Return to Umbria

by David P. Wagner

  “So you live in Orvieto,” she said to Rick.

  “No, I live in Rome and work as a translator and interpreter. I came up with a friend to do some tourism and got drawn into the investigation.”

  “She must be the cute girl you were with on the funicular. If I were her I’d be annoyed that you’d abandoned me.”

  She turned and walked to the glass door. Following her inside, they found Gina still sitting on the sofa, tightly holding a coffee mug. Rick left two of his cards with his cell phone number, asked them to call if they remembered anything else that could be helpful, and he and the inspector saw themselves out.

  ***

  “I have much to do,” said LoGuercio as he flipped through his notes. The car retraced the route back to Orvieto, but at a slower speed, making Rick wonder if LoGuercio had said something to the driver. There was no need to hold on this time. “Starting with this caretaker, Donato.” He tapped on a line of his notes. “Wouldn’t it be easy if he confesses to meeting our victim last night and doing her in? I could go back to petty crime, you could return to sightseeing full time, and our tourism chief could get off my back.”

  “It’s never that simple, Paolo, in life or in crime. And the killer has to be someone she knew when she was here as a student, almost certainly the person she ran into in the piazza or someone she saw later. The two women don’t appear to be capable of murder, or even to have a motive.”

  “Nor do they have an alibi. Either or both of them could have been waiting at the bus stop when she got off. My men are tracking down the driver of the bus on the final run last night. According to the schedule, it would have reached the stop near the villa at about eleven-twenty last night en route to Acquapendente.”

  “About a half hour after the women went to bed. Or said they went to bed.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Do you really think she was attacked after getting off the bus?”

  LoGuercio shook his head. “I do not. The scenario of being murdered somewhere else still makes sense. She must have told the murderer where she was staying. He offers to drive her there, and kills her at a secluded spot somewhere on the way. Then he puts her body into the trunk and drops it at the side of the road to make it appear that she was killed after getting off the bus.”

  “So you can start looking for possible locations between Orvieto and where the body was found, to look for the actual murder scene.”

  LoGuercio gestured at the low hills on either side of the car. “It could take a while.”

  Five minutes later the car slowed into a turn and began the climb up to the city.

  “Over there,” LoGuercio said, while pointing to one side of the road, “are some fascinating Etruscan burial grounds which you really should visit. A stone city of the dead in the shadow of Orvieto’s cliff, a very evocative place. Are you planning on seeing some Etruscan ruins this trip, Riccardo?”

  “I think I had my fill of things Etruscan the last time we met, Paolo.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. There is enough history here that is of a more recent vintage. Which reminds me that with all this going on I have not heard enough about what you have been doing since Volterra. Are you and the lovely Betta free for lunch? Despite the demands of the job, even a policeman must pause to take in nourishment.”

  “Especially when there is no commissario to keep you working at your desk at lunch time.”

  LoGuercio grinned, and it struck Rick that it was the first time since they’d met earlier in the day that he’d seen the man smile.

  “I am shocked, Riccardo, that you would think such a thing.” He pulled out his notebook, scribbled something on a blank page, tore it out, and passed it to Rick. “I will reserve a table at this place for the three of us at one o’clock.”

  Chapter Six

  Betta read from her red guidebook while Rick stood, arms crossed over his chest, and took in the stone beauty of Orvieto’s Palazzo del Popolo. As she spoke of individual aspects of the building’s architecture—the tall arches of the ground floor, trifore windows on the representational second floor, and pointed battlements on the roof—his focus moved accordingly. His eyes stayed on the battlements, called merli, which also means “blackbird” in Italian. The rows of jutting stone did indeed look like huge blackbirds from below. Rick knew that merli in Guelph towns, whose government supported the pope, were designed in one way, while the Ghibelines, who backed the emperor, had a different shape. He could never remember which was which, but since Betta’s guidebook had noted the various popes who had taken refuge in Orvieto over the centuries, he guessed these to be Guelph. Betta put a red string in the page and closed the book.

  “The stairway is the most impressive feature,” she said, looking up.

  Ten people abreast could have climbed the stone stairs to the landing before swinging around to climb another set to reach the wide balcony under the arched windows of the second floor.

  “What year did they start construction of the building?”

  She opened to the same page. “Eleven fifty-seven.”

  “No handicap ramps required in those days.”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “Since they don’t have a capitano del popolo anymore, what do they use the building for now?”

  “Conventions, meetings, big events. There’s a large hall on the second floor.”

  “I’ll bet the Albuquerque Convention Center has one that’s larger.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Did you notice those kids over there drawing the building? Let’s go take a look.”

  They walked to the far end of the plaza where about a dozen students of college age sat on fold-up stools armed with sketch pads and pencils. Thanks to the internationalization of clothing styles, it was difficult to tell young people of one country from those of another just from their dress. Jeans, loose-fitting shirts, and casual footwear were worn by everyone. But something about their body language gave Rick the sense that these kids were Americans. There was an adult, somewhat older than Rick, who prowled behind the group, making comments as he did. He also had the aura of an American, but was trying valiantly to look Italian.

  “Art class?” Rick said to him as they both looked over the shoulder of one of the students. The man didn’t seem surprised to hear a question in English.

  “Drawing. But with a bit of architectural history. We try to cram as much history in the program as we can.”

  “Some kind of semester abroad program?”

  “That’s right.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Gus Suarez. Your first visit to Orvieto?”

  Rick shook the hand. “Rick Montoya. No, I was here a few years back. Is the program connected to one university?”

  “Arizona State. It’s where I teach. But we get students from other colleges.”

  “Arizona State?” The professor might not have noticed the change in Rick’s voice, but Betta, who was standing nearby, certainly did.

  “Has the program been around a while?” Rick asked.

  “Quite a while, actually. I think it was started in the nineteen seventies. Do you know someone back in the States who might want to apply?”

  “I just might. Is there an office here in Orvieto where I can get information?”

  “Sure.” He took a pen from his pocket, as well as a pad that looked more appropriate for sketching than note taking. “Here’s the address and the name of the director. Bob is there much of the day, either teaching classes or in his office. Of course you can also go online.”

  “Thanks, Gus, I’ll do that.”

  Rick and Betta strolled away while the professor went back to his charges, all of whom were immersed in their work. Their eyes had stayed on either the building or their own drawings while the two men conversed.

  “This could be a break for the murder case, Betta.”

 
“I thought you’d been talking with the guy about architecture.”

  “Not at all. These kids are in a university exchange program which has to be the same one our murder victim participated in years ago. I’ve got to call Paolo.”

  He pulled out his phone and dialed while Betta watched twenty elderly Italian tourists shuffle into the plaza from a side street. Their guide, a neatly dressed man in his twenties, walked backwards as he spoke in a strong, high voice. Except for a few old stragglers in the back, the guide managed to keep everyone’s attention, despite not seeing what he must have been talking about.

  Rick tapped his phone off. “Paolo gave us the green light to talk to the exchange program director about the case. When I read off the address he told me where it is. Not far from here, in fact.”

  “Doesn’t he want to be along?”

  “He would, but he’s on his way to interview the caretaker of the villa.”

  Betta frowned and shook her head. “But you can’t do that. You’re not with the police.”

  Rick took her hand and they started walking toward the far end of the piazza. “No, but you are.”

  ***

  “He’s there, Sergeant.”

  LoGuercio hung up the cell phone and tucked it into his jacket pocket. The trip would not be a waste of time, and Donato would not have time to flee, though the inspector doubted this was his murderer. As Riccardo had said, that would be too easy.

  The dark blue police car slowed as it reached a row of four plain, two-story houses just off the road. They had been built by the same ingegnere, from the same set of plans, down to the stone walls separating one from the other. No need for an expensive architect here. A few feet of grass and dirt separated the pavement from the simple fences in front of the houses. As these were the only structures on this stretch of highway, there was no call for a sidewalk, assuming anyone wanted to visit the neighbors. Each house had a dirt driveway that cut through grass and hedges to reach a one-car garage. Behind, between the houses and a heavily wooded hill, small patches of vegetable gardens squeezed between more low walls.

  “It’s the last one, Sir.”

  The car pulled off the pavement and came to a stop in front of the fourth house in the row. As LoGuercio got out of the backseat he saw a man rushing around the side of the house and walking briskly toward him. He was in his late twenties and wore a stylish cotton sweater and blue jeans, both accenting his physique. In an affected, almost feminine gesture, he brushed back a shock of long black hair from his forehead. LoGuercio noticed that it had been a few days since this face had seen a razor, either in a nod to fashion or an indication of his standards of hygiene. The man was almost breathless when he got to the policeman’s car, just outside the gate.

  “Can we talk out here, Inspector? I don’t want to upset my mother.”

  LoGuercio leaned against the fender of the car and sized up the man before him. “Of course, Donato. This shouldn’t take long, if you can answer my questions satisfactorily.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Let’s begin with where you were last evening.”

  The caretaker answered without having to think about it. He had been ready for the question. “I was here. I had dinner with my mother and we watched TV before going to bed at about eleven.”

  “You both stayed up until eleven?”

  “Well, uh, no. Mama goes to sleep earlier than I do.”

  “You didn’t go out at all after dinner?”

  “I told you I went to bed at eleven, didn’t I?”

  LoGuercio couldn’t decide if the man’s tone was from anger or nervousness. He would have one of his men interview the neighbors to ask if they heard any cars leaving or returning from the last house during the night. It would be no use questioning Donato’s mother.

  “Tell me about all your contacts with the three Americans.”

  Donato looked quickly at the window of his house. “I was there when they arrived. On change-over day I check to see that the cleaning crew has done their work and the villa is ready for the new renters, and then I’m there when they drive up. There was a drip in one of the showers, which I fixed. When they got to the villa I gave them the key and showed them how everything worked. Where to turn the lights on, how to run the dishwasher, that kind of thing.”

  “This is in English?” LoGuercio folded his arms across his chest as he waited for the answer.

  “One of the reasons I got the job is that I had studied English in the liceo.”

  LoGuercio’s arm snapped out, its fist catching the man in the chest. Donato lurched back and managed to keep his balance. His face showed surprise and fear. The driver kept his eyes on the ground.

  “That doesn’t answer my question, Donato,” the policeman snapped.

  “About half and half, Sir. The woman who was killed, Signora Van Fleet, she spoke Italian and wanted to use it. That annoyed the other two, especially Signora Linwood. I had greeted them in English so they knew I spoke it.”

  LoGuercio nodded, as if nothing had happened, and his voice returned to its previous soothing tone. “After you showed them how to wash the dishes, you left?”

  “That’s correct, Inspector.” He stole another glance at the window.

  “Did you see them again?”

  “The next afternoon. Even though the renters are given my cell phone number, in case there’s a problem, the owner wants me always to come by to be sure everything is to their satisfaction. Happy clients tend to come back the following year.”

  “The women were there, I assume?”

  “They were, but I only spoke with two of them. The young woman was sleeping.”

  “And after that?”

  “It was the last time I saw any of them, Inspector. I was planning on going over today. To offer my condolences, of course.”

  LoGuercio shook his head. “I’d rather you didn’t have contact with them just yet, Donato.” He handed him a card. “If that shower starts leaking again, call me and we’ll take care of it.”

  As he drove back to the city, LoGuercio went over in his mind what the caretaker had said, and just as importantly, how he’d reacted to the questions. It was all just what he’d expected. He’d never questioned anyone in a murder case who hadn’t been nervous, so that part was no surprise. The bit of initial bravado, again, was nothing he hadn’t seen before in both suspects and innocent witnesses. He was concerned, of course, that Donato had no real alibi for the time of the murder. That just added him to the list of people, starting with the two American women, who couldn’t prove their whereabouts at the time of the murder. LoGuercio stared out the window of the car as it made the sweeping turn for the climb to the city.

  ***

  When the Italian state was created in the nineteenth century, and Rome was selected as the permanent capital, a real estate crisis was created on the banks of the Tiber. Where would they put everyone needed to administer the new united Italy? A temporary solution was quickly found. The pope had refused to recognize the existence of this upstart new kingdom which had swallowed up what had been his Papal States, including Rome itself. When the pope went into voluntary exile in the Vatican, the new government acted. It took over hundreds of papal properties in the Eternal City, perfect for the offices of bureaucrats streaming in from all parts of the boot. It would be a temporary solution, to be sorted out when time permitted. A century and a half later, many of those buildings, including former monasteries and convents, were still filled with the desks of government workers. Ornate rooms inside those buildings, once used for prayer and reflection, now took on a different use. Speeches and discussion on decidedly non-religious subjects echoed through them under the gaze of haloed saints painted on walls and ceilings. Tucked in the back of those rooms, when the audience was international, were glass booths. Inside them toiled interpreters like Rick Montoya.

 
So Rick knew his convents, and as ex-convents went, this one in Orvieto was not that impressive, starting with the door. Even the portone to Rick’s apartment in Rome was larger. A rectangular brass plate, with words in both English and Italian, identified the building as the site of the university program. The only vestige of the structure’s former vocation was a cross carved into the keystone above the arched doorway. Rick was reaching for the handle when the door opened and two young men started to exit. When they saw Betta they stopped and gestured for her to come in, unabashedly checking her out as she passed.

  “May I come in too?” Rick said in English, getting their attention. The two grinned and stood aside while he entered.

  After passing a bulletin board covered with small and large scraps of paper announcing events around the city, they came to a corridor that stretched left and right. Ahead was an open area which might have been where the sisters in centuries past walked, quietly saying their rosaries. Today small groups of students sat on the patchy grass, chatting and laughing. One of them noticed Rick and Betta, got to her bare feet and walked to them.

  “Can I help you find someone?”

  She must not have noticed my cowboy boots, Rick decided, but was pleased the girl had used Italian. To encourage her, as he always did in such situations, he answered in the same language.

  “Do you know if Professor Romano is here? We’d like to speak with him.”

  “I think he is,” said the girl. “His office is the last one down the corridor on the right.”

  They thanked her and walked in the direction she had indicated, passing one empty classroom before coming to a door at the end of the arched passage marked “Director.” Rick tapped on the door and a voice called from inside.

  “Avanti.”

  Rick and Betta exchanged glances and she walked first into the room. It was a spartan office, furnished with a wood desk facing the wall, a couple of chairs to one side, and a tall floor lamp which lit most of the ceiling but little below it. A single, high window did its best to add more light to the room. The only decoration, save for a poster of the Orvieto Cathedral over the desk, was a lonely potted plant near the door. Professor Romano was dressed casually: blue jeans and what may have been the only Hawaiian shirt in Orvieto. No hair remained on the top of his head, and what there was along the sides and back had been grown long and tied in a small ponytail. It was a hairstyle Rick had seen many times in New Mexico, and it never failed to amaze him. Romano finished what he was writing on the computer in front of him and twirled around in his chair. He pushed a puzzled look from his face and turned it into a welcoming smile as he rose from the chair.