Peril at the Pellicano Hotel

by Adriana Licio

  “Got it,” Paolo said. “I’m very sorry for what happened to your friend. Do you know who’s her next of kin?”

  They all shook their heads; Margherita had never spoken of her family, if she had any, apart from a legion of former husbands. And it was all too easy to lose track of them.

  “Then I hope you can help me with this. At what time did you leave the restaurant, and did any of you notice anything strange about Mrs Margherita Durante?”

  “I was the last one to leave,” said Guido. “Margherita and I talked and drank a couple of Sambucas together, then I left her at around half past ten. And no, I didn’t suspect anything was wrong with her…”

  “Well, that’s not strictly correct,” Erminia interrupted him. “A number of us noticed Margherita wasn’t her usual self. She seemed to be… how should I put it?”

  “Like someone who’s not well, but is doing her best to hide it,” Vittoria came to the rescue.

  “What made you think that?”

  “Well, it was the small details. She looked pale and tired, maybe her voice was not as firm as usual.”

  “Something was wrong with her,” Alberto continued, “but it’s difficult to put my finger on exactly what.”

  “So you didn’t suspect she was at risk of going into anaphylactic shock?”

  “Oh no, it wasn’t anything as obvious as that,” Erminia answered.

  “Would you all agree that there was something different about Margherita Durante last night?”

  Before anyone could speak, Giò gave her opinion.

  “I thought she seemed fine, but then, it was the first I’d met the woman, so I had no point of reference. But she looked well to me.”

  “Oh, she could be a good actress,” Alberto said.

  “Along with other things…” Erminia began. For once, it was Francesco who silenced her with a look, but Paolo hadn’t missed her words. He interrupted his scribbling to look up at her.

  “Other things like what?” he asked.

  “Well, she wasn’t a pleasant woman at all. I’m not saying I’m happy she died the way she did, but I’m not desperately sad either.”

  But Paolo didn’t seem interested. He turned his gaze towards Guido.

  “When you were having your chat with Mrs Durante, after all the others had left, were you still sitting at your dinner table?”

  “No, the waiter had come over to clean the table and set it up for breakfast. He asked us if we wouldn’t mind sitting at the next table, closer to the window – the one where we found her this morning. So we sat there for a couple of drinks.”

  “Why didn’t you move to the bar?”

  “I suggested that, but Margherita said she had a manuscript to read, and she liked the idea of sitting there with the sound of the sea. She asked the waiter if she could linger there, and he replied he’d tell the receptionist to switch off the lights later on when she was done.”

  “Did she complain of feeling dizzy or show any signs of distress?”

  “No. When I left, she was enthusing about her unusual working environment.”

  “And you left at what time?”

  “As I said, it must have been around 10.30.”

  “And did you go directly to your room?”

  “No, I stopped at reception and asked for a thermos of coffee to take upstairs.”

  “Did you meet any other guests on the way to your room?”

  Guido thought about it. “No. As I said, I only met with the receptionist, and when he came back with the coffee, I let him know that Margherita was still in the restaurant.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That the waiter had informed him and he’d leave the lights on until Mrs Durante was done.”

  “Any of you others see her after 10.30?”

  Before answering, Vittoria and Alberto looked at Valentina, Erminia at Francesco, Simone at Annika. Finally they all shook their heads.

  “Lucky it’s not murder or I’d be the suspect,” Guido joked.

  “If there was any negligence on the part of the restaurant staff in dealing with a known allergy,” Paolo’s face was grave, “it might well be considered murder.”

  Standing up from his chair, Brigadiere Rossi spoke formally to the group sitting in front of him.

  “Please stay in Maratea till the end of your retreat. You need to inform the carabinieri if you are leaving the area even temporarily as we might need to speak to you. Finally, I’m afraid we need to tape the hotel restaurant off for the next few days.”

  “But this will totally disrupt our schedule,” Annika said. “We were meant to have all our meals here to have more time for our writing.”

  “The owner has already contacted a nearby hotel. You’ll be able to take your meals just 200 metres from here.”

  As the brigadiere left, the group looked at each other.

  “Such a pity, I loved our restaurant,” Valentina said.

  “I know, dear, but at least that’s the last time that woman will upset our lives,” Erminia consoled her, patting her back.

  Excusing herself quietly, Giò followed Paolo along the corridor.

  “Paolo, wait. What’s happening? Why all these questions?”

  He turned towards her and spoke rather abruptly. “Giò, someone just died.”

  “I know, but that’s not our fault. She shouldn’t have been here in the first place.”

  “She liked to muddy the waters, didn’t she?”

  “I hardly knew her, but from what I heard and the little I saw, that’s exactly the impression I got.”

  He looked at her intensely, but didn’t reply.

  “So what’s on your mind?” she asked.

  “Nothing much, really, I just find it strange she didn’t even try to reach for the EpiPen in her bag, nor ask for help.”

  “Are you sure it was anaphylactic shock?”

  “That’s for the pathologist to say.”

  They had reached the other end of the corridor, next to the entrance to the restaurant, and Giò recognised the hotel owner talking to Maresciallo Mangiaboschi. He had his back to her, but Giò had no doubt it was him. His rugby-player’s figure and deep voice were unmistakeable.

  But the hotel owner, as small as she was, was not intimidated by him. “We’ve had guests with allergies staying before, attending weddings with 200+ guests, and nothing untoward has ever happened. All my staff have been fully trained…”

  “Maybe your chef…”

  “Maybe my chef nothing! She’s been with me for the past 15 years and she’s scrupulous about every single item of food – all ingredients, labels and possible contamination. She was informed of Mrs Durante’s allergy and passed the detail on to all her staff. Ask Giovanni, the waiter; he will tell you the instructions he received to deal with Mrs Durante’s food.”

  “But still she died.”

  “Maybe she had other health issues. Maybe she took a bite of food from the wrong dish. I don’t know, but we did all that we had to do to ensure her safety.”

  “That’s for the judges to decide, if it comes to it.” Mangiaboschi turned and spotted Paolo. “Where were you?” he asked gruffly. “The owner has arrived and you should have been here to take down her statement.”

  “I was interviewing the other guests. They also knew about Mrs Durante’s food allergy.” As the brigadiere moved forward, Giò followed in his footsteps, desperate to hide herself.

  “Who’s that behind you?”

  Paolo moved sideways and Giò emerged, her mouth already emitting a sigh.

  “The Brando woman? What’s she doing here?”

  Oh, anyone but Maresciallo Mangiaboschi, thought Giò. Saying their relationship had never been an easy one was an understatement.

  “As I told you, some of the hotel’s guests are holding a writers’ retreat,” Paolo replied.

  “I thought they were serious people…”

  “How dare you!” Giò cried.

  “How dare you stick your nose in carabinie
ri business all the time?” Then turning his gaze towards Paolo, Mangiaboschi asked, “Have you questioned her?”

  “Just finished.”

  “Do we have good reason to hold her?”

  “No, not really.” As used as he was to his superior’s brusque manner, Paolo was embarrassed by how rude he could be, not just with criminals or suspects, but with anyone who didn’t conform to his exacting standards – standards, as far as the brigadiere was concerned, that only the rich or the powerful met.

  “Then let her go, but keep an eye on her and don’t allow her to leave Maratea until we’ve solved the case. Now let’s look at the kitchen – the forensic team is already at work.”

  Mangiaboschi followed the hotel owner into the kitchen. Paolo had just enough time to whisper, “Go back to the others, I’ll speak to you later,” to Giò before his boss’s voice demanded that he’d better join him – now!

  8

  Voleur De Roses

  Agnese felt deflated as she looked at the long line of rejected lipsticks lying on the makeup shelf. How many were there? About twenty? They were all shades of coral, but apparently not one of them met the expectations of Romina.

  Sometimes it happened that a customer had something in mind that Agnese simply didn’t stock, but why was it that every time Romina came into her shop, it was always – and her mind stressed the word always – with a request that took well over an hour of her time, only to be fruitless? In the past five years, had Romina bought a single thing from her shop? Nope.

  Romina had just left and Agnese was still ruminating when a little man, wearing square spectacles almost as big as his face and a long raincoat that made his chubby body look even shorter, entered her shop.

  “Hello,” he whispered sheepishly.

  “Hello, is there any way I can help you today?”

  “Indeed, that’s what I hope,” he said, looking around with the pitiful expression of one who wouldn’t normally dare to enter such a feminine environment.

  “Yes?” said Agnese encouragingly. The man didn’t seem about to add any more words to his request.

  “I don’t know exactly how to put it…”

  Agnese tilted her head, wondering what was coming.

  “The thing is that our wedding anniversary is coming up and I still have no idea what to give to my wife.”

  Agnese sighed with relief. If that was all he needed, she had plenty of ideas. She showed the man the nicest of her necklaces, her set of travel perfumes in beautifully decorated little bottles, the silkiest of her scarves, some gift boxes filled with makeup items that would make any woman’s heart skip a beat in excitement. But each time, the man shook his head sadly, unconvinced.

  Is he going to be the second customer to leave my shop empty-handed and disappointed this morning? thought Agnese as she showed the man a set of luxury items for the bath and body care. But unlike Romina, who looked victorious every time she left, as if she took pleasure in showing Agnese how useless her shop was, the man wore an expression of quiet despair.

  Finally, shaking his head one last time, he got ready to leave.

  “I’m so very sorry to have taken up this much of your time, but I guess I’m on an impossible quest.”

  The palpable sadness emanating from the man made Agnese’s heart contract with sympathy.

  “I’m sure you will find something, there are so many shops around for you to try,” she encouraged him.

  “I don’t think so. I’ve been everywhere, but there simply doesn’t seem to be anything that’s good enough.”

  “Good enough for what?”

  “Good enough to keep my wife, I’m losing her.”

  “Oh my goodness, is she sick?”

  “Oh no, not at all. She’s simply bored, tired of me…”

  “But that’s wonderful!” cried Agnese in relief. The man looked at her in amazement. “I mean, if she’s not sick, there are plenty of things you can do about it, believe me.”

  “On Tuesday, we celebrate our 24th anniversary. I will buy her something at the last minute, maybe some flowers, but I already know how disappointed she will be. I’ve been searching hard for ideas, but none have come to mind. She tells me I’m such a boring, unambitious man, but I love Maratea, our home, our garden, our kids phoning us in the evening or coming over during the holidays. But this is no longer enough for her, and I know it’s all my fault. I don’t know what else to do to make her happy…”

  The man was shocked at the words that had flowed unchecked out of his mouth. He had always kept his family affairs to himself, but he had been bottling up too much recently: all the sighs; all the contemptuous expressions on his beloved wife’s face; all the powerlessness he was feeling as he realised she was slipping away from him.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have burdened you with my troubles…”

  “Oh no, not at all,” Agnese reassured him. Whenever she was faced with a problem, she felt relieved. It was so hard to deal with the unknown, but finally she had recognised Angelica’s husband, she hadn’t seen him for so long. Even better, now she knew how to help him.

  “You go and sit there,” she directed him to the ebony table in the alcove and went to close her shop door, putting up the ‘Back Soon’ sign. She then sat in front of him and started her perfume session. The man followed all her instructions blindly, an anguished expression on his face.

  When Agnese finally turned the perfume table face up, she cried enthusiastically, “Voleur de Roses! Your preference for patchouli and roses has led you this far. There’s a bold man inside you.”

  The man looked after her in dismay as she went to fetch a bottle of perfume from one of her cabinets.

  “Hold out your wrist,” and she sprayed him generously with the musty, velvety fragrance. The man breathed in the scent, and then smiled at her.

  “This is a beautiful fragrance. But do you mean it’s for me, not for my wife?”

  “Indeed it is. Voleur de Roses is a French name, meaning ‘thief of roses’. I believe it represents those men who wouldn’t hesitate to steal a bunch of roses from a secluded garden to gift their woman with the rarest of flowers.”

  The man in his oversized raincoat looked at her incredulously.

  “But stealing is not a good thing, Mrs Fiorillo.”

  “Nope, it’s not a good thing, but sometimes women need something out of the ordinary, something once in a lifetime. There comes a moment in our life when we need to dare to do dangerous things, walk the unbeaten path. Keep this scent on all night long and let the fragrance inspire you.”

  The man paid for his fragrance. Trying to assume a dignified air, he stumbled over the belt of his raincoat just before he reached the door.

  Let us hope for the best, said Agnese to herself as the man finally managed to recover his equilibrium and leave the shop.

  9

  Too Happy At Dinner

  Once the brigadiere had left, the writers’ group had a light breakfast at the Pellicano’s bar, a simple cornetto and cappuccino. Later, Annika invited them to return to their rooms in order to get some writing done before an early lunch at the hotel nearby, encouraging them to do their best despite all the disruption.

  Giò had just reached her room when she realised she had left her notebook somewhere. She’d had it in her bag during the walk with Guido, then had pulled it out to write something in the breakfast room, and left it… on the breakfast table when she made her grisly discovery. Surely the carabinieri would not object to her retrieving it? After all, it wasn’t a piece of food, nor had it been there the evening before. No, it had definitely played no part in the crime – if crime it was – so she could at least ask the carabinieri if she could have it back.

  When the lift doors opened on the ground floor, there was no one at the reception desk, nor in the hotel hall. Giò went towards the restaurant. The door had been cordoned off, but there was nobody around to ask if she could enter. Maybe she’d find someone inside.

  With her typical
impetuousness, she reached for the door handle beyond the tape, but the door was locked. She gave it a couple of useless shakes.

  How stupid of me, all my notes are in there! Goodness knows when I’ll see them again.

  Her fingers were still holding on to the handle when she felt it turning. Somebody was coming out of the room.

  Before she had the time to think, she’d hidden behind a thick curtain, probably used to isolate the relaxation areas from the rest of the hall. She wasn’t in a hurry to encounter Mangiaboschi again, let alone ask him if she could fetch her notes.

  But it wasn’t Mangiaboschi who emerged. The door opened to reveal two men, one holding the tape up to allow them both to pass underneath it. She recognised Dr Siringa, and he was speaking to Dr Gimondi, the MD she had been introduced to the previous evening. Dr Siringa was inviting his companion to sit at the table just in front of Giò. From her hiding place, she was able to see Dr Siringa’s face, but the other man sat with his back to her.

  Dr Siringa pulled out his forms and wrote some notes, thinking out loud.

  “We’ll see if the autopsy finds any fish traces in her stomach, but it might be too small a quantity to detect.”

  “Maybe you’ll have better luck from the analysis of the ingredients in the kitchen.”

  Dr Siringa nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the case – some stock cube, sauce or salad dressing. Something that may look like an innocuous ingredient, but still contains traces of fish. We’ll also need her medical records.”

  “To find out if she has suffered from anaphylactic shock recently?”

  “Yes, and how severe any previous attacks were,” Dr Siringa said. “But I’d also like to know if she suffered from any other medical condition.”

  “You’re thinking her death might not be due to anaphylactic shock after all?”

  “It’s something I can’t rule out, especially as no one witnessed it.”