Memories of their happy life together popped up in her mind as if from nowhere. Their children’s birthdays; the Christmases together; the day they’d bought their own house, with its lovely patch of garden. Her roses; her lemon tree; her elderly neighbour wishing her ‘good things’ any time they met. How stupid she’d been! She wanted to sob and scream, but she was so mad at herself that no tears came to her eyes.
Then from the window, she saw a car climbing the hill. It looked like a four by four, but bigger than Sajad’s. The man with her rose and went outside, waiting.
Yes, it was Mean Eyes. He spoke English, so she could explain the mistake to him.
The man came in, looking taller and stronger than she had realised. She prayed he meant her no harm, and finally found the courage to address him.
“I assume you know you’ve got the wrong person. You wanted Karen, Liam’s wife. I’m not…”
“We know that, now. Liam has run away, his wife too, but since we’ve got you, we’ll see if we can use you as a bargaining tool to get back some of the money he took from us. The bastard!”
“How much has he taken from you?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“We traded some ancient Iranian jewels for modern gold. But the man gave me fool’s gold, and then thought that by joining a tourist tour, he’d be able to escape from me.”
“Which, in fact, he did.”
Mean Eyes cried out what had to be a swear word in Iranian or Russian, beating his huge fist on the table.
“The point now is, are you worth that much?” and he scrutinised her as if to assess her value by weight. Angelica gulped, feeling more and more uneasy every time their eyes locked. His stare was just too cold and inhuman. He was going to ask for a ransom to be paid in exchange for her freedom, but would the Iranian authorities do anything? Was it their policy to pay for the release of foreign tourists? Or would they get in touch with Rolando and ask him to pay? And the poor man – what could he do from this country? He wouldn’t be able to tap into his bank account without the authorities being involved. Even credit cards were just plastic here.
Mean Eyes was in front of her, ignoring the Iranian watchman, his stare fixed on her. Angelica trembled as the man got closer. Then all of a sudden, the door slammed open. Sajad pointed a gun at Mean Eyes and shouted at him in Iranian, possibly telling him to raise his arms. But the man wasn’t one to be taken by surprise. He jumped on Sajad, twisted his wrist, forcing him to let go of the gun, then kicked him so hard the man curled up on the floor in pain.
A strange instinct that she’d never experienced before made Angelica jump in front of Sajad, protecting him from the gun. Mean Eyes gestured at her to move out of the way.
“Oh no, please,” Angelica cried.
“Move away!” Mean Eyes yelled at her, his expression cool and detached, apart from a cruel little twitch at the corner of his mouth. Behind him, through the open door, she saw Rolando silently crawling on all fours. When he saw Angelica looking, he winked. How could that be? He was re-enacting a joke they’d played for their children when they were young.
Angelica moved towards Mean Eyes, as if begging him to spare Sajad. The man laughed at her and took a step back to train the gun on Sajad again. As Mean Eyes fell over Rolando, the man that Angelica had once thought so boring hit him on the chin, quick as lightning. When Mean Eyes tried to rise from the floor, he cried in pain and let the gun go.
But as Rolando bent to pick the weapon up, the Russian guy was on him. They rolled outside, grappling with one another, Angelica’s small husband fighting against this mountain of muscles. Angelica knew what she had to do. She picked up the gun, but the two men were too close to each other for her to use it – that was assuming she’d be able to fire it at all.
Inside the room, Sajad was still lying unconscious. The watchman was standing still, as if waiting to see what would happen. He clearly wasn’t intending to get involved in the fight.
Leaning against the wall outside was a shovel. That was just what she needed. Carefully, Angelica tucked the gun into her belt, hoping it wouldn’t go off, then without hesitation, she took the shovel and approached the two fighters. Mean Eyes was on top of her husband, lifting his right arm to knock Rolando out with a powerful blow.
But his fist would never make contact.
With all her strength, Angelica hit Mean Eyes, hard. The man collapsed, landing next to her husband. Rolando smiled at her as she handed him the gun – it felt white hot on her.
Sajad had recovered consciousness by now, and he helped Rolando to take the man inside the hut. He seized the handcuffs Mean Eyes had used on Angelica and chained him to the bed in the small room. The watchman was told to stay inside too.
“It will take a while for them to get free,” said Sajad, locking the door as the Russian slowly recovered, shouting all sorts of curses. “You take his car and follow mine to Qazvin. If we’re fast, they won’t catch us.”
He accompanied them to Mean Eyes’ jeep, took out his mobile phone, opened it and threw the battery away, keeping the rest. Then he handed the keys to Rolando before getting into his own four by four.
“Let’s go,” Rolando said, but before he got into the jeep, he gently took his wife’s face in his hands, whispered, “Thank goodness you’re safe,” and kissed her passionately. Angelica felt like she was plummeting into a deep abyss. Nothing mattered but the thrill of falling freely. She wished it could last forever, but he gently pushed her away.
“We need to go, my love.”
The journey back to Qazvin was a mad rush, the small road full of bends and potholes. Angelica remembered how carefully Sajad had driven along that very road on the way up. Who would ever have imagined that either he or Rolando could drive like demons?
Before leaving the Alamut Valley, they parked Mean Eyes’ car on a tiny road, concealed by a clump of trees. As they carried on with their journey in Sajad’s car, they discussed their next move.
“You mean, we’re not going to the police straight away?” asked Angelica in dismay.
Sajad shook his head. “I’d say it’d be better not to. You never know how they’ll take it – they might suspect you were the ones smuggling Iranian treasures out of the country. I’d avoid that, if I were you.”
“So what would you suggest?” asked Rolando.
“As soon as we get to my place, I will phone your flight company to see if you can get on the next flight home.”
Angelica felt better at the mere thought of being back home in Maratea.
A small entry door led to a spacious, bright living room. Sajad’s wife welcomed them in, offering Angelica a cup of tea and some delicious finger food as the two men went to make their calls. When they came back, Rolando explained their situation.
“Our airline company’s flights are fully booked, so we tried to buy tickets from other companies, but it seems they’re all booked up for the next few days.”
“My advice is to take some excursions, stay on the tourist routes. I’m pretty sure the Russian gang won’t be after you any longer; it’s Liam and his wife they want, and they won’t make the same mistake again. I can call a taxi to take you to Isfahan, which is on the other side of the country…”
Angelica waited for her husband to protest, but to her surprise, he nodded.
“Sounds like a good plan.”
“A good plan?” she asked, horrified. “But what if they want their revenge? Why don’t we stay in Tehran, as close as possible to the airport, and see if we can get a last-minute seat on a flight home?”
“Because there are no seats,” Rolando explained. “And if they are still interested in us, they will expect us to do just that. They’ll be looking for us in Tehran.”
As they parted company with faithful Sajad and his pretty, good-hearted wife, Rolando promised they would keep in touch and come back one day to trek from the Alamut Fort to the Caspian Sea. Who was this man, so bold and self-confident? Angelica wondered. For the umpteenth time since they
had arrived in Iran, she asked herself, how much did she really know about her husband? The only thing she had no doubt about was that she could trust him implicitly. Even after 24 years of marriage, she was still deeply in love with him.
25
Because The Past Matters
“Granny, Agnese, what are you doing here?” Giò asked.
“Gran asked me to accompany her,” Agnese explained, “as she wanted to speak to you.”
Granny nodded.
“But why did you ask me to meet you outside the hotel? Don’t you want to say hello to my friends?”
“Maybe later,” Granny replied, looking around herself. “For now, we’d be better sitting here,” and she pointed to one of the benches overlooking the beach and the sea. “We can see if anyone passes by.”
“You mean, my eavesdropping Granny doesn’t like to be overheard herself?”
Granny shook her head, a soft, indulgent smile on her lips. She wasn’t going to rise to her granddaughter’s provocation; she knew better than that.
“So, any news from the carabinieri?” she asked Giò.
“None really, except they acknowledge it’s likely to be a double murder.”
“Likely?” Granny said incredulously. “Do they still have doubts?”
“Well, I guess they can only say for definite once they have enough evidence.”
“Do you suspect anyone?”
“I don’t, but to balance things out, Paolo suspects them all, and that includes a conspiracy…”
“A conspiracy?” Agnese asked.
“Yes, as they all hated Margherita. Apparently every one of them had a reason to do her in, as well as an opportunity, so they may have agreed to lure her here, and then murder her.”
“I hope you’re joking, Giò,” Agnese said, shocked.
“Well, you know, we’re a team of writers. Murder on the Orient Express is a classic we’ve all read, and it looks as if everyone lied to the carabinieri during the first round of interviews…” And Giò shared what Paolo had told her, concluding cheerfully, “The good thing is that this time, I’m not a suspect. I’m the only one who didn’t know the victim, so I have no motive… except solidarity with the rest of the group.”
“Then you’re bound to be the villain,” Agnese laughed.
“Yes, the least likely suspect is always the murderer,” said Giò, nodding. But Granny had a serious expression on her face.
“I think you’re concentrating too much on the present. What if this has more to do with the past?”
“Well, Paolo and I both acknowledge that the bad feelings all stemmed from the previous retreat…”
“No, too recent. I was thinking of something that happened long ago.”
Giò looked at her in surprise. Granny replied in her own sweet time. She had always liked a touch of the theatrical, and acting – the pauses, the silences, building up the tension before revealing the bombshell – came naturally to her. Giò, all too familiar with her foibles, rolled her eyes. Agnese chuckled, enjoying both her granny’s teasing and her sister’s impatience.
Then, a split second before Giò exploded, Granny, eyes twinkling, finally spoke.
“When you told me about Margherita Durante, I started to think. Her name, her picture in the paper after her death, reminded me of someone, but I wasn’t able to place her at once. Then I realised she lived in Maratea long ago…”
“I knew that already, she told us.” Giò waved her hand as if to dismiss her granny’s words, but the old lady continued as if the interruption had never happened.
“I didn’t realise it was her at first because at the time, we knew her by her married name: Mrs De Santis.”
“But that was 30 plus years ago,” Agnese said.
“I’d say more like 40 years ago, but the thing is, before taking a fancy to Margherita and marrying her, Mr De Santis had a lover here in Maratea. And he left her for Margherita.”
“Do you mean,” asked Giò incredulously, “you suspect the rejected lover heard that Margherita had returned and decided to take her revenge, 40 years later? That’d be some grudge.”
“Love and passion have often been the motive behind murder. Also, Mr De Santis was extremely rich. I thought it could be an interesting lead.”
Giò shook her head. “Honestly, I can hardly see how this could have any bearing on the present.”
“Maybe it’s the link with Maratea,” Agnese suggested. “Why was Margherita killed, if she was murdered, here and not elsewhere?”
“Do you really think I should dig about in the past? It could take ages to do the necessary research…”
“Not that long,” Granny said with a triumphant smile. “Just the time it takes to drive 3 kilometres.”
“We’re visiting the cemetery?”
“No, Gerardina.”
Gerardina lived in the northern outskirts of Acquafredda, a few hundred metres from the local cemetery. Her evidence had proved crucial during Giò and Paolo’s first investigation, when a murder had been committed on the road not far from the woman’s house, but Giò could hardly see how she could help in this case.
“If I remember rightly,” Granny said, meaning she remembered perfectly well, “Gerardina worked as a house cleaner at Villa degli Incanti at the time.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Maratea is like an open-air library, thought Giò. You just have to hop from home to home to find out everything that happened in the community, even decades ago. She kissed Granny on the cheek – all of a sudden she loved this lead. It made her heart lighter, deflecting suspicion away from her writers’ retreat group. After all, hadn’t two people said they’d seen a mystery man in the hotel on the night of each death? How hard would it be for a woman to pass as a man if she wore a waiter’s uniform? Maybe the evidence that Paolo had so readily dismissed was worthy of attention after all.
To reach Gerardina’s house, Agnese’s car had to climb all the way up the steep road to Acquafredda village, glide under the railway bridge, stop at the only set of traffic lights in the whole of Maratea, and pass the food store where a couple of women, who were sitting outside, waved to them, they would spend the rest of the afternoon wondering where the Brando women were heading all together.
They drove past the only church in Acquafredda, whose red-tiled bell tower stood out against the greenery. Don Peppino, the priest, moved to the upper part of the churchyard to see exactly where Agnese parked her car. He observed the Brando women greeting Gerardina who, as usual, was sitting at her window. He watched as she beckoned them in, as the three women climbed the steps leading to the house amongst Barbary fig trees and cyan agaves. Don Peppino itched to know what they were talking about, but Mrs Rosa Brando could be rather edgy if she were in a bad mood. And she was far too knowledgeable about his little passion for gambling – safer to stay away from her. With a smile, he headed towards the food store instead. He knew he’d find good company there, especially when he shared his latest news.
Unobserved by Don Peppino, Gerardina greeted her guests with sincere happiness and strangely black hands. She kept the latter behind her back as she kissed them one by one on each cheek.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to go into the kitchen, I’m in the middle of making artichoke preserves. Can’t leave them as they are.”
“No problem,” Agnese smiled, “we can help if you wish.” She launched a meaningful look at Granny, silently warning her not to start quarrelling about the best recipes, favourite ingredients, family variations and modified quantities. Granny smiled back reassuringly.
“Agnese, if you don’t mind,” Gerardina said, “could you prepare the Moka pot? I’d better not touch anything but my artichokes with my hands in this state. I should have used rubber gloves, but I’m always afraid they’ll make my hands too numb to part the hard leaves from the soft ones.”
“Nothing like being able to feel them with your bare hands,” said Granny, looking at everything on the large ki
tchen table.
“I’ve saved a few hard leaves for my afternoon tea and for soups, but the rest will go on the compost.” Gerardina stripped one more artichoke from all its hard leaves, stopping only when she reached its soft heart. And even then, she cut away the thorny upper part, the stem. What was left wasn’t much larger than her thumb. She threw it in a bowl with water and plenty of lemon to keep the artichokes from browning.
So far, Granny approved wholeheartedly. Ignoring Giò and Agnese, the two old women entered into rapid-fire conversation, updating each other on what was going on among the 5,000 inhabitants of Maratea. It was surprising how quickly they went through the long list of names, not missing any of the juicy details. By the time the large Moka pot was gurgling, they had nearly exhausted their latest gossip and Gerardina was clearing all the leftovers from the table, dropping them in a bin of compostable waste.
“The coffee cups are there, and the sugar too, Agnese,” the woman said as she drained half the artichokes from the water and lemon bowl, making sure they didn’t retain too much liquid, and then threw them in a pot on the cooker, from which the pungent smell of boiling white wine and vinegar was coming. She stirred them gently and set a timer for nine minutes.
“I’ve got some barley coffee for me and you, Rosa,” she added. “It must still be warm as I had just turned it off when you arrived.”
“Don’t you worry, I’ll serve that as well,” Agnese reassured her.
“Giò, you’re so silent.” Gerardina smiled at her. “I expected you to be chirpy and happy – I heard there’s a good-looking man in your writers’ group.”
Giò felt her jaw dropping and crashing to the floor; she would never get used to people in Maratea knowing every detail of her life, almost before she knew about it herself.
Peril at the Pellicano Hotel Page 19