“A perfect match,” answered Rick, before taking another small bite of tortellino. He was making it last. “Gisa is good looking, intelligent, has a great personality. Not in the same class as Betta, of course, but more than a lowly policeman could hope for in a female companion.”
As Rick hoped, the comment brought a smile to LoGuercio. “So how did you two meet? If you don’t mind a question from a lowly policeman.”
Betta expected Rick to continue the repartee, but instead he turned serious and described the trip to Bassano del Grappa where he and Betta met while helping to solve a pair of crimes. Usually the wine made him more jocular, but this bottle was having the opposite effect. He made it sound like she had been, if not the key person in the Bassano investigation, at least an equal partner. When Rick finished, with the conclusion that fate had brought them together, she was too stunned to speak.
Paolo didn’t notice her reaction, but Rick did. He reached over and put his hand on top of hers before looking toward LoGuercio. “So that’s how we met, my friend. But now she’s followed me to Rome.” He leaned closer to the policeman and lowered his voice. “Paolo, I think she’s stalking me.”
Betta took two short breaths and tapped her chest with the free hand. “Thank goodness the Rick I know is back. I was worried there for a moment.”
Conversation returned to their food. Bites were exchanged and tastes analyzed. Wineglasses were refilled. A vote was taken on which pasta was more tasty, but since each of them chose their own dish, the tortellini won easily. The next decision was what, if anything, to have next. Betta said a secondo for her was out of the question. The men, perhaps in deference, agreed to pass up the main course, but something to clear the palate? The helpful waiter suggested sorbetto of either lime, strawberry, or peach. They agreed it was an excellent suggestion, and asked that each of their bowls have a small scoop of each flavor. The waiter, as good waiters do, complimented them on the choice and disappeared into the kitchen with their empty pasta plates.
LoGuercio leaned back in his chair. “Riccardo, could you accompany me to the interview of this Professor Tansillo? It is an American university program he ran, so you may think of things to ask him that would not occur to me.”
Rick turned to Betta, who wore a classic “I told you so” look on her face.
“You don’t need my permission, Rick,” she said. “Also, this afternoon I would love to poke into some of the shops for which Orvieto is famous. If you’d rather do that than help Paolo with the investigation…”
“No, Betta, thank you. And Paolo has a point, American universities are not organized in the same way as Italian ones. I may be able to—”
A deep voice broke in. “You’ll forgive me for interrupting your meal. I know that even police inspectors in the midst of an investigation have to eat.”
Rick and the policeman rose from their chairs, napkins in hand. At table-side stood a large man dressed in a well-tailored suit. A perfectly trimmed salt and pepper goatee surrounded a pair of large lips open in a smile. The little hair he had above the ears matched the beard. LoGuercio immediately showed discomfort.
“Mayor Boscoli, may I present Riccardo Montoya and his friend Betta Innocenti. Riccardo has been assisting me in the investigation.”
Bernardo Boscoli shook hands with Rick and Betta, eying them carefully as he did.
“Are you a policeman, Signor Montoya?”
“No, sir. The inspector asked me to help interpret when he was questioning two people involved in the case. I’m a professional translator and interpreter.”
“Riccardo was kind enough to use his English skills at the American university program where the victim had been a student.”
“She was in that program? I didn’t know that.”
“Neither did we until Riccardo uncovered it.”
The mayor nodded his head several times. “This is very good. But you don’t think she could have been killed by someone in this program, do you Inspector?”
“Not with the program now, but during the time she was here. If we can find someone who knew her in 1980.”
“Yes, that would make perfect sense. Are you getting close to finding the culprit, Inspector?”
“It is still very early in the case, Mr. Mayor.”
Boscoli thought before answering. “Of course it is. If there are developments, I would appreciate being informed.” He looked back at a table where a man was placing his cell phone down on the tablecloth. “Vincenzo has finished his call. It sounded important so didn’t want to eavesdrop on the man. I was a pleasure to meet you, Signor Montoya, and you, Signora Innocenti.”
Rick and LoGuercio sat down after the man walked away.
“First the head of tourism and now the mayor himself.” LoGuercio rubbed the back of his neck as if he had slept on it wrong. “Everyone wants to be kept informed.”
“It’s natural that they would,” said Betta. “It seems like you could give updates to the mayor, and he could pass it on to Morgante and anyone else on the city council.”
“Unfortunately it doesn’t work that way, Betta. Morgante and Mayor Boscoli are not just in different political parties, they are adversaries. Morgante wants to be the next mayor. So they don’t talk much, except when they clash at city council meetings.”
“At this point,” Rick said, “I think I’d vote for Morgante. Seems like an affable fellow. Betta and I ran into him this morning in front of the Duomo and he offered us a personal tour of it this afternoon.”
“He probably wants to pump you for information about the investigation. I may have given him the impression that you’re involved.”
“He won’t get anything out of me.” Rick finished the last drops from his wineglass. “Has Boscoli been mayor long?”
“As long as I’ve been here,” LoGuercio answered. “He’s also a lawyer, and a very prosperous one. Owns a lot of buildings in town, mostly commercial property.”
“I’ve never met a destitute lawyer. Who is the guy having lunch with the mayor? One of his political allies?”
“If someone’s having lunch with the mayor he likely wants something from the city.” LoGuercio glanced quickly at the other table where the two men were deep in conversation. “A local businessman named Vincenzo Aragona.”
LoGuercio didn’t notice the exchange of looks between Rick and Betta.
“What kind of business?” Betta asked.
“Wine. He owns the Sonnomonte Vineyards east of town. Not Orvieto Classico but some other grape, apparently he exports a lot of it. He’s very active in the chamber of commerce, which is probably why he’s lunching with our illustrious mayor.”
Rick turned and tried to surreptitiously size up Aragona. His suit was as well cut as the mayor’s, but unlike his dining partner he had a craggy face which may have come from spending time outside. It was difficult to picture the man picking grapes, but riding a horse through the fields could work. Large hands and a serious bulk went along with the image. Rick had not pictured Tullia Aragona’s husband to be small and weak, but neither did he expect a bruiser like this man. He did not follow the scripted image of the cuckolded spouse.
The sorbetto arrived; white, orange, and red spheres in porcelain dishes. After serving them, the waiter positioned a small plate of thin sugar cookies in the middle of the table.
“Paolo,” said Betta after her first bite of the sorbet, “have you contacted the police in the woman’s hometown in America?”
“I sent a fax this morning, written by one of my sergeants who claims to have good English skills, with the basic facts of the case as we knew them then. Hadn’t heard back when I left to come here, but it’s early in the morning in Arizona.”
Rick was trying to decide whether to finish off one flavor before starting on the next, or taking a spoonful from each in a circle until it was all gone. He opted for the latter.
“Certainly. We can do that after we go see Professor Tansillo.”
Betta had finished the lemon and was starting on peach. “You didn’t mention the fingerprint to the mayor, Paolo. It might have made him happy that some progress has been made.”
LoGuercio shrugged. “I suppose I could have. But we really should keep that kind of detail within the investigation. Boscoli knows everyone in town, and he might be tempted to share the news, and it would spread quickly. The murderer might hear that we have the print and disappear.”
“If he hasn’t already,” Betta added, before finishing her sorbet.
Chapter Seven
Twenty kilometers from Orvieto, the small historic center of Bolsena sat on a hill overlooking the volcanic lake that shared its name. The tranquility of the clear water, broken only by the occasional sailboat, gave no hint to the violent eruption that had formed its bowl in prehistory. Today the shore was dotted with small hotels and restaurants, their Roman clientele less bellicose than the legions which millennia earlier had camped along its waters on their way to Gaul. The culinary draw was the same then as now: a variety of freshwater fish which quickly went from net to grill. Unfortunately, Rick and LoGuercio were not going to Bolsena in search of the catch of the day; their fishing would be inside the memory of Professor Luigi Tansillo.
The police car carrying them had survived the difficult part of the drive, a series of cutbacks taking them over the escarpment just west of the Orvieto. The road mercifully smoothed out at that point, winding over hills before starting a slow descent to the lake. Just after they crossed from Umbria into Lazio its water appeared briefly in the distance before disappearing as the car swung behind a hill. A few kilometers later the view was unbroken, the lake spreading majestically before them as they drove closer to the town. The driver slowed as the road narrowed and space between buildings grew smaller. They passed an ancient church and the ruins of a castle built there for its panoramic defensive view of the lake. According to a banner hanging from the stone ramparts, the fortification now served as a museum.
The car drove slowly down through the town before reaching the street running along the lake shore. In season it would have been bumper to bumper, especially in the evening. Parking areas allowed visitors to leave their cars and stroll along the water, but the lakeside path was now empty, save for a few elderly couples taking an afternoon walk. The driver checked the numbers on the buildings, passing deserted restaurants and hotels before reaching a two-story duplex built close to the pavement. A balcony on the second floor offered a view of the lake.
“This should be it, Sir.” The car came to a stop at the curb in front of the building.
Rick and LoGuercio got out of the backseat and walked to the fence, beyond which ran a thin strip of grass between it and the building. Each of the duplexes had its own gate that opened to a path of slate stones leading to a door. They found the one with the name Tansillo and rang the bell. Rick expected a voice from the inside asking who was there, but instead the gate buzzed open almost immediately. As they made the short walk to the door it was opened by a gaunt man with thick white hair. He wore a shirt with a tie, under a sleeveless, brown sweater. A thin wrist and hand reached out to LoGuercio.
“You must be the inspector.” The voice was raspy, that of a man who had spent years of his life smoking. The lines on his face confirmed it. “And this gentleman?”
“Signor Montoya, who is assisting in the investigation.”
The wrinkled smile that Tansillo had given to LoGuercio was extended to Rick, along with a handshake.
“Please come in. My wife passed away several years ago, and with her went the neatness that characterized our home, so you will have to forgive me. The most pleasant place to receive visitors is on the terrace upstairs. The temperature today is relatively benign, and you can enjoy the view.” He extended his arm in the direction of a stairway.
“That would be fine, Professor,” said LoGuercio, and he and Rick followed behind the man as he climbed.
The room in the front of the second floor held enough books to start a community library. Three of its sides—the fourth being the windows and door facing the lake—were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling. A chair and ottoman, their leather cracked with age, sat in one corner. A metal lamp curled over the back of the chair, and next to it was a battered wood table, on which an open book was spread, pages down. Wedged in another corner was a desk, most of its surface covered with books. The only items not made of paper on the desk were a goose-neck lamp, a telephone, and some writing instruments, all of which dated from the previous century. The professor smiled when he saw Rick staring at the rows of books.
“My field probes into a rather obscure niche of Italian literature, Signor Montoya, sixteenth-century literary Mannerism.”
“I’ve always thought of Mannerism as a movement in art and architecture.”
Tansillo nodded. “Most people do. Shall we go outside?” Before opening the door he took a heavy cardigan sweater off the back of the desk chair and slipped it on.
A few leaves had wedged themselves into the corners of the square patio, but otherwise it was swept clean. Four metal chairs with plastic cushions angled toward the lake, its surface visible over the low balcony. Two trees on the other side of the street would have partially blocked the lake view in the summer, but now patches of silver could be seen between the branches. A light breeze blowing off the water carried the musty smell of dead leaves.
The professor pulled his chair around so that his guests could continue to enjoy the view. “What I was told over the phone did not have much detail, Inspector. You wanted to ask me about a former student in our program?”
LoGuercio cleared his throat. “That’s correct. The body of a woman was found early this morning, and we believe her death to be a homicide. The woman, an American named Rhonda Van Fleet, was in your program in 1980.”
Tansillo closed his eyes in thought. “I don’t recall anyone named Van Fleet.”
“She was Rhonda Davis then, Professor,” Rick said.
The man stiffened. “Good God, Rhonda Davis? Of course I remember her. She was murdered? Who would do such a thing?”
“That’s what we’re endeavoring to find out, Sir,” said LoGuercio. “What can you tell us about her?”
The professor turned his head and stared out at the lake, as if this would help him remember. “She came into the program late, in October or November. I recall that because there was some question as to whether we should let her in. She’d been doing some kind of internship—in some other city—that didn’t work out. But someone had left early, so we had an opening.” He shook his head. “Strange how I can remember that, but couldn’t tell you what I had for lunch yesterday.”
“What kind of a student was she?”
“One of the best from those early years. Pottery was her field, and she immersed herself in it completely. Always seemed to have clay on her hands. Turned out some beautiful pieces.”
“So all work and no play?” Rick asked.
“No, no. I didn’t mean to give that impression. She was very much into the nightlife in Orvieto. Of that class, probably the most active.”
“I realize it has been many years,” LoGuercio said, “but do you recall any enemies, people she didn’t get along with?
Tansillo frowned. “Why would—ah, of course. Someone who could have done this. No, I don’t remember anything like that. Rhonda had a strong personality, overbearing at times, but her friends accepted her for what she was.” He tilted his head toward LoGuercio. “But surely you don’t suspect that one of her fellow students from that year would come over here and murder her.”
“No, sir. But she must have had Italian friends. Can you re
call anyone?”
A gust blew in from the water, stirring up the leaves on the terrace. The professor pulled his sweater tighter around his neck as he concentrated.
“Bianca Capello. Yes, Bianca was in Orvieto at that time, before going off to Milan to study at the Bocconi. Wanted to go into banking. Her English was very good, so she would help with orientation when new groups arrived. I’m almost certain that one of the years Bianca worked for us was Rhonda’s.”
“She is in Orvieto now?” LoGuercio had scribbled the name on his pad.
“I believe so, Inspector. She worked for a bank somewhere in the north for years, but moved back here and started a real estate business. It was right about the time I retired from the program.”
“Is there anyone else from that time still in Orvieto?”
“Signora Vecchi, but I’m not sure if she would remember much.” He grinned, showing an uneven line of teeth. “She is even older than I, gentlemen. She ran a boardinghouse where the female students lived. At that time we separated the women students from the males, not that it made any difference.”
“We’ll track her down. Anyone else?”
The professor shook his head slowly. “No, I think that’s—no wait, of course. Amadeo. Amadeo Crivelli. Confound me, I should have thought of him immediately. Amadeo was the pottery instructor. Part time, of course, he had his own pottery business, then as now.”
“He must have known Rhonda Davis very well, since that was her area of study.”
“Very well indeed, Signor Montoya. I recall him telling me that Rhonda had a true talent. Amadeo became very successful with his line of pottery. He lives in Todi, owns a ceramics shop there and one in Orvieto, both featuring his work.” He suddenly slapped his hands on his knees. “Gentlemen, I just realized that I have been remiss by not offering you something. When my wife was alive she would have seen to it. A bit of sherry, perhaps? Or I can make some coffee.”
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