Return to Umbria

by David P. Wagner

  Rick nodded. “I want to see if Crivelli is still on the floor hiding behind the woman in the fur coat.”

  ***

  The Piazza Duomo, as always, was filled with tourists, but they divided their attention between the famous facade and the commotion taking place on the south side of the church. The cordoned-off street was crowded with official vehicles, their flashing lights bouncing off stone and stained glass. Several policemen moved in and out of the side door while others stood around talking in low voices, smoking or staring at the church. The ambulance carrying the wounded-but-stable Morgante, with Bianca Cappello at his side, began to pull out, its siren starting a low wail. Rick, Betta, and LoGuercio stood on the long strip of grass that ran along the side of the church, watching the vehicle slow at the corner and start down the hill.

  Betta turned back to LoGuercio. “When you came in you were looking for the mayor?” She was still trying to understand what had become a complicated scene inside the church.

  “That’s right,” said LoGuercio. “Riccardo found the photograph so we knew he was almost certainly the one who killed Signora Van Fleet. He was supposed to be among the people getting the tour but when we got inside we couldn’t see him. I thought at first he was in the back of the group. When I said we were there to find a murderer, the last thing I expected was to have Aragona pull out his gun. We weren’t even focusing on Pazzi, but somehow assumed the two deaths were related, and that once we got the mayor, the other crime would be solved as well.”

  “I know why Aragona killed Pazzi,” said Rick.

  “I think I do too, Riccardo, but you tell me your theory first.”

  Betta threw up her arms. “Well?”

  “I saw something when we were at the villa this morning,” Rick began. “I can tell by the look on your face, Betta that you don’t see how something there could have anything to do with Aragona, but it was a bottle of wine that Francine was pouring. The label was Sonnomonte, which is Vincenzo Aragona’s vineyard. The name was churning in my head when we found the photo album and had to go rushing back to town to find the mayor. But now I realize what it was about the name that bothered me. I told you that when Pazzi lay on the ground he said to me ‘sono morto,’ but he wasn’t really saying those words, that he was dying.”

  “He was saying Sonnomonte,” Betta said.

  “Exactly. I’m sure Pazzi was preparing one of his exposés about Aragona’s business dealings, and getting close.” Rick turned to LoGuercio. “Remember you told me that the Guardia di Finanza had set up shop in your offices? It would not surprise me if they are investigating the same irregularities. Selling cheap wine to other countries inside high-priced bottles would be my guess. That seems to be rampant these days and I’ve read that EU authorities are clamping down.”

  There was also the gap in Aragona’s police file that Uncle Piero had mentioned, likely information removed by those same Guardia di Finanza. But Rick decided to keep that information to himself since Paolo knew nothing of the Fabrizio caper. Things were complicated enough.

  LoGuercio was smiling. “I reached the same conclusion, but didn’t need a wine bottle to get there. I called the Guardia when we were down at the tombs. They didn’t want to tell me what they were investigating, but when I told them we had arrested Aragona they admitted it was his wine sales. They were not happy to find that Pazzi was also onto the guy, but a wine scandal would be just the kind of story that Pazzi would be digging up. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had approached Aragona directly and tried to get some payment for keeping it out of the papers.”

  “So the two murders that you were sure had to be connected were in fact totally separate.”

  “Betta, thank you for pointing that out,” said LoGuercio. “But Aragona may have hoped we would want to connect the two, and by walking by at the right time, Riccardo helped.”

  “Or the wrong time.” While looking in Rick’s eyes, Betta reached over to squeeze his hand. He recoiled. “Sorry, wrong hand.” she said quickly. “How long did they say the bandages will stay on?”

  “As long as I can get your sympathy, I keep them on.”

  “Cari amici, I should be getting back inside,” said LoGuercio.

  “And we must get ready for our return to Rome,” said Betta. “When will we see you there, Paolo?”

  LoGuercio gave them each a warm abbraccio. “I will appear at some point when you least expect me, just as Riccardo did here in Orvieto.”

  Betta and Rick walked to the square and took a final look at Maitani’s masterpiece. The tourists had tired of the activity on the side of the church and returned to their normal vocation: taking pictures. A small swarm of school children next to the right door were the only group without cameras or phones. While their teacher, a nun, talked, they stared intently at the figures carved in the stone above them. The section was another depiction of the last judgment, no doubt placed there by the sculptor as a Bible lesson for the mostly illiterate population of the time. It was a terrible scene, filled with demons, serpents, and souls writhing in agony.

  “I wonder what the sister is telling those kids,” said Rick.

  “She’s a nun, she’s saying what you’d expect her to say.”

  “We’d better go to mass this week.”

  They walked through the square toward their hotel. Another group of school kids passed them, these a bit older and led by a teacher dressed in civilian clothes. Another teacher in the rear, working like a border collie, kept the stragglers in formation. She shooed two boys who stopped to stare at the stuffed head of a boar hanging from a food store window. Rick was watching the show when he looked up to see a scowling face doing its best to avoid recognition.

  “Signor Crivelli. May I introduce my friend Betta Innocenti? Or did you meet in the Duomo before all the excitement? Betta, this is Signor Amadeo Crivelli. I think you saw his work in Todi yesterday.”

  Crivelli shook Betta’s hand, annoyed at being forced to show some manners. “My pleasure, Signora.” He turned to Rick. “I really must be on my way. I’m expecting a major buyer from Belgium.”

  Rick put on his most sympathetic face. “Business is business, Signor Crivelli, but if you have a minute you’ll enjoy hearing this.”

  Betta looked at Rick with a curious smile.

  “I could certainly use something to take my mind off what went on earlier.”

  “Well, it was this. I don’t understand police procedures, but I know the inspector worked tirelessly to find the perpetrator of this terrible crime. He’s been accumulating mountains of evidence.” Rick paused for effect. “He told me he uncovered something interesting, and though of course it is of no consequence now, you of all people will find it amusing.” Rick glanced at Betta.

  “And, Mister Montoya, what would that be?”

  “In researching the victim, Signora Van Fleet, he found an amazing similarity between the designs of her ceramic pieces, and, well, yours. Isn’t that a curious coincidence?”

  Crivelli swallowed hard. A bead of moisture formed on his cheek and seeped into his white beard. “That is curious, to be sure. Must have been something I taught her those many years ago.” He attempted a nostalgic smile, the professor remembering his prize student. “I must make a point of complimenting Inspector LoGuercio for his work.” He quickly shook Betta’s hand and then Rick’s. “Well, I should be on my way, I don’t want to keep an important client waiting.”

  They watched him hurry down the street.

  “Rick, you could have told him you were the one who discovered the similarity.”

  “It’s more fun this way.”

  ***

  The door to the funicular opened with a pneumatic hiss and the people inside pushed through. Rick followed Betta, rolling their bags behind him, down the ramp to the station door. The temperature outside was warm enough so that they didn’t need their coats, but there wasn�
��t room in the suitcases, so they wore them. A few taxis stood idle in the small square, their drivers reading newspapers while they waited for fares. One looked up, but when nobody approached his car he returned to his reading. Rick and Betta crossed the square and entered the railroad station. Just inside was a coffee bar, its machines giving off their beckoning caffeine fragrance. Rick stopped before they reached the escalator to the parking lot.

  “Would you like a coffee to stabilize you for the drive back?”

  “No thanks, Rick, but you go ahead. I think I’ll go check out the magazines. Are you all right with both bags?”

  “Leave them to me.”

  Betta wandered off to the newspaper kiosk, and Rick walked to the small bar that was squeezed against one wall of the station. There must have been trains about to arrive or depart Orvieto, since at least ten people stood sipping espressos and other drinks. It was impossible to tell whether they were going to head north toward Firenze, south to Roma, or points in between such as Arezzo or Terni. Rick guessed that two young girls drinking glasses of white wine were students. A group of four men in suits listened to a fifth as he made some point that, judging by his waving arms, was extremely important. Other people were by themselves, nursing their coffees and staring at the bottles behind the bar. One of them, a large duffel bag at his feet, was Rick’s cousin.

  “Taking a trip, Fabrizio?”

  The lad looked up, startled. “Riccardo. I didn’t expect to see you. You must be going back to Rome.”

  “I am, indeed.” Rick tipped the two suitcases upright and ordered an espresso macchiato from the man behind the bar. “This is a strange place for you to get your coffee, Cousin.” He looked down at the duffel bag. “With luggage?”

  Fabrizio’s sigh came from deep in his soul. “I’m going home, Riccardo.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Why the change of heart? Certainly not from the sage advice offered by your cousin.”

  “Huh? Oh, no, it wasn’t that. Something…happened.”

  Rick’s coffee came, and the barman poured just a splash of hot milk into the tiny cup. “Unburden yourself, Fabrizio. It will do you wonders.” After stirring in a spoonful of sugar he took a sip and waited.

  “You think? Well, Tullia called me a couple hours ago. Something terrible happened to her husband. She was too shaken up to tell me exactly what. Apparently he’s going to be away for a while.”

  “That sounds serious.”

  “Right. I said I’d come over immediately but she told me not to. She’d already called her sisters, who live up north, and they were on their way to Orvieto. She didn’t think it would be a good idea to have me around. Can you believe that, Riccardo?”

  “That she’d called her sisters before calling you, or didn’t want you around?”

  “Both, I guess.” He stared into the mirror at the other side of the bar. “I’m just surprised she wants a couple women to comfort her rather than me.”

  The kid has learned nothing. “That’s called family, Fabrizio.”

  Fabrizio nodded. “Funny you should say it, because that’s just what I was thinking. And that’s why I decided to accept what Tullia said and just go back to Perugia. Family is important, and the only way I could really understand that was to be away from home for a while.”

  The kid has learned something. “You won’t regret your decision.”

  “I hope not.”

  “And, you’ve also learned other things about, well, life.”

  “I’ll say, Riccardo. I’ve learned a whole lot, that’s for sure. I don’t know when I’ll use it in a book, but you’ll read it sometime.” He looked again at the clock. “Listen, my train is due, I’d better get to the track. Great seeing you.” They gave each other cousinly hugs.

  “Give my best to your parents.”

  Fabrizio rolled his eyes, picked up his sack, and walked away. Rick was still shaking his head when Betta appeared, a magazine in her hand.

  He raised his hand to get the attention of the barman. “Betta, we’re going to have a prosecco for the road.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Uncle Piero’s restaurant selection was tied to a police investigation at the north side of Rome’s centro storico. A woman had been found dead in an apartment at a bend in the Tiber across from the Palace of Justice. The location was ironic, since the deceased was the estranged wife of an undersecretary of the Justice Ministry. Any similar case would have brought in a precinct detective, but at the request of the minister himself, Commissario Piero Fontana was assigned to investigate. He was not happy, but now pushed work from his mind to enjoy lunch with his nephew, their first since Rick had returned from Orvieto. They sat in La Campana, which had started life as an inn, and now claimed to be the oldest restaurant in the city. As befitted an establishment that had been on site for almost half a millennium, the menu was Roman. As was the clientele.

  Rick observed that no one in the room was dressed more elegantly than his uncle, despite Piero having come directly from a crime scene. No surprise there. Today a bright paisley tie over a dark blue shirt contrasted with a subtle glen plaid jacket that could have had elbow patches but didn’t. A solid red handkerchief peeked from the jacket pocket, picking up the colors of the tie which would soon be covered with a white napkin.

  Normally Rick and Piero skipped anything resembling antipasto and went directly to the pasta course, but one of the specialties here was the carciofi alla giudia, artichokes fried to a crispness that made them crunch at the bite, so they succumbed. For primo, Piero tried to talk Rick into joining him again, with tagliolini con alici e pecorino. Rick, not a fan of anything with anchovies, opted for the spaghetti alle vongole, always done to perfection at La Campana. The choice of a main dish, if there was to be one, would wait until after the first two courses. The seafood in the pasta choices called for a white wine. Assuming that Rick had tasted enough Orvieto Classico on his trip, Piero selected a bottle from another part of Umbria, a smooth Montefalco Bianco. They were halfway through it when the waiter removed their empty artichoke dishes.

  “Riccardo, I think you can take at least partial credit for your cousin’s decision.”

  “How do you figure that, Zio?”

  “You are family to him. He said he came to the realization that family is important. You being there helped put the thought into his thick, young head.”

  Rick chuckled. “That’s a bit of a stretch. More likely is that he saw the handwriting on the wall when Tullia invited her sister to stay with her. He saw that it was over.”

  “Perhaps they were both looking for an excuse to end it. Let’s hope so, for Fabrizio’s sake.”

  Piero took a drink of his wine. “What I hope is that the knowledge the boy learned from the experience was not solely carnal. Some his age are mature beyond their years, while others give the impression they will never grow up. I fear that your cousin is in the latter category.” He waved his hand. “But I would rather talk about the exploits of my other nephew.”

  “We’re back to the murder case.”

  “Exactly.”

  The pasta arrived, suspending the conversation momentarily. Steam rose from both the fettuccine and the spaghetti as the dishes were placed in front of them, and with it their delicate aromas. The waiter added a small plate for Rick’s empty clam shells and retired. Grated cheese was neither expected nor offered.

  “We did some digging into Mayor Boscoli’s past,” Piero said after his first bite. “There was a period after he graduated from the liceo, and before the university, that was a blank. It coincided with the time of the Milan bank robbery. After getting his degree here in Rome at La Sapienza he went back to Orvieto and opened a practice. He also started investing in real estate.”

  “Paolo said Boscoli owned a lot of property in town. So how can a guy fresh out of the university afford to buy buildings? Family money?”
/>   “That was my thought as well. No, he came from modest means. While it is impossible to know if the money he used to buy the property in Orvieto was stolen, I think it’s highly likely it came from the robbery. The records of the sales only show the amount, not how it was paid. It could have been in small bills for all we know.”

  “And since he’s dead, we’ll never find out. What is happening with Aragona?”

  “He’s incarcerated here, but it may be a while before he comes to trial. He hired a lawyer who I thought only worked for Mafiosi, and he doesn’t come cheap.”

  “He can afford it. That’s for the homicide charge, which don’t include his problems with the Guardia di Finanza. By the way, were they responsible for the gap in his criminal file?”

  “They were. And the word is they were about to stage an early morning raid on his premises. The Guardia loves pre-dawn raids. He was shipping wine to Germany under his expensive labels but the bottles contained something of much lower quality. Surprisingly, some German must have noticed. So he has a separate set of lawyers for each case. When it’s all over, there will have been a large transfer of funds from Aragona’s accounts to the legal profession.”

  “I wonder if Tullia had her money in a separate bank.”

  The policeman shrugged.

  “The one hero in this was Morgante,” Rick said, “and he will benefit the most.”

  “The pharmacist who took the bullet in the cathedral?”

  “Right. LoGuercio tells me he is now the town hero for protecting the cultural patrimony of the city. With the removal of Boscoli, the town council unanimously voted him in as mayor, even those who were in Boscoli’s coalition. There’s talk of him running for parliament in the next national election.”

  The dish next to Rick’s pasta plate was filling with the empty shells at the same rate that the spaghetti was disappearing into his mouth. Piero filled his nephew’s wineglass and returned to his pasta. He was about to speak when a balding man being led to his table by the waiter tapped him on the shoulder. Piero nodded in a formal way and the man continued through the room. Rick guessed it was a politician, but Piero didn’t say, instead returning to the subject at hand.