A Murder in Tuscany

by Christobel Kent

  ‘She doesn’t look the type. Not the weak type.’ Luisa turned to Giuli, angrily. ‘And why would that mean anything, why would she kill this – this Dottoressa Meadows, because her husband killed himself 3,000 kilometres away?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Giuli, staying calm: anger was Luisa’s way. If something upset her, if she felt guilty, if she found out she was wrong about anything – anger was her first response. With herself, although other people didn’t always see that.

  ‘We don’t know why he killed himself. But she was in a psychiatric unit for a week, it says here.’ Giuli could feel the tension through Luisa’s shoulder: she could feel it subside, just fractionally.

  ‘What should I do now?’ said Luisa eventually, still staring at the screen.

  ‘Do?’ said Giuli.

  ‘About Sandro.’ Luisa’s voice admitted defeat. ‘I can’t leave it like this. I’m going away tomorrow morning, whatever.’

  ‘Give me your mobile,’ said Giuli. Luisa handed it over, frowning. Giuli typed in the message: Michelle Connor hospitalized, she began.

  Luisa was still looking perplexed. ‘He’ll see it came from you,’ explained Giuli patiently. ‘It’s a start: he’ll know you’re trying to help.’

  Luisa had a piece of paper still in her hand, the information sheet on one of the other inmates – guests they called them, didn’t they? – of the Castello Orfeo: she’d stuck the Post-it note to it. She set the paper down but pulled off the pink sticky scrap, transferring it from one finger to another distractedly, twisting at her wedding ring with a thumb.

  ‘Talk to him,’ said Giuli. Impatiently Luisa jabbed the Post-it note back on to the computer screen, obscuring the face of one of the gawpers on the New York street.

  ‘And say what?’ Her voice was stifled, as if something was hurting her. ‘He’s busy. He’s on a job, you said it yourself. He might be too busy to talk to me.’ She leaned across and plucked her mobile back out of Giuli’s hands.

  ‘D’you think he’ll call back?’

  Giuli tugged the little pink square from the screen, minimized the page, opened the internet browser. Typed in Lonestar.

  ‘Not if he’s busy,’ she said. ‘So why don’t we get on and do some more digging for him? And if – when – we find out anything else, then you call him.’

  The screen filled with text: in the corner a cameo of a beautiful woman’s profile, Lonestar across it, and a long column, the most recent, posted a couple of months back. A review of some New Zealander’s paintings. Not particularly anonymous, thought Giuli. And text: the word ‘atrocious’ jumped out at her, next to an inset illustration of an abstract painting. ‘Puerile’, ‘imbecilic’, ‘idiotic’. She was surprised by how instantly recognizable insults seemed to be, in any language.

  ‘So how does this work, then,’ said Luisa, frowning at the screen, ‘this blog thing?’

  ‘Blogs are where you go to express your opinions, you can be anonymous, or not, or a bit of both. You can tell lies about people, insult them; the internet loves that,’ said Giuli. ‘But hold on.’

  Luisa waited, attentive.

  ‘Hold on. We need to be clever about this.’

  ‘Clever?’

  ‘We do a search,’ said Giuli, her curiosity quickening as she scanned the screen. ‘Put in the names. A word search. Her name – Lonestar – and the names of Sandro’s suspects. Yes?’

  Luisa nodded slowly. ‘Here?’ she said, moving the cursor to the box. Giuli nodded. And with two fingers Luisa began to type.

  The small, fierce woman with hands on hips stared at Sandro pugnaciously, like a guard dog. ‘Ginevra,’ said Cate faintly. ‘This is – ’ but Ginevra didn’t let her finish.

  ‘I know who he is,’ said Ginevra, her hostile stare unwavering. ‘The private detective from Florence. Because of him, my Mauro’s in hospital.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Sandro warily. ‘Because of me?’

  ‘Is he all right?’ asked Cate, sounding genuinely anxious.

  The little woman grunted, unmoving. ‘No thanks to anyone here,’ she said. ‘It’s too much. Where is the Trust? Mauro’s given his life to this place. His life. And since that damned woman turned up – ’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Sandro, his palms up and conciliatory. ‘He’s in good hands, I expect. At the hospital?’ Ginevra’s eyes were small, black and contemptuous. She said nothing. I wouldn’t have put it past the pair of them, thought Sandro, to get rid of her. But they didn’t have Orfeo’s mobile.

  ‘You can go to the hospital,’ Cate was saying to Ginevra, earnestly. ‘I can manage here.’

  ‘No way,’ said Ginevra. ‘They’ll get rid of me next, if I give them the chance. And Mauro’ll live.’ Folded her arms across her bolstered chest. Sandro looked at her with grudging admiration.

  At Sandro’s side and in an urgent undertone, Cate said to him, ‘We’d better get down to Michelle.’

  Sandro looked at her sidelong: he wasn’t sure about this. She was a good girl but he felt the need, suddenly, to be the one in that confined space with the suspect, asking the questions, just like the old days; no other voices whispering in his ear. Face to face.

  ‘Michelle?’ Nicki piped up. ‘We just saw her. Waiting outside Luca’s office. She’s talking to him.’

  ‘All right,’ said Sandro. Wondering what she would be doing there. ‘Look,’ he started, turning to Cate, only the old cook got there first.

  ‘And you, my lady,’ said Ginevra, ‘haven’t you got a job to do?’ He saw Cate stiffen at the cook’s tone.

  ‘I’ve been here all morning,’ she said quietly.

  Ginevra gave her a long considering look. ‘So you have,’ she said. ‘Looking after your precious guests.’ Paused, maliciously. ‘And did you happen to see your Tiziano Scarpa?’

  Sandro felt the change in Caterina even without looking at her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked stiffly. ‘Yes, I saw him. He was out early. I saw him talking to Michelle, they told me – ’ and then she stopped. ‘Why?’ she asked. Ginevra shrugged.

  ‘There was some funny noise coming from his room,’ Nicki confided, whispering.

  ‘Funny noise?’ Cate was pale.

  ‘Heard it when we parked the car, only when we knocked, there was no answer. I think he – ’

  But Cate was gone without waiting for her to finish, running out through the great door, tearing off her apron as she went, and the door banged behind her with a sonorous, echoing crash. And with Nicki gazing after Cate, Ginevra turned to look at Sandro with silent satisfaction.

  He stared back, refusing to be intimidated. ‘I expect you’re busy,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

  Sandro gave it a couple of minutes before leaving the room; between them these women were a Greek chorus he could live without. He was curious about Tiziano Scarpa, but Caterina knew how to handle herself. And Michelle Connor was in his sights now: he knew he couldn’t afford to look away.

  Coming around the great flank of the castle, Sandro could see his breath cloud in the air; the sky seemed even lower, even darker, and the tangle of trees even closer. There was movement at the window of Luca Gallo’s office: Sandro stood a moment on the gravel and looked up.

  The door at the foot of the stairs to the office was not locked, and Sandro went up slowly: he could hear voices. On the small landing he stopped and listened. ‘There are contracts,’ he heard Gallo say, pleading. ‘This is not – this is irregular, Ms Connor. You cannot simply – ’ and then he stopped, and Sandro held still, but it was too late. The door jerked open, and Gallo looked out.

  ‘You,’ he said, with grim resignation.

  ‘Me,’ said Sandro sadly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Michelle Connor was inside the room, in a shapeless grey sweatshirt, uncombed hair and tracksuit pants, standing by the window and watching him with an air of calm determination.

  ‘I need to talk to Signora Connor,’ Sandro said humbly. ‘I didn’t mean to i
nterrupt.’

  ‘Couldn’t it wait?’ said Luca wearily. ‘Did you have to come here? We – we are talking.’

  ‘I am afraid that it can’t wait,’ said Sandro, standing his ground. He felt a sweat bead on his forehead despite the cold and realized even the couple of glasses he’d drunk last night had been too many, and he’d gone to bed too late.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Michelle. ‘We’d finished.’

  Gallo looked at his feet, but she didn’t move.

  ‘We can talk here as well as anywhere,’ she said, holding Sandro’s gaze boldly. ‘Can’t we?’

  Between them, ignored, Luca Gallo said, ‘I’ll just – I’ll get my – of course, do feel free to talk in here.’ He hurried to the desk, reaching for a small leather satchel. Sandro felt a spasm of pity for the man. ‘No,’ said Michelle Connor swiftly, ‘I’d like you to stay, Luca.’

  Both men looked at her, Gallo blinking in surprise. ‘I don’t have anything to hide,’ she said, her chin up. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  Sometimes it went like this, remembered Sandro: sometimes. Nothing to hide, nothing left to lose; Michelle Connor had no children, and her husband was dead. Was that it?

  ‘If you’re sure,’ said Sandro, stepping inside, pulling the door to behind him and standing in such a way as to block the exit. But from his position behind the desk it was Luca Gallo who looked trapped in the cluttered office, not Michelle Connor.

  In the window she remained standing, ready for a fight. ‘Say what you have to say,’ she said, and as she spoke Sandro was struck again by the ghost of Michelle Connor’s beauty in the worn face. It came into his head that somehow these were the traces of having been loved. Was that sentimental?

  ‘Because I’m leaving when you’re done,’ Michelle went on defiantly. ‘I’m packed and gone.’ Gallo’s shoulders dropped at the desk and Sandro guessed her leaving was what they had been talking about.

  ‘Signora Connor,’ Sandro said. ‘When did your husband die?’

  And he didn’t know what it was she had been expecting him to say, but he guessed not this. She paled abruptly, her eyes suddenly dark in her wide, lined face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to ask.’

  ‘Joe died August 18, last year,’ Michelle said quietly. At the desk Luca Gallo made a small sound, a clearing of the throat.

  ‘Mr Gallo told me that Per Hansen was appointed to replace your husband after his death,’ said Sandro, without turning his head to include Luca. Holding her gaze, one that was full of pain. ‘That wasn’t strictly true, was it?’

  Slowly she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, and her gaze flickered across to Gallo, then back. ‘I guess Mr Gallo wanted to avoid – embarrassment. Or something.’

  Sandro sighed. ‘He’d already been told he couldn’t come here, hadn’t he? Shortly after Loni Meadows was appointed: I’m guessing she made that decision.’ She turned her head away, and Sandro saw something gleam in her eyes, in the thin grey light from the window. He saw that he was right, and then Luca Gallo spoke.

  ‘The Dottoressa was adamant. No spouses.’ His voice faltered. ‘We had to respect her decision; it was her first decision as Director.’

  ‘Although she herself was conducting an affair?’ Sandro couldn’t conceal his distaste.

  Gallo bowed his head. ‘I think perhaps his work was also not to her taste. She could be very – scathing.’

  ‘Did she put anything on that blog of hers about him?’ asked Sandro softly.

  Michelle shrugged, barely perceptibly.

  ‘Did she do one of her – ’ and he searched for the words, ‘character assassinations? Or was it only his rejection from a position here that did it? That led your husband to take his life?’

  ‘It came at a bad time,’ she said, and he could hear only grief in her rough voice. ‘He didn’t have it easy, my Joe. He was fighting it every day of his life.’

  He supposed she was talking about depression: to Sandro it appeared as a low grey sky, pressing down. Like the sky beyond the window, like the thick grey walls of the castle closing in. What a place, he thought. Enough to drive anyone crazy.

  ‘And so you must have hated her,’ he said as gently as he could. ‘Blamed her; how could you not? And then you came here anyway, because at the very least you’d get the chance to tell her what you thought of her?’

  Michelle Connor remained silent, but the look she turned on him said enough. All the same, he had to go on. ‘And to have to observe her, flirting with guests and visitors. Her evenings away from the castle.’ She shook her head, just minutely.

  ‘Really,’ pleaded Luca Gallo, sounding frightened, turning to look at the door, the window, as if he might escape through them. ‘What are you saying?’ They ignored him.

  ‘You found Niccolò Orfeo’s mobile phone,’ said Sandro carefully, and Michelle’s wide eyes told him Caterina had been right. ‘He left it behind, and you picked it up. Why didn’t you return it to him immediately? Did you know already that they were having an affair? By all accounts, it was fairly obvious. Or did you discover it only from the messages he sent her? I imagine it occurred to you quite quickly that it might be – interesting. At least. To have that telephone. What you might do with it.’

  There was a silence, and then at last she spoke.

  ‘I didn’t care about her damn love life, I’m too old to find that stuff rewarding.’ She closed her eyes and her ashen, weary face, briefly shadowed with shame, might for an instant have been a death mask.

  Then she opened her eyes. ‘Yes, I got the phone,’ she said flatly. ‘Yes, we even laughed, looking at his messages. What an old fool he is, and what a whore she was. Yes, for a second or two.’ She twisted her mouth. ‘I shouldn’t even have looked.’

  Sandro stared at her, trying to make her out in the dim room. And as he stared it felt smaller; all around him the stacked shelves, the pinboard covered with photographs and brochures, pressed in on him. The bitterness rose in the back of his throat and Sandro felt a sudden reluctance to go on with it. But he had to. He took a breath, wanting to express himself as precisely as he was able.

  ‘You are an angry woman, Mrs Connor. And you are intelligent, educated at college. You are certainly intelligent enough to devise a way to send Loni Meadows to her death.’ He took a breath, remembering what Cate had told him. ‘You could have gone out running with water in your backpack. You could have observed how that water froze when you poured it across the road. And then, on the coldest night of the year so far, you could have used that phone to send a message from her lover. Perhaps you had found that each day here made you hate her more, not less: perhaps you were so angry you could not stop yourself.’

  At his desk Luca Gallo was on his feet and stuttering but it was the look in Michelle Connor’s eye that stopped Sandro.

  ‘Are you making this up?’ she said slowly, as if something was only just occurring to her. ‘Ice? Do you think I’m crazy? Crazy enough to cook up this – this plan?’

  ‘You were hospitalized,’ said Sandro in a low voice. Not wanting to say it. ‘In a psychiatric unit.’ But Michelle didn’t even seem to hear.

  ‘Angry?’ she said. ‘Sure, I was angry. I’m still angry, but with her?’ She made a small explosive sound of contempt. ‘She was not even worth a minute of my time. You want to know who I’m angry with? I’m angry with him. With Joe.’

  She leaned down and struck the table. ‘With Joe. For giving in, after all this time, because of some shitty little position here. I told him, I won’t go without you. Told him, jeez, we can go and have fun in Italy if that’s what we want, we don’t need those guys.’ And then her voice cracked, and was gone. ‘But he went and did it, didn’t he? He went and did it, and I found him on the bathroom floor.’

  Luca Gallo was still trying to say something, but Sandro was struggling with the sensation of dizziness her words induced in him, the unmistakable sound of truth in the claustrophobic room.

  ‘But what about the
telefonino?’ he said, in despair, grappling even for that word, his English suddenly exhausted. ‘His mobile. His cell phone.’

  And Michelle took a step towards him, the thin light behind her.

  ‘The telefonino?’ she said, and she swung her arm out to include Luca Gallo at last, something like jubilation in the gesture. She laughed bitterly. ‘I don’t have the telefonino. Tell the man, Luca.’ Then, gazing straight at Sandro now, she went on. ‘All right, I will. “Has anyone seen Count Orfeo’s cellphone?” Luca asked us, just the next day. If we found it, we were to give it to him, so that’s what we did. Not straight away, maybe, but he’s had it since that Wednesday, the day before she died.’

  And then, finally, they both turned to look at Luca Gallo.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  HER FACE PRESSED TO the window of Tiziano’s ground-floor apartment, with its hoist and specially adapted bathroom facilities, Cate called his name, then again, then banged on the glass through the security bars. And as she began to lose her breath through panic and fright, Cate thought about the fact that Tiziano never let anyone in there: he came to the door to take his lunches, or they left them on the step. A private person.

  A funny noise, Nicki had said. What funny noise? Was he in pain? Was he in trouble? Cate thought about the expression on his face the night before, when he’d swung her into his lap in Michelle’s apartment. Had he had anything to do with Loni Meadows’s death? Had he done something – stupid?

  Cate found she couldn’t think about Michelle; she couldn’t get her head around it. The abrupt realization that it actually hadn’t been an accident; those theories Sandro Cellini had been constructing with careful determination suddenly standing up on their own: it was surreal, but it was true. That ice should not have been there; Loni Meadows had been called out to a lovers’ meeting that did not exist.

  ‘Tiziano,’ she whispered, trying to keep panic from her voice, ‘Caro, what are you doing in there?’ Swallowed. ‘Are you all right?’