Murphy's Law

by Lisa Marie Rice

  Dante leaned forward. “So, what do you have for me, Guzzanti?”

  “You want the long version or the short one?”

  Dante looked at his watch. His brother would be at the San Marco right about now, drawing up strategies before the morning trial heat. A lot would depend on events in the next few hours, and he was stuck here in a hospital. “Short.”

  “All right. Well, it was an interesting autopsy, to say the least.” Guzzanti opened a notebook. “First of all, I’m surprised he wasn’t dead before the knife was actually slipped into his heart, right where it would do the most harm—”

  “Between the fourth and fifth rib,” Nick finished.

  Guzzanti and Dante turned to him in surprise and Nick shrugged. “I broke the fourth and fifth ribs once and the doctor said I was really lucky a splinter didn’t go into the heart. And I was paying attention during the autopsy.”

  Guzzanti smiled. “You’re right, Niccolò. It was between ribs four and five. But what was really interesting was the man’s blood-alcohol level. Three hundred and fifty milligrams. Even without a knife between the ribs, Roland Kane should’ve been lying flat out on the floor. The man was comatose as the stiletto went in, so there was restricted bleeding in the pericardial sac.”

  Dante remembered that harsh, hard face. Kane would have been a mean drunk. “We have witnesses who say Kane had been drinking heavily over the past twelve hours.”

  “He was about as drunk as a man can get and still be alive,” Guzzanti agreed. “Speaking of which, your murderer basically only hurried things along a little.”

  Dante frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that his liver was cirrhotic and he had terminal-stage liver cancer. His liver weighed less than one point seven kilograms.”

  “Oh.” Nick sat up. “So that’s why the guy’s liver was pale and rubbery. I was wondering. I mean I just assumed a human liver was like a cow’s liver. Liver-colored, I mean. This guy’s liver looked like a mass of pus.”

  Dante closed his eyes briefly. Thank you, Nick.

  “Well, this guy’s number was definitely up,” Guzzanti said. “If the stiletto didn’t get him, the alcohol would have. And if alcohol didn’t get him, liver cancer would have. Take your pick. It was just a question of time. Someone must’ve hated him very much.”

  Dante shrugged. “That’s usually the case with murder.”

  Guzzanti smiled. “Well, it’s a good thing we restrict our hatreds to the Palio, isn’t it? It uses up all the bad feelings and spares us all the murders.”

  It was something Dante believed with all his heart. His pencil hovered over his notepad. “So, we have…?”

  “Proximate cause of death, puncture wound to the pericardial sac and heart, immediate cause of death, internal hemorrhaging and mechanism of death, shock.” Guzzanti dictated and Dante wrote every word down.

  “Okay.” Dante snapped his notebook closed and, signaling to Nick, rose. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Guzzanti rose, too, and there was a subtle change in the air of the room.

  Dante felt it, he knew Guzzanti felt it and just maybe Nick felt it, too, if he could feel anything through his fog of misery.

  During the business of the crime scene and autopsy, they had cooperated as two professionals working for the Italian state were supposed to.

  Now their business was over and they reverted back to their raw—their true—nature. They were rivals…no, more than rivals, enemies. Snails had been hating Turtles for six centuries, the enmity reaching fever pitch during the Palio period, and it was now embedded in their DNA.

  “Thanks again,” Dante said. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

  “No problem.” Guzzanti’s eyes gleamed wickedly behind his lenses. “And, of course, your horse will be seeing my horse. The back of him.”

  Nick got into the car awkwardly and waited until Dante had turned the key in the ignition, then turned to his cousin. “Funny, I’ve known you all my life and I didn’t realize you had such a weak stomach. Ain’t life strange? Who would’ve thought? And you a big, bad cop and all.”

  Dante’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. “I don’t have a weak stomach.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.” Nick’s stomach was pure iron and he could afford to sound smug. He’d been engrossed in what Guzzanti was doing and had been surprised to look up into Dante’s green, sweaty face.

  Dante swerved out of the hospital parking lot. “I had to see to that guy who fainted.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The car leaped forward onto the narrow country road that would take them back to Siena. “We’re supposed to help citizens in distress. We took an oath.”

  “Right.” Nick kept his voice bland. “Absolutely. But you missed some really good bits. Like when Guzzanti was handling the liver and it was so rotten it fell apart in his hands.”

  The car swerved, narrowly missing an oncoming Fiat Brava.

  “Keep it up, Nick,” Dante said grimly, “and I’m telling Nonna who broke that crystal vase she and Nonno bought on their honeymoon.”

  Nick shut up. Dante didn’t scare him, but Nonna sure did.

  “God, I wish I’d been the one to whack old Roland,” Tim said glumly.

  Faith shot him a sympathetic look. “Yeah, me too,” she sighed. “But I had more reason to kill him than you did. For two years, he tried to keep me away from this—” Faith waved her hand, encompassing the flag-stone arcaded terrace looking out over the formal gardens below them.

  Nearby, tables had been set up for a late lunch, the smell of which had been tantalizing them for the past half hour. Coy cherubs stared down in perfect understanding of human temptation from the frescoed vaulted ceiling.

  Since the hand she waved was also holding a glass of excellent chilled white wine and that was included, too.

  Though Tim had officially been taken off the program, he’d nonetheless made himself incredibly useful, throwing himself into organizational details by Faith’s side. She had almost forgiven him for being such a jerk yesterday.

  For some reason, Leonardo had seemed willing to let her deal with many of the arrangements of the conference. He had seemed distracted and absent-minded, spending most of his time on his cell phone. From the odd snatches of conversation, he seemed to be caught up in the frenzy of the local horse race, the Palio. It seemed an odd hobby, like collecting bottle caps or telephone cards, but she’d long ago learned never to question a mathematician’s obsessions.

  Time and again she’d found herself having to make important decisions. Leonardo had simply agreed with what she’d done, Grif had smiled and winked, and Madeleine had glowered.

  Leonardo had arranged for a light luncheon to be served on the broad balcony at the back of the main building. Though the day had heated up, the vaulted arcades managed to trap just enough cool air for it to be pleasant.

  Lunch would be served soon, and in the meantime, a trestle table covered with a blindingly white linen tablecloth held chilled white wine in coolers, tiny balls of mozzarella and thin slices of a spicy salami.

  It was so delicious sitting in the shade on this hot day. Rambler roses climbed trellises halfway up the wall and the hot smell of roses filled her nostrils. Honeybees ambling lazily from blossom to blossom gave off a comforting buzz, contrasting nicely with the little buzz the wine was giving her.

  Life was very, very good.

  Faith gazed out over the garden. She’d never seen a formal landscaped garden before. In Sophie any plants out in an open space in vases that weren’t padlocked would have been boosted right away.

  Below them were two ornamental ponds. Rimming them were huge terracotta vases with intricately chased reliefs around the rim. They were filled with some brightly flowered shrub she couldn’t begin to name.

  White gravel paths wound lazily around low hedges surrounding old roses in full blossom. It looked more like a work of art than of nature. It was like some superb mo
vie director’s idea of life, as opposed to the gritty indie director’s version that her life had been up until now.

  She could have been here last year, too, sipping white wine in paradise, if it hadn’t been for a man who was now, thankfully, dead.

  Tim took a sip of his wine and smacked his lips. “What do you mean?”

  “Hmmm?” She turned to him. She’d almost forgotten his presence.

  “What do you mean, Roland tried to keep you out of here?”

  Faith shook off her sensuous daze and narrowed her eyes as she looked hard at Tim. Was he faking it? Grif and Madeleine had been aware of what Kane was doing. That knowledge still burned bright and hot in her breast—that people she’d considered friends could betray her like that.

  Had Tim betrayed her, too?

  She gazed into her glass and swirled the wine around gently. It flowed back down in golden rivulets. “Legs” she remembered reading that this was called. A sign of a very good wine.

  “Leonardo told me that I’d been invited to Siena last year and had been invited this year, too. Professor Gori—I mean, Leo—Leonardo…”

  Tim raised an eyebrow as she stumbled over the name.

  “Leonardo. That’s what he asked me to call him. Anyway, Leonardo said he’d read my article on tipping behavior in Mathematica. You remember it, don’t you, Tim?”

  “Yes, sure I do,” he said softly and looked her full in the eyes. It might be a trick of the soft early afternoon light, but his gaze seemed warmer than usual. “That was a really great article, Faith. I think you opened a big avenue of research there. Everyone’s been very impressed by it.”

  Yeah. Right. Could’ve fooled me, Faith thought. “Somehow Kane contained his enthusiasm. Anyway, on the basis of that article, Leonardo wanted me over here last year. But Kane said I was too busy with the move to Southbury. And this year I was invited again, and Kane declined for me again. Only you got sick and he needed someone to do his scut work for him and he decided I could tag along. So I guess I have to thank you for that.”

  “For being sick as a dog?” Tim grimaced. “Happy to oblige. Any time.”

  “This could’ve been my second year here, Tim. Everybody knows how important the Quantitative Methods Seminar is. That son of a—” She looked away.

  “I can’t believe Kane could do something that underhanded.” Tim stopped for a moment. “What am I saying? Of course he’d be capable of doing it. But why? His position is—was—safe enough. You certainly weren’t any threat to him. That was a gratuitous piece of nastiness. Over the top, even for him.”

  “Did you know? Did you know he turned the invitation down for me?” The words were blurted out. Faith tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She shouldn’t be putting him on the spot, but she had to. She had a right to know. And after all, they’d been lovers. Sort of. “Because Madeleine and Grif did. And they never let on. Not a word. Not a whisper. I had no idea.”

  Tim touched her hand briefly. “I didn’t know, Faith. Honest. But I can’t say that if I had known you’d have been invited, I could’ve changed Roland’s mind or done something about it. You know what he’s like. What he was like.” He closed his eyes. “God, it feels good to talk about him in the past tense.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  Tim shifted uneasily. “You know, old Kane really had it in for you, Faith. I could never understand why.”

  Slumped in the cane-backed chair, Tim stared down thoughtfully at his wine, twirling the stem of the glass slowly between his palms. A sudden, light breeze from the garden lifted a wispy lock of dirty-blond hair in a rose-scented gust.

  He looked back up at her, his expression troubled. “He made your life hell from the moment you arrived. I guess everyone knew what was going on—me included—but there wasn’t much anyone could do about it.”

  Faith sighed. “I know. And the police know about it, too. I suppose it’s one of the reasons I’m suspect number one.”

  “What?” Tim straightened, galvanized. “What on earth do you mean you’re suspect number one? Are the police here insane? One look at you and it’s clear you couldn’t have murdered anyone.”

  As opposed to thinking about it. Tim was so sweet. “Well, you have to look at it from their point of view. I had a motive. We all had a motive, it’s true, but I had a biggie. I was the one who found the body and my fingerprints are all over the knife. What else can they think?”

  “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. Why would you—” He stopped suddenly.

  Faith smiled. “Their point precisely. I had good reason to. On the other hand, they’re beginning to realize that just about anyone who crossed Kane’s path had reason to kill him. Still, what they have isn’t enough to arrest me, let alone indict me, so I guess they’re just sitting back for a minute and seeing if maybe my guilty conscience will drive me crazy like Lady Macbeth.”

  “I haven’t seen you compulsively scrubbing your hands lately. That’s a good sign.” Tim leaned forward. “So…what was it like?”

  “What was what like?”

  “Finding old Kane dead.” He shivered. “I mean, not to carp at the generosity and humanitarianism of whoever did the deed, but still…to find a dead body like that. What was it like? What did he look like? Was there a struggle?”

  Kane’s lifeless body flashed in front of her eyes. “No, I don’t think so. He was just lying there on the floor, flat on his back. Actually, at first I didn’t even realize he was dead. I thought he’d simply passed out on the floor the night before and hadn’t woken up out of his stupor yet. He’d consumed an amazing amount of alcohol. He drank his way across the Atlantic, drank his way from Rome to Florence, drank his way from Florence to Siena, and drank his way through dinner. Then he ordered another bottle of whiskey from his room before going to bed.”

  “Jesus.” Tim shook his head. “That’s a lot of booze.”

  “Wait…that’s funny.” Faith frowned. “Come to think of it, why did he need another bottle of whiskey? He’d brought four into the country. Not even Kane could drink four bottles of whiskey in one day and live.”

  “Maybe it was a gift from the Certosa. Sort of like a welcome gift.”

  “Of whiskey? To an alcoholic?”

  “Maybe Leonardo didn’t know he was an alcoholic.”

  “Maybe,” Faith said. She doubted it, though. Leonardo struck her as a very savvy man. Still, if she hadn’t realized the extent of Kane’s problem, it was likely Leonardo hadn’t either. The echo of a voice sounded in her head and she realized Tim had asked a question.

  “What?”

  “I said, what made you think he’d ordered the whiskey?”

  “Oh. Well, the evening before, I saw a maid deliver a bottle of whiskey to Kane’s room. If it was a gift from the Certosa, surely they would’ve put it in his room. So he must’ve ordered it. But that doesn’t make much sense, either. He had a stock of whiskey bottles, so why—” Faith’s voice trailed off as she thought it through. No matter how many ways she look at it, it didn’t make much sense. She was a trained mathematician and she hated it when things didn’t compute.

  The head waiter appeared and clapped his hands twice, sharply. “A tavola!” he called.

  Faith and Tim both jumped.

  Tim’s head swiveled around. “Good. Lunch is ready,” he said. “You’re in for a real treat, Faith. The cook here is fantastic.”

  Faith smiled. Tim loved his food. “I know. You forget I’ve already had a couple of meals here.” They walked over to the tables. Tim linked arms with her and she leaned companionably into him. Good old Tim. He was a lousy lover, but maybe not such a bad friend.

  “You know, Faith,” he said as the waiters pulled out their chairs for them, “the police haven’t realized another motive of yours. Keeping you away from this food is reason enough to off anyone.”

  She laughed, suddenly glad she was alive and Kane was dead. “Just make sure you don’t tell the Commissario that.”

  Chapter Th
irteen

  If you’re feeling good, don’t worry—you’ll get over it.

  Back in Siena, Dante mopped up the last of the wine sauce with a crust of bread. “Attilio should be beatified,” he said as he put the bread in his mouth. His eyes closed reverently. Some things were almost too good to be of this earth.

  Nick picked up another fried artichoke and popped it into his mouth. “Hmm. Almost makes you think there’s something to religion.”

  “Well, let’s not go overboard.” Dante poured a generous dollop of Brunello di Montalcino into Nick’s glass. It was the best wine in all the world and guaranteed to pull a dead man out of the doldrums. “Though I must say, if I did have to choose a religion, it would definitely have to be Catholicism, for aesthetic reasons. What other religion lets you celebrate with wine? Speaking of religion, did I ever tell you about the Buddhist colony here?”

  “Nope.” Nick settled back to listen. His expression was serious and Dante very much wanted to put a smile on his face.

  “Well, there’s this Buddhist colony near Bagnolo,” Dante began. “It was founded about eight years ago. Probably about fifty people. They keep pretty much to themselves. Dress in saffron robes, are close to the land and lead very simple lives. The usual. Which would be very inspiring to all us materialistic clods, if the whole thing weren’t paid for by the half-a-billion euro trust fund of their founder, who also happens to be the Conte di Salvemini.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that the guy whose mom ran away with the—”

  “The same. Which probably explains the Buddhism. Anyway, we’re called out to La Rondinaia, the family villa, because they were having a few break-ins at night. So we go and check things out. Turns out it was a disgruntled member of the sect—some drab, pale, young man who wanted to take over and rule the other drab pale youngsters. But while we were checking things out, we learned a few things about how they live, including hygiene.” Dante shuddered at the memory. “And—do you know that they import their food?”