Charmer's Death (Temptation in Florence Book 2)

by boeker, beate

  Another flash-light filled the church like lightning.

  “Do you know the victim?”

  “Non!” It came out as a shout, muted by fear.

  Garini made sure his face didn't show what he was thinking. Maybe Leopold was nervous because he had covered a body with his full length. Part of his reaction was understandable. But this seemed a bit over the top. “Is there anything you think you should tell me?”

  “I need to wash.” Morin got more nervous by the minute. “Please.”

  “He didn't want to stay.” Gertrude's voice came from behind Garini, “but I told him not to budge. It's our duty as a citizen to assist the police.“

  Stefano clenched his teeth and turned his iciest stare on her. “I will come to you in a minute, Signora Asseli. Please let me finish my conversation with Signor Morin first.”

  Gertrude grunted and stomped back to the priest who still stood next to the altar, wringing his hands.

  Stefano asked to see Morin's passport and noted the number as well as the address of his hotel and his cell phone number. “How long do you plan to stay in Florence?”

  “Until the twenty-seventh.”

  Another week, covering Christmas. “Are you here on your own?”

  Leopold shifted his weight from left to right. “Yes.”

  How odd. Alone over Christmas in a foreign town. “Have you been to Florence before?”

  “Oh, yes, quite often. As an Italian teacher, it's only natural.”

  “I see.” Garini narrowed his eyes. “If you should feel a sudden need to leave before this date, do contact me.” Garini made sure his gaze fixed in a stern way on Leopold's face. “We are closely working with the police in other European countries, so a flight would not serve any purpose.”

  Leopold looked as if he wanted to run out of church as fast as his feet could carry him.

  His feet. Something irked Stefano about Leopold's feet. “”You wear uncomfortable shoes for a tourist,” he said.

  “I like these shoes.” Leopold placed a black woolen cap onto his short hair and pulled it forward until he all but disappeared beneath it.

  “But surely sneakers would be more comfortable for the ancient cobblestones of Florence?”

  Leopold shuddered. “I abhor sneakers. They are so . . . uncultivated.”

  “I see. “Stefano nodded. A victim with hand-stitched leather soles, a suspect with shiny patent leather shoes, and Gertrude Asseli with no feeling for beauty at all but an overdeveloped sense of duty. What a mix. “I might need to speak to you again, Signor Morin. Please inform me if you wish to leave town.”

  Morin nodded, turned on his heels and shot from the church like a man released from the gallows.

  The padre followed him with billowing habit to open the door.

  Garini watched the Frenchman leave with a frown. The church seemed to get colder every minute. He couldn't feel his toes anymore, though he had put on shoes with thick rubbers soles this morning. He shook his head. His mind seemed to be stuck on shoes today.

  He turned back to the victim, illuminated in bright light. The camera team was done. Their pictures had fixed his exact position from every angle. It was time to pull the dead man out of his position between the heavy pews, otherwise Stefano could not get to him.

  “Ciao.” An insouciant voice came from behind Stefano.

  Stefano swiveled around and took in his young assistant with the gelled-up hair. “Piedro. You took your time.”

  Piedro shrugged and didn't meet Stefano's eyes. “My bike broke down and--”

  It always breaks down on your way to work. “Not now.” Garini cut short his subordinate. “Help me get the body out from between the pews.” Together, they shifted the heavy man until he was stretched out in the aisle.

  Stefano knelt down on one side, his hands skimming over the body. The woolen coat felt think and warm; the lining was silk. A broad chest, muscled arms, and a flat stomach spoke of regular workout. A fit man in the end of his fifties. His sweater was pure cashmere, the white shirt thick cotton, the cuff links heavy gold. A fountain pen with a golden nib stuck in his shirt pocket, and a titanium signet ring graced the left hand. It showed the entwined initials TA. Stefano went through the victim's pockets and pulled out a wallet. One platinum credit card, four gold credit cards. Nine hundred Euros in cash.

  Garini suppressed a whistle and pulled the driving license from the wallet. The victim's name was Trevor Vincent Accanto. A rich American, strangled inside the famous Basilicata just before Christmas, a fainted Frenchman on top, a redoubtable Swiss woman by his side, and a nervous padre hovering over the whole. Damn. The tabloids would be delirious with joy. He pulled his thoughts back and addressed Signora Asseli. “How long did it take you to make the call after you had found the dead man?”

  “Nowhere near as long as it took you to come here,” she said.

  Piedro snickered.

  Garini didn't twitch a muscle. “Can you narrow it down a bit more?”

  “Not more than ten minutes. I knew it was my duty to inform the priest right away, and the minute I turned around to look for him, he already came from the vestry.” She nodded at a side door behind the altar.

  Garini turned to the padre who had kept quiet in the background. “Do you corroborate that statement?”

  “What?” The padre gave a start. “I . . . ”, he plucked at the sleeves of his habit with nervous fingers. “Yes, I think that's about right.”

  Garini fixed him with a hard stare. “Can you swear to this in front of a jury?”

  Padre Balli paled. “I . . . I think so.”

  Gertrude Asseli pulled herself up. “Are you insinuating that I'm telling lies, Commissario?” Her voice made it clear she thought this an insult.

  Stefano met her gaze without blinking. “Let's just say I find it interesting that you are trying to steer everybody involved in the direction you wish to take.”

  Her face turned blueberry red. “How dare you?” With her anger, her accent got more pronounced.

  “This is a murder investigation, Signora Asseli. I am here to find a murderer, not to keep everybody happy. Do you wish to add anything to your statement?”

  The Swiss woman pressed her lips together.

  “No? Then please give your name and hotel address as well as the number of your passport and cell phone to my assistant. You may leave afterward.” Garini nodded at Piedro. “Don't forget to note how long Signora Asseli plans to stay in Florence.” He turned his back on them and gave the pathologist at the side a sign. He had watched the proceedings with the interest of a curious terrier. “You can start, Roberto.”

  “When did you say the call came in?” Roberto opened the victim's eye and focused a small light on it.

  “Ten to one.” Garini answered.

  Roberto nodded. “So the victim was found at twelve forty.” He added in a low voice, “Remind me to invite you when my mother-in-law plans to come the next time. She's a similar battleship as the Swiss lady, and I'd be happy if you could annihilate her to dust in the very same way.”

  “If you think that was tough, you've never met a Mantoni.” The words slipped out before Stefano could stop them.

  “Oh?” Roberto's eyes lit up. “Who are the Mantonis? Do I know them? Is there really a human being that can't be intimidated by you? I want to meet her!”

  Stefano shook his head, annoyed at having told the curious pathologist more than he wanted. That wasn't like him; as a rule, he had himself much better in hand, but then, the Mantonis had unnerved him, and they still did. If only he could see Carlina tonight. Technically speaking, her last name was Ashley because of her American father, but her Mantoni mother, and her close link to the rest of the family, all living in the same building, made her a true Mantoni. Not as crazy, definitely shaped in a different mold, but special. She went under his skin in a way no woman had ever done. She even--

  He gave himself a little shake and forced the thought away. “Can you tell me when the victi
m died?”

  Roberto gave an exaggerated sigh. “Closed as an oyster, as always.” He shrugged. “Well, if you insist on talking shop, I can tell you he died after twelve, taking the low temperatures here into account.”

  “Anything else?”

  “So far, no. I'll check him in detail when I have him at home.”

  Stefano suppressed a wry smile. I wonder if he also talks about the morgue as his home when speaking to his wife.

  Gertrude Asseli stomped up to them, with a scared looking Piedro trailing behind. “You will hear from me, Commissario.”

  Garini made her a little bow. “I am looking forward to it, Signora.” He turned back to the victim's wallet in his hands. Maybe he could find out where he had stayed in Florence. A wad of receipts filled the second compartment, and Stefano took them out and held them at an angle, so he could see the print on the flimsy paper. From the look of it, the American had created the annual high volume of Christmas business for the industry of Florence single-handedly. Louis Vuitton, Ferragamo, Dior, Boss . . . The American had spent astonishing sums with machine-gun-like speed. The latest receipt was from 11.27 AM. Stefano frowned and lifted his head. “Search the church, Piedro. He must have had shopping bags with him.” Once again, he returned to the wallet. One receipt was crumpled and had gotten stuck inside. He pulled it out with care and smoothed it. The Temptation logo jumped off the paper and froze him. This morning, at 09.48 AM, the victim had been in touch with Carlina. Damn.

  “Em, excuse me?” Padre Belli appeared next to him and hovered like a sad-looking crow.

  “Yes, padre?”

  The padre wrung his hands. “I . . . when will you take the . . . the body away?”

  “Within the next hour.” Stefano looked up. “We're almost done here.”

  Padre Belli nodded. “That's good. We have to prepare for the choir lessons soon, and I don't want to keep people waiting.” He turned aside.

  “One moment, please.” Garini said.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know the victim?”

  Padre Belli's gaze fluttered to the dead man's face for the fraction of a second. His mouth twisted. “I . . . I find it hard to tell.”

  “His name was Trevor Accanto. He was American.”

  The padre shook his head. “No, my son.” He seemed relieved. “I did not know this man.”

  “And yet, he came here to pray.”

  Padre Belli shrugged. “That happens all the time. Tourists come to admire the building, and quite a few of them stop and pray for some moments. I think it's important to have an open church, to allow people easy access to God. The Church has to be here, for the people.” He said it with a slight vehemence in his voice, as if he had had to defend this point of view often in the past. Then he looked at the floor, and his shoulders drooped. “Though I did not think a murder would happen here - ever. How can people do such a thing in the very presence of God?”

  Garini preferred not to answer that question. “Did you know Signor Morin or Signora Asseli before?”

  “No.” The padre shook his head. “As I said, we often have tourists stepping in for a short time.”

  “Did anything about them strike you as unusual? Did they say anything out of the ordinary?”

  The padre lifted his thin shoulders. “No. They did not like each other, but then, why should they?”

  Why, indeed. Garini decided to change track. “Can you tell me why you're so nervous?”

  The padre gave a start. “Me? I'm nervous?” His hand continued to pluck at the sleeve of his cassock in an unconscious movement.

  “Decidedly.”

  Padre Belli swallowed so hard that his Adam's apple moved visibly. “Well, I . . . I wonder if the murder has desecrated our church. I will have to talk to the bishop and get information.”

  “It's not the first time that murder was done inside a church.” Garini said without inflection.

  Startled eyes flew to his face. “What do you mean, my son?”

  “I'm sure there's an established procedure.”

  The padre's nervous fingers relaxed. “Oh, do you think so? It would speed up things. I've been wondering, with Christmas only one week away, if we can continue to use the church as always . . . “ He looked at the body on the floor. Sorrow combined with pity etched lines onto his kind face. “It's not right to kill, my son. Find the murderer.”

  “I will.”

  Garini turned away. He was inclined to believe that pure chance had led the padre and the two tourists to the scene of crime. First of all, he had to learn more about the victim and the people who were close to him.

  “I could not find any shopping bags anywhere.” Piedro appeared from the dark. “Maybe they were stolen?”

  Garini frowned. “But why kill the man on top of that?”

  “Maybe the victim saw the thief taking the bags, and the victim grabbed him, and there was a fight, and--” Piedro sounded excited as he colored in the details.

  “Piedro.” Garini made sure his voice remained even. “Don't invent an exciting story without any basis whatsoever. From the position of the victim, it is clear that he was strangled from behind. If you are busy stealing several shopping bags and are being attacked by the owner, is it likely that you take the time to pull out of a pair of nylons, dance around him and strangle him from behind?”

  Piedro frowned. “No.”

  “Exactly. If you want to solve a murder, every puzzle piece has to fit. You can't re-shape them to make them fit, just because they would go beautifully with your pet theory.”

  Piedro sighed. “But what happened to the bags?”

  “We'll find out. There has to be a solution.”

  Chapter 3

  Stefano Garini hurried through the frosted glass doors of the luxurious Garibaldi Hotel and took a deep breath. The warm air inside the magnificent lobby smelled of flowers and perfume. The big chandelier high up in the center of the hall glistened. Its light was reflected in hundreds of dark-red Christmas balls decorating the magnificent Christmas-tree to his right.

  Stefano's shoulders relaxed. Of course a man like Trevor Accanto would stay in the Garibaldi Hotel. Where else? And how lucky for him because he would not have to deal with some suspicious hotel owner but his old friend Peter. He crossed the lobby with care. The ancient mosaic beneath his feet filled him with reverence. At least some things produced by humankind were beautiful. When he reached the reception desk, he smiled. “Buongiorno, Anna.”

  “Stefano!” The dark-haired woman with the stylish bob held out both her arms and kissed his cheeks. “How wonderful to see you!” She spoke Italian with an American accent.

  “How is little Linda?” he asked.

  Anna smiled. “Cheeky and chaotic. She has taken after her father.”

  He laughed. “And where is Peter?”

  “In his den.” Anna inclined her head toward the door behind the reception. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  His smile faded. “It's not good news, I'm afraid. One of your guests got himself murdered.”

  Anna blanched.

  “Don't worry. It's got nothing to do with you.”

  She swallowed. “Who is it?”

  “Trevor Accanto.”

  Her gray eyes widened. “Oh, my.”

  “You don't sound too surprised.”

  Anna took a deep breath. “I . . . I'm shocked.”

  He leaned against the reception desk. “Yes, but not surprised. Why not? What can you tell me about him?”

  Anna looked over his shoulder into the vast lobby. “I don't think we should discuss this here. The guests might overhear us.” She stepped aside. “You'd best go in and talk to Peter directly.”

  He didn't take his gaze off her. “Anna. Relax. He was strangled at the Basilica Santa Trìnita today, and I have to find the murderer. I do not believe for one second that it had anything to do with you or Peter.”

  She lifted her thin shoulders. “I know. I just can't help remember
ing--”

  He touched her arm. “That was years ago. If you know anything, you have to tell me.”

  Again, she looked beyond him into the lobby and lowered her voice. “Trevor Accanto was a rich American with Italian antecedents. He came to Florence every Christmas.”

  He frowned. “Why Christmas, when it's cold and uncomfortable? Why not summer?”

  She shook her head. “I don't know.” She swallowed. “Every time, he was accompanied by a lady. A beautiful lady.”

  “What was her name?”

  Anna sighed. “You got me wrong. It wasn't one lady. It was a different one every year. Every single one was stunning . . . but they never signed the guest book.”

  He took a deep breath. “So you're telling me I have to deal with dozens of beautiful and unknown ladies as suspects?”

  Anna nodded. “I'm afraid so.”

  He fought the feeling of being overwhelmed. “What happened to the ladies when he left?”

  Anna shrugged. “They disappeared, too. All but one.”

  “Yes?”

  “It was last year. She was French, I believe. He called her Suzanne. When he had left, she came back and tried to trick us into revealing his home address in the States.” Her face twisted. “We couldn't tell her anything, of course. I felt so sorry for her.” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice even more.

  Garini bent forward to understand her low murmur.

  “Then she tried to break into the office.” Anna looked at her fingers. “Peter caught her.”

  Stefano frowned. “Why didn't you go to the police? You never even mentioned--”

  She shook her head. “We discussed it, but we felt it wouldn't help.” She took another deep breath. “Ever since, I've had a hard time being friendly to Mr. Accanto. He was quite ruthless when he wanted to drop a woman, you know.” She shrugged. “A ruthless charmer.”

  “Have you ever seen her again, that Frenchwoman called Suzanne?”

  “No.” Anna shook her head again. “I've been afraid that she might come back this Christmas to make a big scene, but fortunately, she hasn't shown up.”

  “I see.” Stefano straightened. “Thank you, Anna. I'll talk to Peter now.”