Peril at the Pellicano Hotel

by Adriana Licio

  “I’m sure the carabinieri will confirm it was a sad accident, just an incredible coincidence that we should witness two sudden deaths during our retreat. But life will insist on happening while we are writing, so tonight, I want you to think about this: whatever goes on in your life, and the way you deal with things, will have an impact on your writing. Events shape us continuously, whether we’re aware of it or not.”

  They all nodded, including Guido who had only just joined them. He had been shooting by the light of the sunset and it had taken him a while to clear away all of his equipment.

  “You’re doing great,” he said to Annika, guessing she was speaking from the heart. “It’s not easy to lead a group through all of this. But as you said, as artists we shouldn’t shy away from troubled waters.”

  Simone clapped his hands. “You’re right, Guido. Three cheers for our Writers Retreat Leader.”

  They raised their glasses and thanked Annika, who rubbed her hands over her suspiciously watery eyes.

  “Thanks, guys, I needed that. And do you still want me to confirm the trip on the sailing boat I had planned for Friday? It’s our last day in Maratea.”

  “Of course! We need something to take our minds off doom and gloom,” said Vittoria, and Erminia nodded in approval.

  “Then I’ll ring them tomorrow, first thing in the morning,” Annika said, her puffy face finally breaking into a smile.

  Giò had given Guido a grateful look when he had encouraged Annika, but when he tried to approach her in the hall, she said she was too tired and all she wanted to do was to head back to her room. Not the most brilliant course of action for an aspiring sleuth, but she really was exhausted. Had she chosen to hang around with Guido, she could have asked him what he was doing wandering the hotel corridor at 4am, and also if he had been adopted as a child, but she couldn’t cope with any more revelations that day. She would wait until tomorrow.

  “Will you follow me?” His childlike question banged about in her head. She had no answer.

  27

  Questioning Is Hard

  Her phone rang while she was in the shower after another almost sleepless night. Should she let it ring? Maybe not.

  Giò got out, frantically patted down her body with a towel, and then took hold of her mobile.

  “Paolo, any news?”

  “Yes, I spoke to Dr Siringa.”

  “And?”

  “And he found some bruising on Mrs Galli’s neck.”

  “You mean she was strangled?” she asked in horror.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Then what?”

  “The most likely scenario is that she was knocked out by someone holding chloroform or some other sedative over her face, but further analyses should tell us more. In the meantime, the position of the bruises on her neck and around her mouth and nose supports our hypothesis…”

  “You mean,” said Giò, gulping in air and having to sit on her bed – it was one thing suspecting a murder, another having it confirmed, “someone knocked on her door, she let them in, and he or she sedated Mrs Galli, then injected her with an overdose of insulin?”

  “Very likely.”

  “So it has to be someone she knew.”

  “Maybe she invited the killer over, otherwise she might not have opened the door at all. I wasn’t sure whether to tell you this, but I wanted to warn you, if you see what I mean.”

  “I see,” she murmured.

  “But just in case it’s not completely clear, stop any sleuthing and leave the whole thing to us. We’re getting there.”

  “Sure,” Giò said, ending the call, her heart hammering furiously in her breast. The carabinieri were getting closer to the truth, but who were their suspects? She’d have to speak to Guido this morning; she couldn’t postpone it any longer.

  But when Giò joined the others at breakfast, one person was missing. Annika, recognising her disappointed look, told Giò what she knew.

  “I met Guido early this morning – he was going to take his drone to Maratea harbour, and he said he might stay there to get some writing done.”

  “You shouldn’t have told her until after she’d had her breakfast.” Erminia smiled at Giò. “Come here, poor kitten.”

  Giò felt more like a wildcat than a kitten.

  I should have asked him last night when I had the chance.

  “How about a cappuccino?” Erminia asked her.

  “And a cornetto?” Alberto added. In the few days they’d known her, the writers had become acquainted with her breakfast of choice. Giò mumbled her thanks as Erminia and Alberto returned from the buffet with a steamy cappuccino and a cornetto for her, but she simply couldn’t participate in any conversation.

  “Let’s go to our rooms,” Annika said after breakfast. “It’s going to be a long writing sprint this morning. The bar is open if you need a coffee or cappuccino, otherwise let’s not meet until lunch.”

  When the writers got up to leave, Giò was still pondering on her next course of action.

  “Why don’t you join him at the harbour?” Annika asked her as she picked up her bag to leave.

  “Maybe.” But Giò couldn’t deny her sense of hurt pride. He’d gone without inviting her. True, she’d not been that friendly the night before, but still… she wasn’t the one about to leave for a year-long trip. Her jaw stiffened, a sense of having been cheated – again! – taking possession of her.

  She decided she would go to her room and get some writing done – her project was just as important as his. They’d talk later, but in the meantime, she’d look for a chance to speak to Francesco and Simone and enquire whether either of them had been adopted. Or was the fact that Valentina was an adopted child, coupled with the destroyed manuscript, the lead she and Paolo had been searching for?

  More reluctantly than she would ever care to admit, Giò walked back to her room and opened her PC, only to fall into a deep sleep – the one she hadn’t managed for the past few nights.

  When Giò woke up, she couldn’t believe her eyes: 3.30pm. Not only had she skipped lunch, but she’d also not written a single word. She looked at her mobile.

  “Giò, should I be worried? Are you writing?” Annika had been texting her repeatedly, the last time only a few minutes ago.

  “I’m fine, just had a good writing spell.” Never mind Guido, lying was becoming second nature to Giò.

  Out on the balcony, kissed by the sun, the gentle breeze and the soft spring light, she was looking blankly at the view when movement to her left caught her attention. A bright orange car was pulling into the parking area. Guido was back. It was now or never.

  She grabbed her phone and downstairs she rushed. He was still busy unloading his equipment from the back of his car.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello.” Guido jumped slightly in surprise, but then a happy smile lit up his face.

  “I need to speak to you,” she said icily.

  “Now?”

  “If possible.”

  He looked at her with his typical cheeky expression, banged the car door closed, stamped his feet and brought his right hand to his forehead in a soldier’s salute.

  “Yes, O captain! My captain! Here?”

  She looked around. The terrace tables were all deserted; all the good writers had locked themselves in their rooms to avoid any distraction.

  “Yes, here,” she said. Poker faced, she showed him to a table facing the sea, today as calm as a lake.

  “So, have you made your decision?” he whispered, any trace of cheekiness gone.

  “It’s not about that.”

  He smiled. “Then what is it about?”

  She went straight on the offensive. “What were you doing yesterday at 4am? I saw you walking in the hotel corridor.”

  He was dumbfounded. His mouth half-opened and his eyes were wide.

  “I went out to smoke a cigarette,” he replied slowly, as if pondering every single word that left his mouth.

  “You sai
d you only smoke two fags a day.”

  “I told you I have an emergency third cigarette allowance.” Something close to a smile flashed across his face. Not the right question.

  “You could have smoked on your balcony.”

  “I wanted to stretch my legs too,” he replied, the near smile vanishing. Time to deliver the next blow.

  “The concierge said you never left the hotel.”

  “No, of course, I went out using the back stairs on our floor.”

  “Isn’t the back door locked at night?”

  “No, it is only locked to outsiders, but you can open it from the inside.”

  “Then how did you get back in after your night wanderings?”

  He didn’t like her tone, she could tell, not a tiny bit. His jaw contracted, his lips pressed into a thin line. He was trying to hold her gaze, but she deliberately avoided falling into the trap.

  “I blocked the door. There’s a heavy ashtray nearby, and I used that to hold the door ajar.”

  “What about the security of the other people in the hotel?”

  “Not my best idea, I’ll give you that.”

  “You’ll give me that?” she repeated incredulously. “A woman has passed away, possibly murdered, and you can ‘give me that’ you left a door open, allowing anyone to get in?”

  “Does the timing coincide with Mrs Galli’s death?”

  “Correct.”

  “Oh my goodness, and are the carabinieri convinced she was murdered?”

  “Again, you’re correct.” She wouldn’t tell him the overdose could easily have been given to Mrs Galli earlier on as it was unlikely that it would have caused an instantaneous death. But she had to let him know the basics. Maybe now he’d tell the truth.

  Time for another blow.

  “Were you adopted as a child?”

  “How did you know?” he cried.

  “Who were your natural parents?” Giò pressed.

  “It was the classic story,” he murmured, dropping his eyes from hers for the first time. “My father left my mother after she got pregnant.”

  “And then?”

  “Since I was too much of a burden for her, I was left in care, until a respectable couple decided I was the puppy with the cutest face.”

  “You didn’t like your adoptive parents?”

  “Nope.” He raised his head. “In fact, I’m no longer in touch with them.”

  “And what was your real mother called?”

  “Why are you giving me the third degree about my childhood?” His lips were trembling with rage, his eyes shooting furious darts at her. “If I don’t pass the test, I’m not good enough, is that it? I thought it was between me and you, Giò Brando, but if you want to know my entire history before you commit, then it’s better we stop it here and now. I don’t have a nice, heartwarming story to tell; it’s a damn hard past, and I really don’t need your pity.”

  He leapt to his feet, turned his back on her and stormed off, leaving Giò flabbergasted.

  28

  Aquarium Therapy

  Giò remained sitting at the table, shocked. How ironic that just as she’d been thinking Valentina might be the killer and all she had to do was provoke Guido out of his lies and omissions, he’d revealed exactly what she hadn’t wanted to hear. He had been in the corridor at the time Mrs Galli had passed away. And he was not only an adopted child, but he had also clearly bottled up so much anger about his past.

  She had been wrong in another assumption: not all the other writers had been writing. Erminia and Vittoria were climbing the steps from the beach to the terrace. Giò didn’t want to speak to anybody right now; she looked around for a means of escape. Alberto was standing next to the main hotel door, so the entrance to the restaurant that gave directly onto the terrace seemed to be her only option.

  The restaurant was empty, no one around. The tables had already been laid for dinner, the pretty arched windows overlooking the sea and the mountains, but even on such a wonderfully sunny day as today, Giò could appreciate neither the view nor the invigorating smell of the sea coming through the open windows.

  What was happening to her world? She had striven to get closer to the truth, but she had never really believed that Guido could be guilty. The case against Valentina had seemed to be building.

  Giò sat on a nearby chair. She couldn’t stay on her feet; the whole floor seemed to dance around her as if she was on a sailing boat riding the wild sea. Determined not to look at the view, she turned to face the aquarium next to the inner wall of the restaurant.

  Valentina? To tell the truth, Giò had never thought she could be the killer either. She seemed to have a split personality: on one side, sensitive and humorous; on the other side, a single-minded woman determined to defend her father’s reputation from being tainted by a monster. Valentina had loved her adoptive father, Guido had hated the couple who took him home. Two such similar yet opposite stories. But who was the real killer? Could either of them be Angela Fiore’s child?

  And why would Valentina or Guido kill Mrs Galli, too? Blackmailing was the answer that came immediately to her mind. As Paolo had said, the motive behind a second murder is generally that the killer feels exposed, that he or she is in danger. And the belligerent Augusta Galli wouldn’t keep it quiet; she’d undoubtedly let the murderer know what she knew. Then the murderer had reacted immediately and mercilessly. But was this second murder characteristic of the two suspects?

  Thinking was difficult now, keeping her emotions in check even more so. Giò found relief in the bubbles tickling the algae and rising to the surface of the aquarium. She looked at the lobster moving his tied claws slowly. Standing still in an almost meditative trance, all of a sudden she had the feeling that she was in just the right place.

  The aquarium and the blackmailing. Vittoria thought she’d heard Mrs Galli blackmailing someone; Giò couldn’t get that thought out of her mind. But what about the aquarium? Mrs Galli had said that looking at the aquarium soothed her. She had wanted to get into the restaurant when it should have been obvious even to her that she couldn’t gain access, that it was a crime scene.

  And blackmail? What if that had been the real blackmail, not what Vittoria had heard? And if Mrs Galli had been trying to pass on a message, Giò knew who it was for. Why had the murder occurred in Maratea and not during the previous retreat? Because the murderer had only discovered Margherita’s real identity that evening in the Pellicano Hotel’s restaurant. Before that, they didn’t know she had any connection with Maratea. And the weapon? How stupid – that was the weapon. It would leave no traces. Well, it would actually leave some traces, and that’s why the broken wine glass had proved so useful.

  These thoughts assaulted her in a swirl, one after the other, relentlessly. Even the mysterious visitor appearing around the time of the first murder, then again in the depths of the night when Augusta Galli was killed, fitted. A black jacket and white t-shirt – if you dress up in uniform, nobody will notice you, and in fact, the two witnesses had assumed the mystery person to be a waiter.

  Giò held on to the arms of her chair tightly. The truth was giving her vertigo. She had to call Paolo, soon, but she could only do this from the safety of her room. She couldn’t risk being overheard, but the trouble was her legs were as soft as melted butter and she couldn’t even entertain the thought of standing up.

  The inner restaurant door opened and Francesco entered the room.

  “Giò, what are you doing here?” he asked her in surprise, clearly having thought he’d find the place empty.

  “Just looking at the aquarium.”

  “It’s relaxing, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed.”

  They both looked at the lobster, who kept crawling from one side to the other, as if conscious of the people staring at him.

  “And why are you here?” Giò asked in turn.

  “Just trying to get away from Mother.” He flushed, before adding quickly, “I shouldn’t have said that…” />
  “Why not? We all love our parents, but sometimes they can be too much, especially when we’re with them for too long.”

  “On the other hand,” he murmured, “how can we leave them, especially when they’re getting older and need us more than ever?”

  “I’m sure you already know the answer – it’s the natural order of things. We need to live our own lives.”

  He took a chair and sat beside her.

  “I feel like algae, floating in the water, seething with rage as I long for freedom, but my roots have me stuck exactly where I am.”

  “Maybe it’s time for you to realise you’re more a fish than algae.”

  Giò smiled at him. The thought must have made an impression on him, because he looked at her as if considering the possibility for the first time in his life. His face contorted incredulously like he’d just had an injection of life, an overdose of adrenalin.

  Right on cue, the terrace door opened and Erminia appeared. Giò felt a frisson of anxiety travelling down her spine, vertebra by vertebra.

  All I need now is to be the reluctant witness to a mother-son duel. Nope, I’ve got better things to do.

  “Hello, Erminia,” she said. “Please take this seat. I’ll leave the two of you to have a nice chat – this aquarium is really inspiring.”

  Luckily, her legs didn’t betray her. She was outside the dangerous restaurant before either mother or son had time to stop her. Seconds later, she was in her room, calling Paolo.

  “Hello, I was just thinking of you,” he said cheerfully. “We have discovered who Angela’s child is. You will never believe it…”

  “And you’ll never believe this – I know exactly who the murderer is,” Giò cut him short, sharing her findings, then listening to Paolo’s news.

  “The problem is we don’t have a shred of proof,” Paolo concluded.

  “I thought of that. We’re having a boat trip along the coast tomorrow, it’s our last retreat day. I could speak to Valentina – after all, she might still have the manuscript, if you see what I mean?”