do it, won’t you?”
“Great,” muttered Gideon. “A cultural ornament.”
“Oh, come on, Gideon, you will do it, won’t you?” Julie prompted. “All it takes is giving the awards to the winners.”
“Giving the awards to the winners, boy, I don’t know, that sounds pretty hard. I’m not sure I’m up to—urp.”
She had speared one of the ravioli on his plate and jammed it into his mouth. “Here, have a ravioli. It’ll improve your mood.”
He chewed and swallowed. “That’s raviolo, for your information. There’s no such thing as one ravioli.”
“Or maybe it won’t,” she said, and they all laughed and clinked glasses again.
John joined in, but he was still mulling over Thursday’s appointment with Rocco. “Eight o’clock in the frigging morning,” he grumbled. “Honest to God.”
EIGHT
FLORENCE proper has a population of four hundred thousand. Include its surrounding sprawl, and you get a metropolitan area of a million-and-a-half. Arezzo proper, by contrast, holds fewer than a hundred thousand souls. And being a walled city, there is essentially no sprawl, no “metropolitan area.” What you see is what you get. You can walk from one end to the other in half an hour. Try that in Florence.
Despite its disadvantage in size, it has no lack of artistic and architectural splendors, among which is the elegant, sloping, thirteenth-century Piazza Grande, with its striking trapezoidal shape, its grand fountain, and the beautiful old palazzos, towers, and loggias that surround it. In Etruscan days it had housed the central market; in Roman times the staid, august offices of provincial government. But when Gideon and Julie arrived there after finding a parking space (not easy), it was anything but staid. A flapping red, green, and white banner stretched between fifteen-foot posts proclaimed FESTIVAL DI TUTTI I VINI DEL VAL D’ARNO in giant letters. Behind it, the square was crisscrossed with the multicolored tents, tables, and umbrellas of vendors. The happy, patently bibulous crowds made it clear that the winemakers had been unstinting with their tastings.
They’d been shooting for an arrival time of three o’clock, the start of the grape stomp and of Gideon’s “ornamental” responsibilities, but with the parking difficulties they’d run into they were late. John and Marti, traveling in a separate rental car, were doing a little touring on the way to Figline and were skipping Arezzo altogether. They planned to show up at the Villa Antica a little after six. In the US it would have been rude to arrive at dinnertime, but in Tuscany in late summer, dinner would still be an hour or two—or three—off.
“Gosh,” Gideon said, as they hunted for the stomp, “I sure hope we haven’t missed it.”
Julie responded with one of her looks. “Yes, I know you’d be just devastated.”
They didn’t have to search long to find the signs for La Gran Pigiatura Dell’uva Del Val D’arno—the Great Valdarno Grape Stomp—which was under way in a downslope corner of the square, where six contestants drenched up to their hips in purple liquid were stomping away in half-barrels full of grapes that had been set up on a stage, with the resulting pulpy fluid flowing sluggishly through hoses into ten-liter jars. Over a loudspeaker someone was accompanying them with a jazzy, Dean Martinesque version of the drinking song from La Traviata interspersed with jokey, encouraging comments. As they watched, a bell sounded, and each stomper gave way, as in a relay race, to a replacement who had been standing in back of him or her. In front of the stage were two dozen rows of folding chairs, most of which were empty because the audience was on its feet, cheering on their favorite teams with much noise and gesticulation.
“They’re awfully excited about this, aren’t they?” Julie said as they stood at the rear of the viewing area.
“I’m guessing there’s a little wagering going on,” said Gideon.
“And your guess,” said a voice behind them, “is, as usual, on the mark.” They turned to see an apple-cheeked, pleasantly plump, merry-eyed woman beaming delightedly at them.
“Linda!” exclaimed Julie with a happy little squeal, and much hugging all around ensued.
“Sorry I’m late for the stomp,” Gideon said. “I was looking forward to judging.”
“Amazing man,” Linda said to Julie. “He managed that with a perfectly straight face.” And to Gideon: “Don’t worry about it. Nico’s come to the rescue. I asked him to take over for you.”
“A wise decision. He’s more ornamental than I am.”
Linda smiled. “Well, maybe a little more, but you make up for it in gravitas.”
“That’s true,” Gideon agreed.
Nico was the baby of the Cubbiddu family, a movie-star-handsome twenty-six-year-old. And now Gideon spotted him at the microphone to the rear of the stage. It was Nico who was doing the si
nging and the patter. That he sounded like Dean Martin came as no surprise; he was cut from similar cloth: effortlessly charming, happy-go-lucky, ridiculously good-looking (if just a tad lounge-lizardy), totally laid-back, and perhaps a little too fond of the vino. A lock of black, oily hair even dipped roguishly down over his forehead—possibly on its own, but more likely with a little help.
“Nico’s got this well in hand,” Linda said, “and I could use a break. I’ve been working our booth since noon. What would you say to some coffee?”
She walked them up the slope to the long, colonnaded stone porch of the famous Vasari loggia at the top of the piazza, where the food vendors had set up. There were pushcarts offering panini; pizza; plates of sausage, peppers, and onions; and various sweets: arancini, cannoli, gelato. At one end of the porch was a permanent-looking espresso bar with half a dozen tables in front of it. It wasn’t getting much business, and the white-coated barista stood with his arms folded, his chin on his chest, and his mind seemingly a million miles away.
“Un cappuccino, per favore,” Gideon said, giving him Julie’s request, “e due espressi.”
It was like watching one of those “living statues” that one sees on the streets of big cities, who stand utterly motionless until a dollar is put in their offerings box, whereupon they spring robotically into action for a minute or so. The barista jerked to life at the splendid, gleaming baroque apparatus of polished levers, spouts, and tubes that was his espresso machine. Julie’s cappuccino came first. Levers were pulled, hisses were heard, and the air was filled with the thick, smooth aroma of good Italian coffee as jet-black espresso sluggishly flowed from a spout into a bowl-sized cup, covering the bottom by an inch or so. A seemingly unmeasured splash of milk was more or less flung into a metal pitcher, held under another spout, and jiggled and rotated until it was heated to a steaming froth, then poured into the cup, which it filled precisely to the point at which the stiffened froth was higher at the center than at the rim but was kept from overflowing by its surface density.
The barista looked sharply up at Gideon. “Cioccolata?”
“Si, per piacere.” For Julie a cappuccino wasn’t a cappuccino if it didn’t have chocolate on it.
With a flourish that would have done credit to a circus ringmaster, the barista sprinkled powdered chocolate onto the froth and went to work on the two espressos, which were briefer, simpler operations, but no less grandly handled. All three were placed on a tray and handed to Gideon.
“They look great, thank you.”
The barista replied with a dignified half bow and Italy’s fits-all-purposes response: “Prego.” He then used a cloth for a quick polish of the equipment and sank once again into reverie and immobility, awaiting his next customer.
Gideon smiled as he brought the tray to the table. There wasn’t any shortage of espresso bars back in Seattle, but if you wanted the full-scale spectacle, the true drama and excitement of coffee-making, you had to come to the mother country itself: la bella Italia.
Linda dealt with her espresso in the Italian manner, dumping a spoonful of sugar into the little cup, stirring, and then throwing her head back and tossing the three ounces down in a couple of gulps, the way a thirsty barfly handles a double-shot glass of whiskey. Gideon preferred his straight and drank it more slowly, four sips in all. Julie, as usual, made more of production of her cappuccino, holding it up to her nose and inhaling, sighing, stirring the foam and chocolate into the coffee, lifting the cup to her mouth with both hands and taking one minuscule sip at a time, her eyes closed with pleasure.
While she drank, Linda talked a little more about Nola and Pietro. “It was a relief when their bodies were finally found, of course, but none of the boys have really accepted that it happened the way they said—that babbo killed her. I mean, nobody’s criticizing the Carabinieri—the lieutenant, Gardella, his name was, did a really thorough job; they all did—but the boys simply can’t make themselves see their father as a murderer.”
“I’m having a hard time myself,” Julie said.
Gideon said nothing. He’d have liked to tell Linda that he had his own doubts, having examined Nola’s bones himself, and that he had the lieutenant rethinking things as well. But Rocco had specifically asked him not to discuss that, so he kept it to himself.
Rocco hadn’t, however, asked him not to talk about the case in general, and after all, the three of them were old friends who had shared a good many confidences, so . . .
“What about you, Linda?” he asked.
“What about me what?”
“Do you see Pietro as a murderer?”
She thought about it. “Well, there were some rumors about Nola’s having an affair, and babbo was, you know, very Italian, very . . . theatrical. Not exactly cool-blooded. Sometimes life with him was like living in a Puccini opera, nothing small-scale about it. He didn’t get mad often, but when he did, boy, you didn’t want to be anywhere within range. And—and this is the main thing—he was an extremely, and I mean extremely, old-fashioned male, straight out of the nineteenth century. It took him years to get over the fact that I wanted to keep my maiden name and not become signora Cubbiddu. Heck, I’m not sure he ever really did get over it.”
She smiled. “And you notice I’m calling him babbo, not Pietro. When I first got here I tried calling him by his first name, but that sure didn’t last very long—not coming from a daughter-in-law and a foreigner as well. It was a slur on his honor—those were his own words. He had his rules about how the family should act toward the padre, you see, and you had to follow them if you knew what was good for you.”
She paused, remembering. “So if he found out she was cheating on him? Then yes, I could see him killing her. And himself too, for that matter, yes. A normal person would maybe choose divorce, but babbo? Not an option. ‘Family above everything, except honor,’” she said. “That was his motto.” And then, in an acid undertone: “Or so we used to think.”
“Were they true?” Julie asked. “The rumors?”
Linda shrugged. “I doubt if anybody really knows. Honestly, Julie, the whole thing was so awful that everybody just wanted it to be over. I don’t think anybody wanted to know. What would be the point?”
Interesting, Gideon thought. The same words Rocco had used when asked the same question.
Linda’s expression, sober for the last few minutes, suddenly brightened. Seeing it happen was like watching the sun break through on a gloomy day. Her face was transformed. “Well, well. Here’s my hubby,” she proclaimed with transparent pride as Luca came charging up the steps to the portico.
Like Nico, Luca was a good-looking guy, but in a different way: a bigger-than-life type, expansive and spontaneous, more rough-cut than either of his brothers, and, in general, much like their father in personality. He was earthy, generous, opinionated, blunt, honest, and always ready to laugh, which he did loudly and lengthily. There had been times when Gideon had expected him to break into the big dance from Zorba the Greek at any minute, but so far he never had. Luca was great fun to be with for a few hours, but any more than that and Gideon needed to get away to someplace where Luca didn’t suck up all the air and take up all the space. Now, as he strode toward them with a giant grin plastered on his face and his arms spread wide, Gideon thought for a moment that he was going to try to gather Julie and him in at the same time in one of his bone-crushing hugs, but he settled instead for two separate ones, first Gideon, then Julie. Gideon’s was accompanied by a wince-inducing back-thumping, which he returned in full measure, but Luca got the best of it. He was an immensely powerful man, about an inch shorter than Gideon’s six-one, but far thicker in the chest and shoulders. Then on to Julie.
“Luca, honey,” Linda suggested sweetly as her husband wrapped his arms around Julie and swayed back and forth with her, “you might want to let her go now. It’s possible she might want to breathe.”
“Ah, she loves it,” Luca said, “and why wouldn’t she?” He finished with an explosive v
acuum cleaner of a kiss to her cheek: mmwaaak! Julie, who wasn’t really that keen on being engulfed by large males (happily, she made an exception for Gideon), smiled politely. There wasn’t much else you could do when Luca Cubbiddu decided he was going to hug you.
He had barely signaled to the barista for an espresso and sat down when Nico showed up as well, fresh from his grape-stomp responsibilities. Brushing back that Superman forelock from his forehead (to which it immediately bobbed back) and giving them his raffish but inarguably appealing grin, he welcomed Julie and Gideon. “Hey, pallies, long time no see. How’s it going?”
Like his brothers’, Nico’s English was first-rate: fluent and casual. That had been their father’s doing. Pietro had never learned English himself—even his Italian was rudimentary—but he’d understood that if the boys were to compete in the increasingly globalized business of wine, English would be a necessity. He had seen to it that they learned it as children and learned it well. Since then their travels—trade shows, expositions, conferences—had given them an idiomatic ease with the language. To Gideon they all seemed as comfortable in English as they did in their own tongue, and he’d heard them chatting in it even when there were no Brits or Americans around.
Dying on the Vine (A Gideon Oliver Mystery) Page 9