Return to Umbria

by David P. Wagner

  “Robert Romano. How can I help you?” It was said in heavily accented Italian.

  “I am Detective Innocenti, Professor,” replied Betta, “with the police.” She pulled her identification from her pocket and allowed the man to look at it before stuffing it back. “Do you have a few moments to talk? This is Signor Montoya.”

  His puzzled look had returned at the word “police,” and became more pronounced when Rick was introduced.

  “Per favore,” he said, gesturing toward the two empty chairs while closing the door to the office and retreating to his own seat.

  “Professor Romano,” Rick said in English, “I am Detective Innocenti’s interpreter, should it be necessary. But you appear to speak Italian well.” It was a compliment without foundation.

  Romano settled into his chair and spoke in English with a halting voice. “You are very kind, Mr. Montoya. Despite my name, my Italian is sufficient only for dealing with waiters and shopkeepers. Speaking with a policewoman is another matter. So I would very much appreciate some assistance. Montoya? I know several Montoyas in Arizona.”

  “There are pages of us in the phone book in Albuquerque, where my father is from.”

  The professor stared blankly, curious about how the guy from New Mexico had made his way into his office. But curiosity about the police matter won out. “How may I be of assistance to the detective?”

  They quickly settled into the interpreter’s routine. Romano did not seem to notice that Rick was mostly asking the questions and then translating them and the answers for Betta.

  “She wanted me to tell you immediately,” Rick began, “that this has nothing to do with any of your students or the program now.”

  Romano glanced at Betta. “Thank you for that.” To Rick he said: “But why…?”

  “There was a murder committed last night in Orvieto, and it was an American woman. She was an exchange student in the city about thirty-five years ago, and the police think she could have been enrolled in this program.”

  “That’s terrible, just terrible. If she was participating in a university semester abroad program, not some high school exchange program, ours was almost certainly the one she was on. There haven’t been any other American universities here, at least not that I know of. But wait a minute. I think I can look it up in our database.” He swiveled back to his computer. “What was her name?”

  Rick told him and then translated the exchange for Betta.

  “What we need from him, Rick, is the name of anyone still in Orvieto who would have known her back then.”

  “I’m on it, Detective.”

  While they waited for Romano to search his records, their eyes wandered about the room, but found little of interest. There was not even a filing cabinet, a virtual requirement of any Italian office, making Rick think that the university had gone paperless. Thousands of trees allowed to live long and happy lives, while the professor kept his fingers crossed that the system wouldn’t crash.

  “Here she is, Rhonda Van Fleet. At that time she was Rhonda Davis, so she must have updated her information with the alumni office. Studied fine art here from October of 1979 until May of 1980.”

  “What courses did she take?”

  Romano shrugged. “The records don’t go into that kind of detail. But I don’t think the curriculum has changed that much. Italian language and culture, art and architectural history with an emphasis on Umbrian, and then whatever specialty she was interested in. Could be painting, ceramics, sculpture; it’s up to the student’s interest.”

  “Apparently it was ceramics. She became quite an accomplished potter, we understand.”

  “Did she? Many of our alumni have gone on to distinguish themselves.”

  Betta’s look, directed at Rick, was as good as a poke in his ribs.

  “The detective would like to know if there might be anyone here now who was involved in the program at that time. She knows it was a long time ago, but—”

  “Yes, in fact there is. Doctor Tansillo.” The man’s head turned sharply from Rick to Betta, causing his ponytail to twitch. “Luigi Tansillo was the administrator when the program began. Every year we celebrate the anniversary, and every year he appears and joins in the toasts. He loves chatting with the students and telling stories about the old days. It would not surprise me if he remembers Rhonda Davis.”

  ***

  Rick looked up at the cloudless sky. It was the kind of weather that Livio Morgante and his employees in the Orvieto tourism office had to be relishing—perfect temperature and no chance of precipitation. Even the smallest bar managed to squeeze a few tables into the street in front of its doorway, luring passersby to stop for a cup or glass. The chairs provided a perfect perch to watch a pedestrian parade with as many Orvietani as tourists. Young and old office workers had found excuses to stroll the streets for a few minutes in shirtsleeves and sunglasses before returning reluctantly to their cubicles and computers.

  The route to the restaurant, which Romano had explained in excruciating detail, took Rick and Betta back past their hotel along Via Maitani, named for the most prominent architect of the Duomo. The naming was appropriate, since the street ended at the square in front of the cathedral. A rectangular slice of the colorful facade became wider as they neared the piazza, finally bursting into full view when they came to the corner. Fewer people stood in cathedral square than when Rick had driven off with LoGuercio that morning, and now most of them were tourists. The locals had already begun drifting off to restaurants or homes for their midday meal, leaving the streets to the visitors. Once again Betta and Rick stopped to appreciate the work of Maitani and others. It was impossible to pass the facade without doing so.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Betta. Yes, we will get inside to see those Signorelli frescoes. Perhaps this afternoon.”

  “Unless you have to go with Paolo to interview this professor Tansillo.”

  “The inspector can do that without my help.”

  “But if he asks you to accompany him you wouldn’t turn him down.”

  “How could I? My uncle would never forgive me if I shirked my civic duty.”

  They had begun to walk when Betta stopped him, grasping his arm with her hand. “Have you called Piero about this case?”

  “Excellent point. He will be so pleased that I’ve gotten involved with a murder investigation that he may not show his disappointment with my lack of success with Fabrizio.” He took out his phone. “I’ll call him now.”

  Betta pushed her hands into her jacket pockets and waited while Rick dialed.

  “My dear nephew, I trust you have good news.”

  “The weather is beautiful, Zio, Orvieto is a jewel, and we had an excellent dinner last night. Betta is right here and sends warm regards.”

  “So you were not able to convince your cousin to stop this foolishness.” Rick could not help but notice a disappointment in the man’s voice.

  “Not during my first encounter with the lad yesterday, but that was just an initial foray. I didn’t want to come on too heavily until I got a feel for the situation.”

  “Which you now have?”

  “I’m afraid so. Let’s just say that Fabrizio is getting some good ideas for his future as an author, assuming he writes romance novels.” Betta frowned and shook her head.

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Well, do your best.”

  “But I was calling about something else, Zio.”

  “The murder of the American woman?”

  Betta laughed and Rick raised his arms in exasperation before returning the telefonino to his ear. “You know already?”

  “It’s the kind of crime that comes across my computer screen, Riccardo. I saw that your man from Volterra is in charge of the investigation. Are you already assisting him?”

  Rick sighed. “Yes, Zio, I am.”

  “That’
s good, since I just recommended to him that he get you involved. Just so you don’t forget what you’re really up there for.”

  “Your recommendation will sound like an order.”

  “That’s fine. From what I’ve heard about his previous assignment, LoGuercio needs to follow orders.”

  “He mentioned something to me about his work in the south not going well.”

  “That is an understatement. He could have been dismissed.”

  His uncle did not want to go into details, and Rick knew better than to push it. “Betta and I are going to have lunch with him now.”

  “Buon appetito. Keep me informed on the case. And of course on Fabrizio.”

  Rick didn’t know which had more of Piero’s interest.

  ***

  The restaurant was more elegant than Rick expected, but on further consideration, the policeman would not choose a pizzeria to meet out-of-town visitors. It reminded Rick that he didn’t know LoGuercio well. When their paths had crossed in Volterra, the encounter had been intense and short, and Rick had returned immediately afterward to Rome. He’d liked the man, but there hadn’t been any time to get to know one another. This, their first meal together, would be the opportunity, and Rick looked forward to it. His mother’s skill at getting someone’s life story in a few minutes of conversation had unfortunately not rubbed off on Rick, but Betta was with him, so she would take care of it.

  The atmosphere that greeted them was an indication the food would not disappoint. The clientele was mostly businessmen, though not dressed as formally as they would have in Milan or Rome, with a few elegant women mixed in. Tables were separated enough to allow private conversations, and the string quartet music coming from hidden speakers was kept low. Rick told the head waiter that their reservation had been made by Inspector LoGuercio, and they were quickly shown to a round corner table for three where the waiter pulled out the chair for Betta and whisked away the “reserved” card. Rick had barely settled into his place when mineral water appeared, along with three menus. They were beginning to scan the choices when LoGuercio came through the door, spotted them, and strode to the table. His suit seemed even more rumpled than when they’d parted earlier, and his face still had not seen a razor. Rick stood and they shook hands.

  “Hope you haven’t been waiting long, I got tied up working on the case.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense, tell us what’s happening,” Betta said with a sweet smile while the two men sat down.

  “It was just my luck that the forensics person is in Terni working on a case and couldn’t get here until this evening, so I decided to send the body immediately to Rome for a complete forensics investigation. It may be there in the next couple hours, if there isn’t too much traffic on the autostrada. So we’ll have to wait a bit to get a full report, if we’re fortunate, by the end of the day.”

  “What do you hope to find that you don’t already know?” Rick asked.

  “There are a number of things that can come out of the complete autopsy, including a more rigorous examination for fingerprints. We did find what seems to be a good print on the belt of the woman, and a more complete examination will show if it is hers or someone else’s. Rome should be able to come up with other details we wouldn’t have spotted at the crime scene, though perhaps we shouldn’t be discussing them just before lunch.”

  Rick and Betta agreed, and the three took a time-out from crime to study the menus. It was not a long list, but had enough tempting dishes to make choosing difficult. All three, independently, opted to begin with prosciutto e melone, it being the season for good cantaloupe. For a pasta course, LoGuercio suggested Rick and Betta try the tortellini with the local mushrooms and black truffles, and they quickly agreed. He chose something a bit more substantial, the pappardelle al ragu di lepre; freshly made ribbon pasta with a hare sauce. After the choice of a wine, LoGuercio returned to the previous subject.

  “It was quite a process to get Rome to do the autopsy. I had to get help from the public prosecutor who’s been assigned to the case to cut through the red tape.

  “Red tape there would be expected since Rome is where the term was invented,” said Rick. “It comes from the pieces of red ribbon that hung from the seals of papal documents.”

  Betta sighed. “He loves to talk about word origins, Paolo. It’s something I have to put up with constantly.”

  “You have to take the good with the bad, Betta,” said Rick. “But regarding red tape in police headquarters, Paolo, I happen to know someone who could help. I just spoke with him.”

  The policeman’s reaction was not what Rick expected. “I’ve been ordered already to have you assist on the case. Apparently they don’t trust me in Rome to do the right thing.”

  “I don’t think you should look at it like that, Paolo. Since you had already brought me in, just think of it as my uncle giving you his blessing.”

  LoGuercio stayed silent.

  Betta took a piece of focaccia bianca from the basket in the middle of the table and put it on her bread plate. “Rick, you make it sounds like Uncle Piero is a cardinal in the curia.”

  “Not an inappropriate analogy,” LoGuercio observed.

  The wine arrived at the table, a Torgiano Rosso from the tiny village of the same name, just south of Perugia. After the cork was carefully removed, it was tasted by Paolo, approved, and the three glasses filled by the waiter. Paolo offered a welcoming toast to the two visitors from Rome and they tapped glasses.

  “Did you find out anything useful at the university, Riccardo?”

  “Do you mean, did the detective find anything? I was only the interpreter.”

  The policeman held up a defensive hand. “Of course. Mi scusi. Betta, did you get anything useful from the man?”

  She took a small drink and patted a drop of the red wine from her equally red lips. “Only the name of the program director when Signora Van Fleet was a student. Professor Romano, the man we talked to, seemed to think the former director might remember her.”

  LoGuercio took a bread stick from the basket and waved it like a small flag. “Excellent. We shall visit this aged professor after lunch and hope his memory is as good as Romano thinks it is.”

  The waiter silently placed a small dish in front of Betta, followed by those for her companions. Each held a slice of bright orange melon, cut from but sitting on its rind, draped with paper-thin slices of prosciutto. Wishes of “buon appetito” were exchanged and they ate. After agreement that few taste combinations compared to the salty tartness of the ham with the sweetness of the fruit, conversation swung away from food.

  “Paolo,” Betta said after a few bites, “Rick has not been able to tell me much about you. He didn’t even know what town you’re from. Hearing your accent, I would guess somewhere north of here, but I’m not sure how far north.”

  “Ferrara,” he answered, while slicing his melon. “And from your accent, Betta, you are from still farther north.”

  “Somewhat. Bassano del Grappa, the jewel of the Veneto.”

  “You sound like you’re working for your hometown tourist office,” said Rick while looking past Betta. “Like Paolo’s friend Morgante.”

  LoGuercio groaned. “He’s already called me once since I saw him at the station this morning, demanding a progress report. He found out there was a hotel cancellation by someone who thinks there might be a murderer on the loose here.”

  “There is, Paolo.”

  “Thanks, Riccardo, for reminding me. By the way, we can’t take the caretaker off the suspects list. He has no alibi. I have trouble picturing him as our murderer, but we can’t discount the possibility.”

  “Motive?” It was Betta.

  “A romantic encounter that went bad? They argued. It got violent. Who knows? He considers himself a ladies’ man, of that I’m sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if his services for the villa renters som
etimes go beyond fixing a leaky faucet.”

  They watched the waiter remove their empty plates, and replace forks, just as the pasta dishes arrived. The distinctive aroma of truffles wafted from Betta’s and Rick’s tortellini, mixing with the earthy smell of mushrooms. The combination nearly overpowered the profumo of the pungent, dark sauce on Paolo’s pappardelle. The portions, as expected in an elegant ristorante, were small. The waiter sprinkled cheese on each of the plates and quietly retired to allow the three to taste their food.

  “Is there a Signora LoGuercio, Paolo?”

  Her question took both men by surprise. They had expected a comment on the pasta, which was, as expected, excellent.

  “There is a Signora LoGuercio.” He paused for dramatic effect. “My mother, back in Ferrara. But I’m guessing that wasn’t what you meant. I was engaged for a while, but my fidanzata decided the life of a policeman’s spouse would not be for her, so she returned to Emilia-Romagna. That happened while I was working in the south.”

  Rick remembered what his uncle had said. That southern assignment for LoGuercio must have scarred him in more ways than one.

  The policeman swallowed a taste of pasta. “Is there by chance a sister at home back in Bassano, Betta? If she is even half as—”

  She waved an empty fork. “I don’t have a sister, Paolo, but there are some very attractive friends.” She looked at Rick. “Gisa?”