Peril at the Pellicano Hotel

by Adriana Licio

  He again waved dismissively. “Let me finish my crazy tale. At 11pm, Mrs Spilimbergo returned downstairs, after having accompanied her son to their room.”

  “She went to the restaurant?”

  “No, apparently this time she came down in the lift and asked the concierge for a glass of hot brandy to help her get some sleep. The discussion with her son had made her restless. They moved to the bar, and while she drank her brandy, she chatted with the concierge. As he washed her glass, she asked him who the waiter was who had just gone out. The concierge thought she must be slightly drunk as there was no waiter in the hotel at that time of night. Or she might have seen one of the guests and confused him with the waiter, or made up the story entirely.”

  “So we now have a mystery man?”

  “Indeed. This story has everything, and I’ve not finished yet.” Paolo again pointed to his notes.

  “More people going to speak to Margherita?” Giò pretended to be surprised, though she knew of at least one more person who had wanted to speak to the woman.

  “Correct. And not necessarily all different to the first bunch. By 2am, Valentina Valsecchi, having thought over and over what had happened, saw from her room that the lights were still on in the restaurant and decided she’d have one more try at begging Margherita not to ruin her father’s reputation. She went downstairs, and again the concierge didn’t see her as he was engrossed in his favourite soap opera. He only spotted her when she went back to her room.”

  “And what happened?”

  “She went in, but couldn’t see Margherita sitting at her table, so she rushed forward and saw her on the floor. She didn’t care whether the woman was dead or not; she just grabbed the manuscript lying on the table and left. She then called at Alberto’s room and asked him to dispose of the manuscript the next day. Alberto confirmed that he threw the manuscript into the sea early the next morning. In the meantime, he’d accompanied Valentina back to her room, but as he returned to his own room, he came face to face with his neighbour, Simone, coming from the end of the corridor where the stairs are situated.”

  “And what did Simone say?”

  “He was another of Margherita’s victims. The woman had bullied him as, to use his own words, he’s never been self-confident. Actually, she more or less destroyed him during the last retreat, and it came as a nasty shock to find her here on this one. He’d had trouble sleeping, seen the restaurant lights on, and decided to deal with her once and for all.”

  “Do you suspect he might have killed her?”

  “He says he found her alive, that she drove him mad, so he spoke his mind to her, then left.”

  “He saw her alive? What time was this?”

  “Just past 2am, say 2.10.”

  “But Dr Siringa said she’d died by midnight at the latest.”

  “Correct.”

  “So how’s it possible that Simone saw her alive, especially as two other witnesses say Margherita was dead by then?”

  “Two witnesses?” Paolo asked her.

  Holy cow! Giò wasn’t supposed to know about Annika.

  “I meant Valentina and… the medical evidence,” Giò stammered.

  He glared at her, unconvinced. “I told him that. He was adamant that Margherita was alive.”

  “Oh my goodness, what’d be the point of making such a statement if it weren’t true?”

  Paolo shook his head. “I’ve no idea. But I have half an idea that you know what I’m going to say next.”

  “Huh?”

  “Annika – your friend – was the last one to go into the restaurant that night, and she maintains that Margherita was ‘very dead’ when she saw her.”

  A long pause followed. Everything was a complete mess, and they’d only covered Margherita’s death. Paolo was looking at his notes, as if trying to make sense of them.

  She finally found the courage to speak. “Wow, so what are your conclusions?”

  “I haven’t come up with any conclusions. But Strazio made an interesting observation. He said how similar this case is to Murder on the Orient Express.”

  Giò thought it over. “You mean a conspiracy?”

  “Exactly. Every guest seems to have played his or her role. At first, they were all innocent, the death an accident or natural causes. Now the investigations have pointed to murder, they all look guilty. They all have motive, they all had opportunity.”

  “Well, not all of them. Just Valentina, Francesco, and maybe Guido and Simone.”

  “That’s not correct. Erminia would do anything to protect her son – what if she came down again unseen by the concierge? Alberto might have only given a heavily edited description of what really went on. I feel he’s in love with Valentina and, very much like her sister, Vittoria, would do anything to protect her. Just like you’re protecting Guido, and Annika is doing the same with Simone.”

  She ignored his dig at her. “You didn’t mention Vittoria’s statement at all, did you?”

  “If you want to know, to start with, she said her sister slept all night through and that she would have heard her going out of the room. When I told her we knew everything, she then tried to make her evaluation of the time Valentina had been missing from the room as short as possible: the smaller the window of opportunity, the more difficult it would be to kill someone.”

  “About that – how was Margherita killed?”

  “That we don’t know yet,” Paolo admitted, acknowledging it was the weakest point of his whole investigation. He got up, walked briskly along the southern side of the swimming pool, then returned and stood beside Giò, shaking his head. “If only people would tell the truth!”

  “Then we come to the second death,” Giò said softly. “Why did the killer strike again when he or she was so close to getting away with passing the first murder off as an accident?”

  “I’ve only got one answer to that: Augusta Galli knew something that compromised the killer. Maybe she was a blackmailer, as Vittoria thought, and was blackmailing the killer, or maybe the killer just knew that she knew and couldn’t take any risks, even if this meant raising the suspicion that Margherita’s death wasn’t an accident after all.”

  “Vittoria thought she heard Mrs Galli blackmailing someone. Maybe she was speaking to the killer – the person Erminia saw leaving the hotel that night.”

  “The outsider?” Paolo raised his eyebrows, his expression ironic. “That would be so convenient, wouldn’t it?”

  Giò didn’t rise to the challenge. “What about this second death?”

  “It seems much simpler, at least on the surface of it. The woman called Dr Gimondi at 6pm yesterday, saying she wasn’t feeling well, and she asked him to call on her at 7.30 this morning. Apparently during the night, she gave herself one shot too many of insulin, and that proved fatal, especially as it was combined with too much alcohol.”

  “So maybe it was a case of suicide. Maybe she felt guilty for killing Margherita. Did you check her phone? Maybe she spoke to Mimì Pecoriello and he told her that he wasn’t interested in using her to ghost write his book, plain and simple. She felt awful – she’d killed for nothing, and then…”

  “And then I checked her phone. She’d had no contact whatsoever with Mr Pecoriello, apparently.”

  “Oh! And what time did she die?”

  “Between 3.30 and 4.30.”

  Giò tried not to show that her heart was sinking. That was about the time she’d seen Guido wandering the corridor by torchlight. Was she deluding herself?

  “But we have a few anomalies in this death, too,” Paolo continued mercilessly. “Guido Gagliardi mentioned getting back to his room at midnight and seeing a waiter in the corridor, but at that time, the only member of staff in the hotel was the night concierge, who claimed that a) he never went upstairs and b) nobody came in from outside. So it again looks as if the people in your group are trying to create the idea of ‘an outsider’ being responsible. But both times, the concierge has contradicted their claims.”
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  “But the night Margherita died, it seems that if the concierge wasn’t dozing off, he was chatting with guests or watching his favourite soap opera. He’s hardly the most reliable of witnesses…” But in reality, she knew she was just speaking to buy herself time. Would she have to tell Paolo about Guido walking the hotel corridors at the worst possible time?

  “Or maybe that’s what your group wants us to think!”

  Giò shrugged, feeling her impatience growing. “It’s always difficult to make a point when someone has already jumped to conclusions.”

  “That’s not what I’ve done,” Paolo said seriously. “Anyway, at 7.30 this morning, Doctor Gimondi arrived. The cleaning staff arrived after 8am, but the kitchen staff weren’t here yet as they’d only planned to open the restaurant for dinner this evening, not breakfast or lunch. The chef also arrived after 8am. So apart from the mysterious waiter seen only by Gagliardi, no one else was in the hotel except the writers’ group.”

  “So someone walked into Mrs Galli’s room and killed her. Why would she open the door to one of us if she knew it was likely to be risky?”

  “From what I’ve heard, she liked younger men. Gagliardi seems to have been the one going back to his room at the right time. Maybe he stopped by just long enough to do her in.”

  “The woman died at 4am, not at midnight, you said.”

  “An insulin overdose doesn’t always cause instantaneous death. It depends on how large the overdose is and the reaction of the individual.”

  Oh my goodness, had Guido injected her, and then gone back later to make sure she was dead or finish her off? Impossible! Not Guido, the guy who loved nature, photography, beauty, art, travel so much…

  But it was clear that Guido had not mentioned his 4am stroll to the carabinieri. And she wouldn’t tell Paolo either, not before speaking to Guido. In any case, Paolo’s insinuations about the writers’ group were starting to get on her nerves.

  “Interestingly,” Paolo continued, “Gagliardi was also one of the last people to see Margherita the night she died.”

  “But you have at least two witnesses claiming they saw her alive after Guido had left her and gone upstairs!” Giò cried.

  “I know that, but on such a hectic night, it’s not difficult to believe that the concierge didn’t notice everyone’s movements. And you yourself said he’s not the most reliable witness. Maybe Gagliardi pretended to go to his room, but as soon as he’d seen Valentina coming back upstairs the first time, or maybe Francesco, he crept back and did Margherita in.”

  “That sounds like wishful thinking…”

  “Not so. Isn’t he the very guy who, as you mentioned last night, has a tendency not to speak the whole truth?”

  “But that was confidential information I shared with my friend Paolo! You can’t use it against me.”

  Giò had such a lost look on her face that Paolo felt miserable. But his frustration didn’t help his temper. As he rose from his chair, he let fly verbally.

  “Please in future, no more confidences. I don’t know how to deal with them as I’m supposed to be part of a murder investigation, and I’m not a priest, nor a counsellor.” He paused as if in doubt. “At least, not that I know of.”

  They stood in silence for a long while, each one’s anger simmering inside them, trying to avoid eye contact.

  “Let’s call it a day,” he said finally. “But this time, you need to listen to me and don’t even try to interrupt. Watch yourself. We have a killer on the loose and it looks very likely that he or she – or maybe they – is among your group of writers.”

  Giò headed for the beach, too tired to even pretend to think. She’d hardly even had three hours’ sleep the previous night, and all these doubts and findings, all these confessions… How she dreamed of peace and quiet. She walked aimlessly, her eyes fixed on a small group of seagulls in flight.

  “Giò,” a voice called from behind her.

  She started, then slowly turned to face him.

  “Please, Giò, will you stop running away from me?”

  “Huh?” She tilted her head, pretending not to understand. Then Guido was in front of her, resting his hands on her shoulders. She wanted to shrug him away, but stopped herself. She would act like an adult, tell him her thoughts. Actually, better to leave him to do the speaking first.

  “I’m sorry, I hope you don’t feel like I’m pestering you,” but she could tell he wasn’t embarrassed. He had the capacity she lacked to face all sorts of situations with confidence, almost a sense of impudence. “But maybe I wasn’t totally clear last night when I told you about my forthcoming trip.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got one more revelation?” She could be as sarcastic as Paolo if she wanted to, choosing her words carefully. “It might kill me.” But he didn’t react. Could he read the mess of feelings behind her angry facade? Scary thought.

  “I only want to make it clear that I’d love you to join me…” He hushed her before she could interrupt. “You remember how we felt when we were up on the mountain?” He was speaking in a low, passionate voice that made the hairs on Giò’s arms stand up. “And I’ve seen how you enjoy the way I shoot and edit my videos and all that weird sort of stuff. Giò, I’m sure you’d turn me into a more sensitive person. I’ve seen what you’re like, and you love travelling just as much as I do. We could go to places together.”

  “What are you suggesting?” asked Giò, half laughing, half trembling.

  “I’m suggesting you come with me for the entire trip.”

  He looked into her eyes so intently that she felt the abyss open under her feet, that dreadfully charming feeling of precipitation. She had no time to recover before he gently pulled her into his strong arms and kissed her, and it was more terribly wonderful than the first time. Giò had no barriers behind which to hide. And worse than that, she didn’t want any.

  24

  On The Run!

  When Angelica woke up, she was lying on a bed, a blanket covering her, sunlight filtering through a narrow slit. Her head ached, her body felt as if she had a hangover. It took her a while to remember what had happened.

  Kidnapped? Was this really happening to her?

  Her hands were free, so she tried to stand up – not an easy exercise. Her room, if you could call it a room, was just a few square metres, and of course the sturdy door was locked. She had just given it a shake when it opened and a man’s tanned face appeared. Behind his grey beard was a soothing smile.

  “Why are you keeping me here? What do you want from me?”

  He replied in a language she didn’t understand and pointed outside, clearly asking if she needed the toilet. She could see a square cabin – yes, she needed it. The man waited for her and was quick to seize her as soon as she emerged. Before she could even try to run away, his arm traced an arc around them as if showing her the view. She understood what he meant: there was nothing for miles, and she would probably die in the attempt or fall into a worse situation than the one she was already in. She clasped her hands together, asking for his help. The man’s face was sympathetic, nothing like the boxer, whom she now thought of as Mean Eyes, but he showed her back to her prison nonetheless. When he served her a cup of hot tea, even in her panicked state, that she could not refuse.

  She pleaded, she begged, but the man shook his head and locked the door, looking at the floor as he sipped his tea. Angelica realised she’d make better use of her time by thinking and observing. Although the room was small, it had the benefit of a window. Were there any roads she could spot from the hut? Any cars passing by, even in the distance?

  Iran was reputed to be a relatively safe place for tourists. The crime rate was low, so why was this happening to her? Then she remembered the bazaar. Some kind of transaction had taken place between Mean Eyes and Liam there. She remembered seeing Mean Eyes pick up a package, saying the deal was closed. What had gone wrong? Liam had been satisfied with his end of the deal, and Mean Eyes seemed satisfied at that time too. Had
he changed his mind? But then, if it was between the two of them, why was Mean Eyes taking it out on her?

  Then a frightening thought flashed through her brain.

  Mean Eyes had spotted her in the bazaar. Liam had said not to worry, it was his wife. But Karen had left by then, without Liam realising. Angelica had the same brown hair and eyes as Karen, was a similar height… a generic description could apply to either of them.

  There was no doubt about it. Mean Eyes had thought she was Liam’s wife.

  But what had happened at the campsite? Maybe Rolando and Sajad had gone to fetch wood and the kidnappers hadn’t realised that Liam wasn’t in the party? She didn’t even want to consider the possibility something bad had happened to them. Would they have told the police by now? How long would it take for them to pick up her trail? Iran was such a large country – would they ever find her?

  She tried once more to speak to her companion. “Liam no my husband. Me no Liam’s wife. Rolando! Rolando!”

  The man smiled and signalled to her to settle down. “OK,” he said, then went back to his tea and thoughts.

  She had to speak to Mean Eyes, clarify things. But there was no way she could make herself understood by this man. She had neither pen nor paper on which to draw faces, a car – anything to help him understand her request.

  She sat in quiet despair, her eyes fixed on the only bit of road she could see down in the valley. But there were no cars, no trucks, not even any shepherds. A painful thought crossed her mind: she’d felt frustrated in Maratea, but that world seemed so far away now. Her life had been happy – two affectionate children doing well, a loving husband, a pretty home, a quaint village, and yet she had felt miserable. She’d had heaven at her fingertips and she had dared to spit on it. This must be her punishment for having been so blind.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw their restaurant, the waitress handing her the rose and the tickets to Iran. Rolando’s face, wondering if he had done the right thing. She had made him feel so inadequate. If it hadn’t been for her stupidity, they would have been celebrating their anniversary in some safe place, perhaps a weekend in Prague or London, but no. She had thrown the fact that he was so dependable back in his face, and the situation she now found herself in served her right.