Return to Umbria

by David P. Wagner

  “I’m sure LoGuercio is doing his best,” Morgante said. He took a drink from his glass. “I expected that the police would send someone to take over the investigation. We had a commissario running the police operation here, but he was recently transferred and we’re waiting for a replacement.” His gaze moved to the piazza and back to Rick. “You have a relative who is a commissario, LoGuercio told me.”

  It annoyed Rick that Morgante knew, though he wasn’t sure why. Normally he didn’t mind that someone knew his uncle was in the police, but not this time. It wasn’t very professional on LoGuercio’s part to give out that kind of information to Morgante, but perhaps he was justifying having Rick in the case.

  “That’s correct, my uncle. And from the little I know about the police hierarchy, I would imagine that if they thought Inspector LoGuercio was not up to the job they would have sent someone immediately. Don’t you think so?”

  Morgante nodded his head in thought. “I suppose you’re right. My hope now is that the news of this murder gets off the front pages quickly. Many of these crimes never get solved, they just fade away. I hate to say it, but for our city, that might be as good an outcome as any. The terrible murder in Perugia a few years ago stayed in the media forever. We don’t need that here in Orvieto.”

  ***

  After their big lunch and the tasty nibbles with the wine, Betta and Rick decided to eat lightly at dinner. They’d passed a pizzeria on the way to their meeting with Morgante, and agreed it would fit the bill if they could find it again. Orvieto wasn’t that big, but the streets all looked the same, especially the smaller ones. The arrival of the evening didn’t help, it gave all the building fronts a similar shadowy look. As they turned a corner, the place magically appeared, so Rick was spared the shame of having to ask directions.

  The décor was wall-to-wall wood. Light-colored pine tables and chairs matched walls festooned with antique wooden farm utensils. The clientele was a mixture of all ages, sometimes at the same table, almost giving them the impression they had stumbled upon a family reunion. As they were shown to the table, Rick checked out the food in front of the diners they passed, and decided that the pizza looked good. Their table sat underneath what looked like a butter churn, which they hoped was firmly attached to the wall lest it come crashing down on their food. Rick ordered una spina for each of them and they settled in to study the menus. After a moment, Betta pushed hers away.

  “You are certain that it was Morgante who went into the woman’s office?”

  “Absolutely. He was wearing his white coat and I could see his face. I suggested to LoGuercio that he could have been bringing Signora Cappello something to calm her nerves after receiving the news of her friend’s death. Pharmacists do such things.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Not in the least. I didn’t notice any medications in his hand, though he could have had something in his coat pocket. But by the way he was rushing to her side it seemed like she was more than a regular client.”

  “So you think they may be…lovers?”

  “Could be. Or not that serious. Maybe they’re just likers.”

  The draft beers arrived with thick heads in tall glasses. The waiter paused with his hands behind his back and waited to hear what they’d like to eat. Rick was surprised to hear Betta order a quattro stagioni before he asked for his margherita. The waiter nodded and left. Rick and Betta tapped their glasses and drank.

  “That’s good,” said Rick before licking some foam from his lips. “Can you guess where I had the best draft beer ever?”

  “Germany?”

  “No. I was too young to drink beer the time my parents took me to Germany.”

  “Probably Albuquerque.” She still had trouble pronouncing it, but she was getting there.

  “Good guess, but no. It was Rio, the last time I visited my parents. There is a little restaurant called the Bar Lagoa, where they have the coldest and freshest draft beer you’ll ever drink. We were sitting outside, and it was warm, as it often is in Rio, even at night. The cold beer on a hot night was wonderful.”

  “You were at this bar, in a city known for its sensuous women, with your parents?”

  “Of course.”

  He took another swig and his face turned serious. “Betta, I’m a bit giu about how things are going here in Orvieto. Only your presence keeps my spirits up. Nothing is happening on the murder inquiry.” He raised a hand to stop her from speaking. “I know, I know, it’s only been one day, but as my uncle always says, most cases are solved within twenty-four hours. If the killer is not found almost immediately, the chances of finding him drop dramatically. If nothing happens tomorrow, this case will start going cold fast.”

  “Rick, the autopsy results aren’t even in yet.”

  “Do you think anything will come of them?”

  “You never know.”

  Rick stared at his beer glass, now half full. Or was it half empty? “And the other problem is Fabrizio. It appears that the situation is more serious than we thought, and my cousin is blissfully oblivious to his possible danger. And he doesn’t answer his phone.”

  “Try calling him again, Rick. He may have been in the shower when you called from the street.”

  Rick pulled the phone from his jacket folded over the back of his chair and hit a button while Betta watched and waited.

  Rick shook his head. “I’m going to have to go back to his place and hope he’s in. I’ll send him a text.” He tapped the small screen while she took another pull from her beer. “Sent. ‘Will come by your apartment at ten. Hope to find you there.’ That should do it.”

  “If he doesn’t want you to come, Rick, you should hear from him.”

  Their pizzas arrived. The colorful quadrants of Betta’s “four seasons” held prosciutto, artichokes, olives, and mushrooms. Rick looked at it and nodded in approval.

  “Very lively. But I am more traditional. The classic margherita is the ultimate test of the skill of the pizzaiolo. He must add just the right amount of cheese, proportioned with the tomato sauce, and of course the basil has to be present but not overpowering.”

  “Since you are an expert, I trust you know the origin of the margherita?”

  Rick recoiled. “What do you take me for, some tourist? Of course. It was created in Naples to honor the visiting the Queen Margherita, its ingredients mirroring the colors of the Italian flag.”

  “Bravo.”

  They picked up knife and fork and cut into their respective pies. The pizza and beer did not take their minds off the issues at hand, as they both had hoped.

  ***

  Rick walked Betta to the hotel, picked up the directions for Fabrizio’s love nest, and headed out again into Orvieto’s night. The temperature had dropped, which may have been the reason the streets were more deserted than earlier. More likely it was simply the time; the locals were sitting cozily in front of their television sets and the tourists were back in their hotel rooms after a long and tiring day of soaking up culture. Rick kept his hands in his coat pockets, pulling one out occasionally to consult the map. Light came only from the occasional street lamp, as most windows of the houses on the streets had already been shuttered. Between their thick stone walls, windows, and heavy wooden shutters, the centuries-old homes could hold in the warmth very well. Rick recalled the traditional houses of his northern New Mexico relatives and wondered which building material was more energy efficient, stone or adobe bricks. Or more expensive.

  The street where Fabrizio lived was empty of both people and parked cars. Rick walked along trying to find the number, but it was not as easy as the previous day when the afternoon sun aided in the search. To make things worse, the one street light over Fabrizio’s part of the block was burned out, so Rick had to get close to each number to read it. He eventually found the right door, and was about to walk up and ring the bell when he noticed a b
it of light spilling out on the street. When he got closer he could see that the door was slightly ajar. Not what would be expected on a chilly fall evening. Rick reached out and pushed the door inward, where it bumped softly against the wall. He stepped inside.

  “Fabrizio? Are you in there?”

  There was no answer. A lone glass fixture lit a steep stairway to the second floor.

  “Fabrizio. It’s Riccardo.”

  He thought he heard some movement coming from the second floor, but he couldn’t be sure. As he started up the steps he wondered if he was making a mistake. Fabrizio could be in the midst of an encounter, if that was the word, with Tullia. But the other possibility was that something was wrong, and that thought kept him climbing. The small landing at the top of the stairs had two doors, one straight ahead and the second just to the right. The one directly ahead of him was partly open, and Rick could see what appeared to be a living area. He pulled the door open the rest of the way and stood in the doorway. The room was furnished with the kind of cheap but functional furniture that one would expect in a rental: a sofa with side tables, a wooden shelf on which sat only a dozen books, and a small desk and chair. On the desk a flat laptop computer sat open, its screen dimly lit. A print of the Italian countryside was the only attempt to decorate the walls. Squeezed against the back wall, near a doorway leading to a tiny kitchen, was a table with two chairs.

  Rick was about to walk to the computer when the door behind him crashed against his back, knocking him to the ground. He splayed out his arms to break the fall and slid a few feet on the tile floor, managing to keep his chin from scraping. Behind him he heard the door slam shut and the sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs. Angered, he got to his feet, threw open the door, and started down after the intruder, but lost his footing on the third step. Only by grabbing the wood railing did he keep from taking a tumble. By the time he recovered and got outside there was no one to be seen on the dark street.

  He rubbed his palms together, decided they were no worse for the wear after the encounter with Fabrizio’s floor, and went back inside and up the stairs. The door on the right was now open, revealing a room with one low bed pushed against the wall, and a tall armoire near the window. The bed was made, not what Rick would have expected given Fabrizio’s age, but he guessed it was the influence of Tullia Aragona. Off the bedroom was a small bathroom with shower and sink, equally neat. He went back into the living/dining room and saw that the screen of the computer had timed out and was now dark. He also noticed a yellow pad next to it, scribbled with notes. So Fabrizio also used the old-fashioned method for organizing his author’s thoughts. But where was he? And who was the intruder who had unceremoniously knocked Rick onto his face? He couldn’t help concluding that the visitor had something to do with Signor Aragona’s displeasure with the arrangement. Could it have been Aragona himself?

  The sound of footsteps arose from the stairwell and Rick looked around to find anything that could serve as a weapon. The intruder could be returning, and this time more ready to take on Rick. As his eyes peered into the kitchen a figure appeared in the doorway.

  “Riccardo, sorry I’m late. I see you found your way in.”

  Rick ran his fingers through his hair and tried to relax his tense muscles. “Do you always leave your door open, Fabrizio?”

  His cousin walked into the kitchen and put two bottles of mineral water from the plastic bag into the small refrigerator. “I don’t usually lock the door if I’m just going out for a minute. Orvieto’s not a big city, I don’t worry about burglars.”

  Rick sat down on the sofa and rubbed his hands together. The skin now felt a bit raw from his fall, something he hadn’t noticed during the excitement. “Perhaps you should worry, Fabrizio. I think there was someone in here.” He decided not to go into the details of his encounter with the intruder, perhaps a bit embarrassed by being blindsided. “Somebody ran down the steps when I was here in the living room. Does anything appear to be missing?”

  Fabrizio’s mouth was open in mute surprise, and his eyes darted to his computer.

  “Somebody was in here?” Relieved to see that his computer was safe, he surveyed the rest of the room. “Not much to steal here, really. I don’t own much, and the rest of the stuff came with the apartment. I guess my clothes could be gone.” While Rick waited he walked quickly into the bedroom and returned. “Everything’s the same, as far as I can tell. You must have surprised him before he could take something.”

  “Maybe he was here to see you,” Rick said, and waited for the comment to sink in. There was no reaction. “The reason I wanted to talk to you is that your uncle and I are concerned that Signor Aragona could become fed up with this arrangement and do something to end it.”

  “Do you think he knows? Tullia says he’s always at work and doesn’t pay any attention to her.”

  “As you said, Flavio, this is a small town. He knows, believe me.”

  The concern returned to the kid’s face. “What do you think he’d do?”

  Rick stretched out his legs and folded one boot over the other. “How about come around and tell you he wasn’t happy?”

  “Tullia says he never does anything himself.” He realized what he’d said and cringed. “Do you think he sent someone here, and that you showed up and scared him off?”

  “That’s one possibility. The important thing is for you to be careful. A better thing would be for you to pack up your computer and clothes and head back to Perugia.”

  “I can’t do that, Riccardo, Tullia needs me.” His voice sounded like he was not just trying to convince Rick, but himself as well. “She called me this afternoon to say she wouldn’t be here tonight. She was crying, but she wouldn’t tell me why.”

  Thanks to Betta, Rick was sure he knew why.

  ***

  As he walked back to the hotel Rick went over his conversation with his cousin. The kid was almost there, almost ready to give up and head home; only the headstrong tenacity that went along with his age was keeping him there. It made Rick think about his own age, and what he was doing when he was Fabrizio’s, and it made him feel old. Perhaps the thought of someone breaking in would push his cousin to leave, once the ramifications started to sink in. Better than waiting for another incident, more serious, to force the decision.

  With his mind wandering, his feet did the same, and he got confused as to where he was. Fortunately, in Orvieto all streets and numerous signs put up for the benefit of the tourists lead to the Piazza del Duomo. When he reached it he checked his phone to find it was almost eleven o’clock. Lights lit the facade, and a few stragglers stood enjoying the show as Rick turned up the street to the hotel. He tapped on the door of the room and Betta let him in. She was dressed in jeans and a sweat shirt, and held her book in one hand. After closing the door she put a marker in the pages and returned to where she had been sitting on the bed.

  “From how long you were gone, he must have been there. Tell me how it went.”

  Rick took off his jacket and hung it next to hers on a hook near the door. “Not like I expected.” He told her what had happened, leaving out only the detail of being knocked sprawling to the floor. Betta listened to the whole story before speaking.

  “Do you think it was Aragona?”

  “Hard to say. After seeing him in the restaurant I tend to think that he would send someone to do his dirty work, but I’m not an expert on the behavior patterns of desperate husbands.”

  “Do you think this might push Fabrizio to hit the road?”

  Rick sighed. “If only it would. I was thinking about that on the walk back to the hotel.”

  He looked at Betta’s bare toes poking out from the jeans, remembering that he’d heard somewhere most women thought their feet to be the ugliest part of their bodies. That’s silly, he thought. His eyes went to her face, full of concern as she thought about Rick’s cousin, whom she’d never met.<
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  “Betta, this is not fair for you. We’re here to have an enjoyable few days away from work and enjoying the culture of Orvieto, and I’ve dragged you not only into my family problems, but a murder investigation. We haven’t been together much at all.”

  She stood up, put her arms around his waist, and kissed him softly on his cheek. “Rick, don’t be concerned about me, I’m fine. Just getting away from the office has worked wonders for me. Spending a few days in Orvieto with you is more than I could have asked for.”

  “I feel the same way, Betta. And nights. Don’t forget the nights,” Rick added, just as his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen. “I think it’s from the States, but I don’t recognize the number.”

  “You’d better answer it.”

  Reluctantly he put it to his ear. “Montoya.”

  The voice was almost a whisper. “Rick, this is Gina. Someone is outside. I think they’re trying to break into the villa. You must help.”

  ***

  Because of the hour, few other vehicles were on the road, allowing the police car to take the inside lane on the curves and gain maximum speed when it broke onto the straightaways. Rick and LoGuercio rode in the backseat, holding tight to the hand grips and watching the heads of the two uniformed policemen in front jerk left and right. Only fifteen minutes after the car picked up Rick did it slow down at the driveway of the villa. As instructed by his boss, the driver pulled over, blocking access to the road for any vehicle trying to leave the villa. Another police car silently pulled in behind them.

  LoGuercio gathered the five uniformed policeman from the two cars in a circle around him, Rick at his side. “All right, when we get up to the house, you two will go with me around the side of the house to the left. And you, Sergeant, will take the other two and go around the right side. We’ll meet in the back by the pool if we don’t find anyone. Have your weapons in hand. Be as silent as you can as we get closer to the house, we want to catch this guy. Don’t use the flashlights unless you need them.”