Peril at the Pellicano Hotel

by Adriana Licio

  “Did no one notice anything wrong with her during dinner?” Dr Gimondi said.

  Dr Siringa shook his head gravely. “Brigadiere Rossi mentioned something about the guests thinking she was under the weather, but they didn’t think it was related to her allergy. And the fact the woman didn’t even try to reach for her EpiPen makes me wonder if her death wasn’t due to something more sudden, such as a cardiac arrest. I guess we need to wait for the post-mortem results.”

  “What about the time of death?” the MD asked.

  “From the body’s condition, I’d say between 11 and 12pm, maybe slightly earlier. That would fit with what the waiter said: that the writers’ group finished dinner around 10pm.”

  “And most allergic reactions occur within an hour,” Dr Gimondi completed his friend’s thoughts.

  “I imagine she was taken suddenly and violently ill, giving her no time to react or call for help.”

  “Maybe she dozed off. She had been drinking, so maybe she was tired after the trip. Trying to work on a manuscript at that time of day may be more conducive to sleep than efficiency.”

  “That would explain quite a few things. Perhaps she fell asleep, and when she woke up, she was in the middle of a crisis, her throat already blocked, her body in hypoperfusion and her heart close to collapse.”

  “Also, with the noise coming from the rough seas and the storm, there’s a chance that anyone at reception wouldn’t have been able to hear her distress, even if she had managed to scream.”

  “The only other strange detail is the broken glass that had contained red wine,” Dr Siringa said. “If she had been drinking and was taken ill all of a sudden, we’re back to the heart attack hypothesis. She let the glass go and fell on top of it. But if it was anaphylactic shock, she certainly wouldn’t have been holding a glass of wine.”

  “Maybe the glass was on the table, and in the frenzy of the attack, she knocked it over.”

  “That’s a reasonable assumption, at least until we have the full post-mortem results, with a report from the victim’s MD and the forensic observations from both the kitchen and the place of death.”

  “That will give you a full picture of the case and rule out – or not – anaphylactic shock.”

  “Exactly.” Dr Siringa sighed, putting away his notes. “But whatever the case, it’s such a pity. She was a beautiful woman.”

  The other man was nodding when Doctor Siringa called out.

  “Excuse me, madam, where do you think you’re going?”

  Giò recognised the voice that replied immediately. It was Mrs Galli.

  “I’m going to sit and watch the fish in the aquarium.”

  “The aquarium?”

  “Yes, it soothes my nerves and inspires my imagination.”

  “I see. But the restaurant has been cordoned off by the carabinieri, only authorised people can go inside. Both this and the outside doors have been locked.”

  Mrs Galli had moved away from the door to the restaurant and Giò saw her stand beside the table where the two men were sitting. “That’s a pity,” she said, “as I get a great deal of satisfaction from watching what goes on inside the aquarium. It allows my thoughts to wander, which is when I get the best ideas and clear my mind.”

  “Are you one of the writers here for the retreat?” Dr Siringa asked, his voice more polite than curious.

  “Oh no, I work for real publishing houses, great names in the industry. Nothing to do with those self-publishing charlatans.”

  “I see,” said Dr Siringa, although he looked as though he wasn’t sure he really understood what the woman meant.

  “And you’re an MD?” Mrs Galli asked, looking down at the younger man.

  “Yes, I’m in Maratea visiting my friend, Dr Siringa, and as we had dinner here yesterday, I decided to accompany him when he was called out on duty this morning.”

  “I won’t disturb you any more now – I see the carabinieri are coming back – but I might need some medical advice while I’m here. Can I have your card?”

  The MD pulled out his card somewhat reluctantly and handed it to the woman, who smiled at him.

  “You will hear from me soon. Bye-bye for now.”

  As she disappeared, Giò heard Dr Siringa teasing his friend. “You’ve made quite an impression on her.”

  The other man just shook his head.

  By 8pm, the hotel hall was filled with the writers. At first they were shy and reserved, but before long they were chattering and joking. If it hadn’t been for Strazio, the carabiniere who was still patrolling the place, no one would have suspected that Death had passed by so recently.

  “That’s all of us,” said Annika, counting them. “I’d say it’s time to go to the Veliero Hotel for our dinner.”

  “Such a pity,” sighed Giò. “I loved our restaurant by the sea.”

  Valentina nodded; she felt just the same.

  “At least we should get fresh, tasty food,” Francesco tried to cheer them up. “I’ve read good reviews of the Veliero on TripAdvisor.”

  They all moved outside. The wind had calmed down, but the air was still damp and the intense smell of the sea was everywhere.

  “How about tomorrow’s weather?” asked Vittoria.

  “Still a bit cloudy, but little or no rain, and from Monday the sun should be shining,” Francesco replied, smiling at her.

  “Finally!” said Vittoria, sliding her arm through his. He flushed with pleasure, glancing shyly at his disapproving mother.

  “Yes, we’ve all come to Maratea to enjoy the sunny side of the Mediterranean,” Annika commented.

  “Giò has not been a good host in this respect,” Guido said in mock disapproval. Giò protested, but the others all laughed at her.

  “Come on, old grump,” said Guido, imitating Vittoria and linking arms with her. “Let’s go.”

  Giò tried to hide the gulp as her throat tightened. Guido felt her stiffening.

  “Are you OK?”

  “It’s just the cold air,” she replied, grateful for the chilly weather giving her the perfect cover for her discomfort.

  They had taken their seats in the restaurant and given their order. The waiter offered them white pizza with garlic, olive oil and oregano to accompany some home-made local cheese as they were waiting for the main dishes to arrive. Alberto approved of the Aglianico Red that was served.

  “It will warm us up,” he said, taking a careful sip, “despite the cold weather.”

  “So, while we wait for our food to come, would you mind if we did a quick round-up of how everyone’s writing day went? I hope the interviews with the carabinieri weren’t too much of a disruption. Or the… other thing.”

  For the first time since Giò had met Annika, it seemed like she was stumbling over her words.

  “Really,” she went on, “I didn’t know whether to encourage you to carry on with your projects or not. Maybe today we should have abstained from writing.”

  “Why?” said Erminia icily. “We’re all professionals, we know life gets in the way, but we still have to keep to our deadlines. As in any other job.”

  “What else could we have done?” said Guido. “We were stuck in the hotel with nowhere to go. For my part, I got on with my project and had a most satisfactory day. The words kept flowing.”

  “Not too many words down for me,” Alberto said. “But I’m always slow when I start a new project. Besides, I have worked on my outline and I hope that might stimulate more productivity in the next few days.”

  “Our hotel,” said Vittoria, leaning her elbows on the table and cupping her face between her fists, “and the whole setting is so very romantic – the storm outside, the cosy interior. Need I say more? My romance has been given a huge head start today.”

  Valentina shook her head. “Not good news from me, I’m afraid. I found the whole sequence of events a bit too much. I could neither write nor think about my story. At times, reality is so harsh, there’s no need to write fiction.”

&nb
sp; “Sequence of events?” asked Erminia, wringing her puffy hands. “There was just one event and that was Margherita having the temerity to die in the hotel we’d chosen for our retreat.”

  “No, there was a sequence.” Valentina’s eyes were half closed as if she was seeing it in her head. “The storm, the pouring rain, the howling wind, the raging sea. Then Margherita appeared when she was the last person we wanted to see. And all the things she said – she was rather harsh with us. Then we found her dead. No, I couldn’t write with all those thoughts, all those wrongs…”

  Vittoria took her sister’s hands and held them tight.

  Annika nodded. “You are right, Valentina, it’s been a tough day. We’ve had loads to cope with. I’m glad you shared your feelings with us.”

  She waited for Valentina to add more if she felt like it, but the woman just shrugged her shoulders and kept quiet.

  At that moment, Mrs Galli made her way into the Veliero Hotel’s restaurant. The waiter invited her to sit in the corner, but the woman asked for another table – one closer to the writers.

  “She wants to be closer to us? Maybe she feels lonely,” murmured Giò to Annika.

  “Do you think we should ask her to join us?” Annika asked.

  “We’ve just got rid of Margherita, now you want to unleash a new source of unpleasantness on us?” Vittoria said dryly.

  Guido burst into his trademark loud laughter, then lowered his voice and added softly, “We can’t say you don’t speak your mind, Vittoria. But yes, Annika, let her join us. It will add to the fun.”

  To everyone’s surprise, Mrs Galli accepted Annika’s invitation. As the woman sat down at their table, a fat black beetle happened to pass close to her feet. Mrs Galli got up instantly and placed the leg of her chair on the poor insect, then pressed down with all her might. Nobody particularly liked beetles, but the woman’s unexpected meanness left them all feeling somewhat dismayed.

  “No point in allowing useless beasts to live,” she said dryly.

  “Does that apply to humans as well?” asked Guido in his usual laid-back style.

  “There are some humans that don’t deserve to be called such.”

  “You’re joking!” Guido cried, banging his forehead with his right hand.

  “If you read the Bible, you’d know God himself had no pity on some creatures: ‘I will remove wild beasts from the land’. Some people don’t even deserve to be called creatures.”

  “While I’d agree with you that some people act appallingly,” said Alberto, “I’d be careful drawing a line between worthy and unworthy people. Every time human beings have declared themselves superior to other human beings, that’s when atrocities have started…”

  “Are you sure you’re not quoting from Nietzsche?” Simone asked Mrs Galli.

  “No, definitely the Bible. Leviticus.”

  My goodness, I thought she was a grumpy old woman, but in reality, she’s a monster, thought Giò. Annika’s eyes met hers, conveying that she felt the same.

  “‘One thing I said,’ said God, ‘and a thousand different things you heard,’” Alberto replied with a wry smile. “Or rather, you misunderstood.”

  Heads all around the table nodded in agreement.

  “Enough,” said Mrs Galli. “And you, young man, shouldn’t you be passing the wine around?” She held her glass out so that Guido could fill it.

  “To our health,” Alberto said, raising his glass and inviting all his companions to do the same. Mrs Galli drank her whole glassful in a single long gulp.

  “You mentioned working with publishing houses, are you an editor?” Simone asked her, hoping to switch the conversation on to a less contentious topic.

  Mrs Galli cast a long look all around the table, and then shook her head. “I’m not an editor, I’m a writer. A ghost writer.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Vittoria. “Did you ever write under your own name?”

  “I’m not looking for fortune and fame,” the woman replied bitterly. “I love writing for writing’s sake.”

  “They would have to pay me loads,” joked Guido, “to spend painful hours writing something in someone else’s name.”

  “Money will never reward me for what I put out. But as I said, I don’t believe in writing for money.”

  “Well, we try our best to put the two things together,” Annika said. “We love writing too, but if, at the end of the day, it doesn’t pay the bills, then we’ll have to do something else for a living. And that in turn leaves us with very little time for writing.”

  “Self-publishing isn’t writing at all. It’s just a form of marketing to steal money out of people’s pockets.”

  “I beg your pardon, but we put our hearts and souls into our books. If they didn’t resonate with our audiences, no one would buy them. They might be fooled into buying our first book, but they’d never stick with us. But our readers choose us, love what we’ve written and keep asking for more…”

  “Then they’re not cultured readers, they’d just buy anything with a nice cover.”

  Giò had had enough. “Well I wouldn’t call people who read a book when they don’t know who really wrote it very smart. Personally, I think ghost writing is far more misleading than being an indie author who has to work their way up from a complete unknown, conquering one reader at a time using only their writing skills.”

  The writers’ group all clapped their hands.

  “You understand nothing!” Mrs Galli said angrily. “You’ve no idea which authors I write for.”

  “Authors?” Vittoria said. “If they’re not writing, you can hardly call them authors. And you call what we do misleading?”

  “Well, I understand that celebrities often require a ghost writer,” Erminia said. “They don’t have the skills nor the time to write their stories. What I don’t understand is why they don’t state openly that they haven’t written their own books and let the readers know it’s a joint enterprise. The ghost writer could then have his or her share of the plaudits.”

  “That’s exactly what my clients don’t want: to share the limelight, the accolades, the applause. And the book wouldn’t sell as well without their famous name on the cover.”

  “And you call your readers cultured?” cried Vittoria.

  The two women were still glaring at each other when the waiter arrived to distribute the dishes.

  “Do you think the carabinieri will allow us back into our restaurant this week?” Simone asked, again trying to change the subject on to something safe. He disliked conflict of any kind.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” asked Mrs Galli.

  “I guess it all depends on what the forensic scientists find,” said Alberto. “Was Margherita’s death due to negligence on the part of the restaurant staff? Or was it a fatal mistake, a trace of fish in a dish you wouldn’t expect to find it in?”

  “I don’t think the restaurant staff are at fault for what happened to the silly woman,” Vittoria said.

  “Not knowingly, for sure,” Alberto continued. “But still, they were the ones preparing her food.”

  A satisfied grin appeared on Mrs Galli’s face. “So that’s what you believe, is it.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  Ignoring her, Erminia asked Alberto, “Do you mean the restaurant may be shut down for good?”

  “No, nothing that serious. If neither the forensics nor the health and hygiene institute find anything that could represent a danger to the general public, they will reopen the restaurant shortly. Then the legal process will decide who’s at fault. There’ll be no harm to the Hotel Pellicano if the owner and her staff are found to be blameless.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Annika. “I like it here, but our restaurant is super. I love the view from there – I can’t get enough of it.”

  Mrs Galli, after downing a few more glasses of wine, which she seemed to enjoy much more than the food, left before dessert was served. As she departed, she bent down and whispered something into Guido
’s ear.

  His face flushed, he replied in all seriousness, “I’ll give it some thought, thank you.”

  The rest of the company stared at him. As the cantankerous woman hobbled out of sight on her walking stick, they bombarded him with questions.

  “My goodness,” he admitted finally, pushing his chair away from the table and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, “I’m not particularly proud of this conquest. Mrs Galli just gave me her room number. Am I getting that old?”

  They all laughed.

  “I’m afraid you aren’t the only one on her radar,” Annika said. “I’ve seen her making advances on the receptionist.”

  “Don’t be jealous!” Simone smiled at Guido.

  “And there’s Dr Gimondi too,” added Giò. “I saw her asking him for his card this morning, pretending it was in case she needed to consult him about some medical condition. At the time I took it at face value – I thought she was really sick.”

  Guido banged his hand on the table with a loud “Ah!” and laughed in the infectious way that other folk couldn’t resist, not knowing if they were laughing at whatever had amused him or as a reaction to Guido’s response.

  “Are you hitting the Sambuca tonight?” Alberto asked him.

  “No, I’ll stick with a double espresso. I need to get some more work done.”

  “Tonight?” Vittoria asked. “Hasn’t it been a tiring enough day?”

  “I’m no early bird; I work better during the night.”

  The spoons tinged against the thin porcelain espresso cups, their sound almost drowned out by the group’s lively chatter and laughter.

  “Oh, I’m ever so sleepy.” Annika yawned languidly. “What do you say to calling it a night? It’s early for a Saturday, I know, but I suggest we have a writing sprint early tomorrow morning, and then go visit the centre of Maratea and stay there for lunch.”

  “Yahoo!” cried Guido, while all the others clapped their hands in approval.

  “Lovely idea,” said Vittoria, glad to see her sister finally smiling.

  “Giò, will you keep me company? I fancy a last cigarette before bed,” said Guido as they rose from the table.