The Sudden Disappearance of the Worker Bees

by Serge Quadruppani

  Maybe I should wait until the wife is alone to approach her, he thought to himself. That way she’ll be more willing to give an interview. But no; Signorelli had insisted: “I want both of them—it’ll be a story that’ll run nationwide, I’m sure of it.” Fine, he thought, I’ll get up, I’ll walk over to them, and I’ll ask, boldly yet politely, if they might grant me a few minutes of their time for an interview. Let’s go, getting up now ... he repeated to himself, without moving a muscle. Then he averted his gaze, because the commissario was staring back at him.

  “Have you seen that guy who’s been eyeing us for a while?” Simona was saying to Marco. “How much you want to bet that he’s from the Services—a regional security agent?”

  “Aren’t you being a little paranoid?” Marco replied.

  “What, you think this story hasn’t gotten the Services’ attention? A guy’s body is found at the home of an ecologist along with a signature that says ‘The Worker Bee Revolution,’ and you think they’re not going to do anything?”

  “For starters, we don’t know for sure that it is a signature.”

  “You know very well that it is,” the commissario responded, lowering her voice. “When we entered, the sheet of paper was on the body—”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Yes, now that I think about it, I’m almost certain that I perceived . . . like a movement, something white moving next to the body when I stepped inside. I must have created a slight current of air that moved the sheet of paper away from it . . .”

  From the other side of the terrace, Felice observed the chief’s bewildered expression.

  “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

  “Because it’s a detail that just came to me now,” Simona said with conviction. Then she shook her head. “But it could be a posteriori autosuggestion . . . I don’t know.”

  “Fine, forget it,” Marco said seriously. “That Calabonda seems entirely competent to me, and it’s vital that our presence here not disturb him. I can already see all of the psychological complications—the policeman from a Podunk provincial town under the microscope of two big shots from Rome. The more we keep our distance the better it will be for everyone involved. We’re on vacation, and we’ve done our civic duty. There’s no reason for us to get mixed up in this case any more than we already have,” he concluded as he prepared to answer his phone, which was ringing.

  Seeing Marco with his cell phone glued to his ear, Giuseppe Felice told himself that the right moment had arrived. The couple’s conversation had been interrupted, and he’d be able to introduce himself as soon as the retired police chief’s phone call was finished.

  “This is Maresciallo Calabonda,” the carabiniere said into Marco’s ear. “I need to meet with your wife right away.”

  Marco frowned. Fuck, he thought. He must have found out that the paper was on the body somehow, and he wants to know how she failed to notice it.

  “You want to see Simona?” Marco asked, directing a grimace at the woman in question. “May I ask why?”

  “You know that I’m not obliged to answer that.”

  “That’s quite right, my friend and colleague. You’re not,” Marco conceded in a tone that was neutral enough to imply a threat.

  Calabonda let out an exasperated sigh, then said all in one breath:

  “She needs to explain how the bullet found in the head of the victim—who we’ve identified, by the way— how it’s possible that the gun from which this bullet was fired, according to the serial number, belongs to your wife.”

  Good, Felice thought as he watched the couple exchange puzzled and anxious words and gestures. Now I can head over there, before they get up—plus, it looks like there’s news.

  Come on, go! he ordered himself again as the two police officials got to their feet. I’m going, I’m going, he repeated to himself as they made their way toward the stairs that led to the hotel rooms. And he sat there, not moving an inch.

  CHAPTER 2

  ABOUT THIRTY MILES AS THE CROW flies from the police compound where Maresciallo Calabonda was sitting down with Simona and Marco Tavianello, Giovanni Minoncelli exited the Claudiana di Torre Pellice bookstore. Beyond the mountaintops whose peaks were still covered with unmelted snow—snow in which all of the valley’s toxic emissions, including bromate-based fire-proofing products, plasticizers containing phthalic acid, and other persistent organic pollutants, were stored— he walked across Piazza della Libertà, went back up Via Mazzini, and turned onto Via Falchi. Beyond the chaos of the rocks, icy streams, and mountain pastures from which cows looked down on the world with their sweet, fly-encircled, melancholy gazes, Minoncelli reached a group of ten or so people standing in front of an excellent wine shop. Most of them were men and women in their fifties. The majority of the men had beards, a handful of young people, including two pretty girls, sported various piercings, and they were all wearing bright colors and hiking shoes. The muscular Minoncelli, with curly blond hair and light blue eyes that stood out in his tan, handsome face, towered over all of them.

  “Everything OK?” he inquired in his deep, gravelly smoker’s voice. “Was anyone followed? Did everyone remove the batteries from their cell phones before leaving the house?”

  Nods of assent. Stiff smiles. One could sense a certain tension among the members of the group.

  “Let’s get moving,” said the beekeeper. “Quickly.”

  The party set off on foot, overtaking the sidewalk and spilling out into the street. But in that quiet hour of the morning, all that they encountered was a single car and one elderly woman being dragged along by her dog. The dog watched the small, silent, determined group in bewilderment, as its owner patiently waited for the animal to recommence yanking her forward. When they had passed the tall beige façade of the fortress of the Order of Saint Maurice, the little group turned onto a steep road and stopped in front of the gate of a villa. On the ground floor, wisteria heaped on top of a lattice sweetened the air all the way down to the street. In the outer wall next to the gate there was a little metal door. Minoncelli turned the handle and pushed, but the door resisted. A cluster of keys appeared in his hand; he stuck one in the keyhole and opened the door. Within a minute the little group was in the yard, and within two minutes they were inside the house. An alarm went off, but it stopped when someone cut a wire. On the second-floor balcony, above the lattice roof, a young woman and a scruffy young man put up a banner that read: WE’RE TAKING YOU OVER BECAUSE YOU’VE TAKEN OVER OUR LIVES. SACROPIANO = POISONER. SAVE THE BEES. And in smaller letters: ALPINE VALLEY BEEKEEPERS’ DEFENSE LEAGUE.

  In the large kitchen, a girl with various piercings opened the door of the enormous refrigerator, wondering if the instructions they’d been given to cause as little damage as possible applied to the food as well. She’d skipped breakfast and her stomach was growling, but she decided to restrain herself. As she walked back into the living room, where the owner’s taste for African art and textiles was readily apparent, she was relieved to see that someone had pulled a thermos full of coffee and some packets of cookies out of a backpack. Several bottles of water were also making the rounds from one corner of the room to the other, where each member of the group had claimed a seat among the rhinoceros-skin couches, armchairs upholstered in tan-colored fabrics bearing sketches of lions and gazelles, and sub-Saharan rugs. They all kept their voices down as Minoncelli, the only one still on his feet, returned the battery to his cell phone, put the SIM card in place, waited for the little device to restart, and dialed a number. The voices went silent when he said, “Fuck.” He looked up. “Felice’s phone went straight to voice mail, even though I told him we were going to make a move this morning.” Then he spoke into the phone: “Hello, Felice. This is Minoncelli. Right now our group is setting up to occupy the residence of Bertolazzi, the engineer, Sacropiano’s regional manager in Piedmont. We’ve decided to boycott his press conference in Turin and have come to deliver our message to him at his home, just
as Sacropiano comes to our homes to kill our bees. We’re also going to alert the national media, so if you want an exclusive, move your ass.”

  He ended the call and barked, “Let’s go! Now we’re going to call the others.”

  Six activists who had also restarted their cell phones joined him in calling Rai3, Televalli, and the other television networks, along with the Turin offices of every major daily newspaper and various news agencies. When they’d finished, there was a brief silence. A broad smile spread across Minoncelli’s horselike face.

  “Good. Now I’ll have the pleasure of alerting Calabonda.”

  He pulled the number up in his phone, dialed, and waited.

  “He’s not answering his phone and there’s no voice mail set up. I’ll call the barracks.”

  He redialed and spoke with someone at the main switchboard.

  “He’s busy? Tell him the call is from Minoncelli . . . Yes, this is him . . .” The beekeeper shot a sneer at his companions. “Guess my name opens a lot of doors down at police headquarters! . . . Yes, this is him. Yes. Turn myself in? Oh, definitely not, not right away, I assure you. No, I know what I’m saying. No, our group is occupying the home of Bertolazzi, the engineer, an associate of . . . what? Wait, what do you mean? No . . . no. No! Well, I’m obviously not up to speed—”

  Minoncelli had gone pale. The others watched, aware that something unexpected had happened, something that would undoubtedly interfere with the usual series of events: the police siege of the occupied property; the media statement; the rigorous questioning; the imprisonment; the arraignment; the prisoner’s release to the cheers of his companions; preparation for and media coverage of the upcoming trial.

  “Yes, OK,” Minoncelli said. “Of course I’ll come. There’s no point sending your thugs for me. Ah, yes, OK. OK. OK.”

  With every “OK” that Minoncelli directed at Maresciallo Calabonda, a whisper went up among the bee-defending comrades. They exchanged glances. When the conversation ended, a silence as heavy as lead fell over the room. A siren could be heard in the distance.

  “The carabinieri are coming for me,” he said at last. “I’m . . . they found a body at my house. They’ve identified it. It’s Bertolazzi.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Then a heavyset forty-something woman managed to say:

  “Bertolazzi’s body, at your house? How is that possible? Wasn’t he supposed to be at the press conference?”

  Minoncelli shook his head.

  “He was supposed to be, yes, but—well, I’ve told you everything that Calabonda told me. That’s all I know.”

  “But how did he die?” asked a bald man with a beard. “And at your house?”

  “I don’t know anything, I told you,” Minoncelli repeated, looking back at him with fear in his eyes. “I don’t know how he died, and I don’t know how he ended up at my house.”

  The sound of the siren got so loud that the police car seemed to be there in the room with them.

  * * *

  Extremely tall, thin as a rail, with a head too small for his lanky body, hollow cheeks hidden behind a beard, and tousled hair, Daniele Evangelisti looked like he was better suited to act in B-movies than to practice law. He ended the phone call and smirked in the direction of the Tavianellos, who sat on the other side of his desk.

  “That was Calabonda. He told me he found Minoncelli—or rather, Minoncelli called him to let him know that he and his accomplices had occupied Bertolazzi’s villa in Torre Pellice. In other words, forty miles from here.”

  “Which could mean that he wasn’t involved in the murder,” Simona suggested.

  The attorney lifted his long hands with the palms facing outward, then let them fall back into place, flat on the desk. The commissario found them attractive.

  “It’s possible,” he said. “But to return to the theft of your gun, Signora Commissario: you maintain that you took every necessary precaution and observed every regulation in place?”

  Simona sighed.

  “Yes. As I just explained to you, I’m required to carry a personal firearm at all times, both on account of my professional duties and because I’ve led several investigations on behalf of the National Antimafia Agency. I’d locked it up in a little lockbox, thinking there was no chance of running into any danger around here . . .”

  “And unfortunately, your impression was incorrect,” the attorney said. “As you can see, we have our share of crime here as well. Do you have any idea when the theft of the weapon could have occurred?”

  “As I told you, last night the lockbox was intact. It was only after Calabonda’s phone call that we returned to our room to find that it had been broken into.”

  “So this puts us at what time, roughly?”

  Simona shot a look at Marco, sitting rigidly in the chair next to hers. He shrugged. Those who knew him could have interpreted this to mean either “You’re going to have to answer that one yourself,” or “This thing is starting to drag on. When can we go eat?”

  “This morning we went out early, around seven thirty, to go for a walk along the river. After eating breakfast around nine thirty we got into our car to go to Minoncelli’s. If we take into account the time the murderer would have needed to get to Minoncelli’s house and kill Bertolazzi, I’d say he probably stole the gun between seven thirty and nine at the latest. Maybe he was watching us and entered our room right after we left. It didn’t look to me like the door had been forced, but that kind of lock isn’t difficult to get open . . .”

  Marco scowled at Simona. He knew that tone well, recognized the intensity with which his wife spoke those words. It was painfully clear that she was starting to become invested in the case. Not good. He decided to intervene.

  “I suppose it would be best for us to stay away from our room as long as is necessary for Forensics to complete their survey. We’ll leave it to you for the entire day. It’ll be our last chance to explore this magnificent place. Our time here is up. That is, so long as you’re not asking us to prolong our stay?” he inquired in a vaguely combative tone.

  Evangelisti lifted his hands again with the backs facing outward, his elbows on the desk, and his eyes looking skyward, a gesture that made him look like a bishop.

  “Certainly not! Leave your cell phone numbers with us, so that we can call you if necessary. It’s just that . . .”

  “Yes?” asked Simona.

  “I regret that you won’t be staying longer. I would have enjoyed discussing developments in the case with you—informally, you understand,” he clarified, with a little smile that gave his unusual face a somewhat disquieting appearance. “I would have liked to have the opinion of two great members of the national police force. And I’m sure that Calabonda would have been happy to have the benefit of your insights.”

  “I don’t know,” Simona responded, under Marco’s scorching gaze. “We could always change our plans . . .”

  * * *

  The next morning, in a café far from the town center of San Giorgio al Monte, Simona gave a melancholy sigh as she thought back on the lunch at the mountain village osteria. It had been recommended to them by a National Antimafia Commission colleague from Turin, and from the moment they arrived Marco had been imagining it as the apotheosis of his discovery of Piedmontese cuisine. Neapolitan and proud, he regarded the food of the Bay of Naples far above anything existing elsewhere on the planet. Nevertheless, he was curious about “exotic” cuisines, which for him began just beyond Caserta, about twenty miles north of his home city. Yet neither the rosemary aroma of the lard in Cavour; nor the explosion of earthy fragrances in a seed and truffle salad; nor the rich, smooth succulence of the braised meat marinated in Barolo wine for eight days; nor the cheerful scent of violets wafting off the plaisentif cheese and mingling with the bouquet of that same delicate flower in a bottle of Barolo Fossati 2000; none of these things had succeeded in altering his expression, which remained as rigid as the marble at Pompeii. His conversation had been reduced to a
few monosyllabic words until, having finished scraping the last traces of bonèt from his and Simona’s plates, he made up his mind to say:

  “I’m guessing you’ll prolong your stay here to follow the case.”

  “Well . . .” Simona stammered. “We could maybe stay another two, three days, don’t you think? You wanted to see the murals in Usseaux, and go for a walk in Orsiera Rocciavrè Park, and the day after tomorrow there’s the herb festival in Perosa Argentina. We’ll be able to try this year’s wines . . .”

  Faced with this miserable attempt at a diversion, Marco was content simply to sneer in response.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll leave tomorrow as planned. I’ll keep your friend Michele company in the Aeolian Islands until you decide to honor us with your presence. I’m sure I won’t be able to take your place as far as he’s concerned, but we did put down a deposit for our stay there, in case you’d forgotten . . .”

  Simona didn’t try to persuade him otherwise; she knew that he was just as pigheaded as she was. This rams- with-their-horns-locked kind of stubbornness guaranteed something in their relationship that was very rare between people who love each other: true equality. It was a privilege that they paid for with episodes like this one.

  Back in the hotel after lunch, Marco had taken a long siesta on the terrace. When the Forensics team had given him back their room, he shut himself off to try to find the guitar chords for a new song that he had written called “Goodnight, Sadness,” in homage to his favorite French writer, Françoise Sagan.

  Simona returned to police headquarters to see Calabonda.

  “Do you have something new for me?” the maresciallo asked when she called to schedule another meeting.