Murder in Chianti

by Camilla Trinchieri

  “Let me do this.” Nico slid the pan of zucchini lasagna ready for the oven to one side and stood next to Tilde.

  She handed him the knife. “Very thin. And don’t forget the lemon.”

  “Yes, I know, I know.” It wasn’t the first time he’d done the slicing. “I’m aware that news travels fast in a small town, but how did Elvira know about the socks and shoes?”

  Tilde waved a dismissive hand in the air. “She found out from Gianni. He works for Aldo. I thought you knew that.”

  Gianni was Stella’s boyfriend, a handsome young man with the arrogance of youth. Stella liked him as much as Tilde disliked him. Tilde stirred a pot of cooling navy beans that she would serve with tuna and the sweet red onions from Certaldo, Boccaccio’s hometown. Beans of any kind were a staple of Tuscan cooking.

  Tilde offered him a spoonful of the beans. “You need reinforcement after what you’ve been through. Help yourself to anything.”

  He was being offered food as tranquilizer. Looking would have to be enough for now.

  Next to the pot was another Tuscan staple, also a Sotto Il Fico bestseller—pappa al pomodoro, a thick soup of stale bread, tomatoes, garlic, basil and vegetable broth, topped by a generous squiggle of extra virgin olive oil. Tilde’s pappa surpassed all the others he and Rita had tasted over the years. If Tilde had a secret ingredient, she didn’t share. Every time he walked into the kitchen, no matter the time, the pappa was already made.

  Tilde saw him eyeing the pot. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you,” she said.

  “I won’t hold my breath.”

  “That’s wise. Does Salvatore know you were a police officer?”

  “No, and you’re not going to tell him. You’re on a first-name basis with him too?”

  “Everyone knows him. He goes to Bar All’Angolo whenever he gets a chance. That’s where the cyclists hang out. He’s an avid cyclist. He and his pals sometimes drop by for a late lunch after a Sunday race.”

  Cycling was an Italian passion, Nico had quickly discovered on his first visit. On the weekends, there wasn’t a road in Tuscany that wasn’t overrun by racing bikes either whizzing downhill or straining uphill.

  Tilde said, “You must have seen him before.”

  “He did look familiar.”

  “Salvatore Perillo is a good man. Solid.” She turned to look at Nico. She had a small face with wide, caramel-colored eyes that softened her severe expression. The red cotton scarf wound around her head covered the same beautiful long, chestnut-brown hair that had been Rita’s pride before it turned gray. Tilde was forty-one, and her hair had not lost its rich color. She had been a stunning, smiling beauty in the photos Nico had seen of her as a teenager. With the passing years, her soft beauty had changed into something harsher, unsmiling. And yet she claimed to be happy. Rita had blamed the change on too much work.

  Tilde wiped her hands on the long white apron that sheathed her perfectly ironed beige cotton dress. Nico had never seen her in slacks or in a wrinkled item of clothing.

  “You could help him solve the crime,” she said.

  “Why?” The last of the mushrooms were done. He picked up a green apple.

  He wanted to add I have no experience in solving crimes, but Tilde didn’t deserve a lie. The omission was bad enough. Tilde had never been told he’d moved from being a uniform to homicide detective.

  When he’d protested years ago, Rita said, “You don’t know Italians. All they’ll want to talk about are your cases. It would ruin our vacation. You deal with such gruesome, ugly stuff, and I’ll never understand how you stomach it.”

  He’d been angry at the time, unaware until then how much she disliked his new job. He didn’t have much stomach either for the gruesome part of homicide, he explained, but he wanted to right what was wrong, give the victims’ families justice.

  Rita accused him of wanting to play God. He reminded her a detective’s salary was better than a patrolman’s. They’d hoped to start a family. Twenty years had passed since then.

  Tilde opened a big jar of Sicilian yellowfin tuna. “We need this murder solved quickly. The whole town is scared, excited, curious. Enzo’s phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I had to turn mine off. Just what we need right now, for the tourists to get scared and leave. Besides, I’m worried you’ll get bored and go back to America.”

  “It’s hard to be bored in such a beautiful place,” Nico said. He was sad at times, which was to be expected. His footing here wasn’t solid yet, but he was working on it. When he wasn’t helping out at the restaurant one of his three shifts a week, he walked the streets, listening, striking up conversations at the bar, at the newsstand, at the trattoria in the piazza. He had nothing to take him back to New York. His police career was over. “You’re the only family I’ve got, and I’m staying right here. I like helping you with the restaurant.”

  “But I feel bad I can’t pay you.”

  “What I need is friendship, not money. Besides, you feed me when I’m here.”

  “We close in October and won’t reopen until April. What will you do then? Of course, you’re welcome to eat with us anytime you want, but still, the winter months here can feel very long.”

  “I’ll perfect my cooking skills and hire myself out to the competition.”

  “Such a man. Your dish tonight better be good.”

  “It will be. I wish I could reassure Stella she has nothing to be scared of.” He’d been watching her weave through the tables with sagging shoulders, head down.

  “It’s not the murder. She had a fight with Gianni.”

  “Serious?”

  “Very, and I hope she has enough sense to break it off.”

  “That’s harsh. She loves him.”

  “She’ll get over it.”

  Tilde’s angry tone made Nico pause and study her. He knew she loved her daughter very much, and he wondered what could make her dismiss Stella’s feelings so quickly. He watched her put the zucchini lasagna in the oven and waited.

  She slammed the door shut. “Stop staring at me. I’m not a witch. Stella has a university degree in art history, but Gianni wants her to stay here and be a waitress. Yesterday she disobeyed him and went to Florence to apply for the competition exam to be a museum guard.”

  “I would think her degree was enough.” From what he’d seen of Italian museum guards, all they did was sit in a chair and make sure visitors didn’t get too close to the art. At least they had the advantage of sitting, a privilege American guards didn’t seem to have.

  “All state jobs can only be won by passing a competition with flying colors,” Tilde said. “Even if Stella gets top marks, there’s no guarantee she’ll get it. Here, people get ahead because of nepotism or bribes. Stella wanted to teach art at the university level, but her professor wasn’t esteemed enough to mentor her, so now we have to pin our hopes on the guard job. A state job is good. I think they have about twenty openings and more than three thousand people are applying. I don’t hold much hope, but at least she should be encouraged to try. Gianni told her he’d leave her if she got the job.”

  “He’s just scared of losing her.”

  She pointed a serving fork at Nico, eyes narrowed. “Don’t you side with him.”

  It was the first time he had seen her this upset. “I’m just saying. Want me to talk to him?”

  “No. I want her to get to her senses and leave him.” Laughter and German words drifted in from the front room.

  “Enough talk,” Tilde said. “Our first lunch guests are here.”

  “I’ll help Stella serve.”

  “You’re a gift from God,” Tilde said with a peck on his cheek and a push out the door.

  There had been quite a crowd at lunch today, thankfully unaware of the murder in the area. Nico and Stella were too busy rushing about to talk to each other until it was time for him to go to the carabi
nieri station. The maresciallo was waiting for him by now, but Stella was more important. They had just finished clearing all the tables. He took her hand and led her to a seat under the shade of the fig tree. Before sitting down, he kissed her cheek. “How are you?”

  Stella was almost a young replica of Tilde. The same oval shape of the face, full mouth, straight nose, a fair, clear complexion, thick chestnut-brown hair she had just had cut to intentionally uneven lengths, one side covering her ear and the other barely touching the top of her ear. Nico had watched Tilde blanch when Stella came back from the hairdresser. “Good cut” had been her only comment. What was different was the color of her eyes, a transparent jade green that no one else in the family claimed.

  Stella furrowed her brow. “Did Mamma ask you to talk to me?”

  “No. My feet hurt, and I want to see that beautiful smile of yours.”

  She responded with a quick, throaty laugh. “Sorry, I’ve dropped it somewhere and now I can’t find it.” She leaned over the chair and clasped her arms around his neck. “Poor Nico, it must have been terrible for you. Weren’t you scared?”

  “No reason to be. He was dead. I would say repulsed is more accurate. What’s truly horrible is the cruelty we are capable of.”

  She dropped her arms. Fingers started twisting at the hem of her top. “It’s scary. You found him in the woods behind Aldo’s place, right? Mamma has always forbidden me from going there by myself. I don’t know why. Nothing bad’s happened there before today. Gianni thinks it’s just a power play on her part. Says it’s a great place to pick mushrooms.”

  “And I suspect a good place for lovers too.”

  Stella shook her head. No smile, no blush. “There are other places. I do wish Mamma and Gianni got along. I feel pulled in two.”

  “She’s thinking of your future.”

  “I know. So am I, and Gianni’s being a perfect pill about it. Zio Nico, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I am, and please don’t be scared. The carabinieri will find the killer quickly.” Nico stood up. “Ciao, my bella. Thanks for worrying about me.” He kissed her cheeks. “See you tonight. You’ll have to tell me if you like my dish.”

  She stood up too, pulled the now wrinkled hem of her top down over her jeans. “I’m sure it will be delicious, and there will be none left for us.” The shadow of her beautiful smile appeared on her face.

  “Ah, the light is coming back.”

  “Your doing. I love you.”

  “Me too.”

  A quick hug and he walked away. He was going to be very late for his appointment.

  Nico got on the panoramic 222 road that snaked from Siena through the Chianti hills, ending just south of Florence. The 500 started belching as soon as he floored it, and what should have taken only fifteen minutes took twice that. He knew from the start that the price Enzo had asked for the car was over-the-top, but they both understood that Enzo was asking for help in buying a new espresso machine for the restaurant, and Nico had gladly paid. Now he felt like cursing.

  Once on the main road in Greve, the car stopped belching, but traffic slowed to bumper-to-bumper pace. He read the banner flying over the street. The reason for the traffic jam became clear. The Chianti Classico Expo, the biggest wine-tasting event in the region, was starting in three days. As he neared the intersection that led to the big medieval piazza that was the heart of the town, he heard shouting punctuated by hammer blows. He had read about the event in the local paper, but this morning’s discovery had wiped it from his mind. Even if he’d remembered, he hadn’t been about to leave Stella with more than thirty diners to take care of all by herself. For once, even Enzo had been busy pouring glasses of wine and making espresso drinks at the bar. There was nothing Nico could do about it now. The maresciallo would understand. Or not. He didn’t care. This was a courtesy. Anyway, Italians were always late.

  The red light was taking forever to change, and he couldn’t see any signs telling him where to go. Nico leaned out the window and asked a woman overloaded with shopping bags where he could find the carabinieri station.

  The middle-aged woman, dressed in a rumpled yellow linen suit, beamed at him. “Ah, thank the heavens. I will show you.” She quickly walked in front of his car, opened the passenger door, pushed the bags to the floor, and dropped herself onto the seat. There was barely enough room for her.

  Nico stared. She smiled. “Trust me.”

  He hated those two words because they rarely delivered, but her face was kind, which reassured him. Not that he thought he was being carjacked. Manipulated, maybe.

  The light changed to green.

  “Turn right here,” the woman said, pointing a red-nailed finger. “Cross the bridge. Turn left at the next street. See the sign?” She said it slowly, in a soft, low voice, as if addressing a foreign child. His accent had given him away.

  Nico did as she said. Halfway up the hill, she asked him to stop. “I live in that villino.” She extended a hand to him. “Maria Dorsetti.” Nico shook it and mumbled his name. Something about this woman flustered him.

  She did not ask him to repeat it. “Thank you for saving me the climb. At the top of the hill, turn right, then left. You’ll see a café to your left, a park to your right. The carabinieri station is just across the street from the park. I hope your business with them is not unpleasant.” She tilted her head, waiting for him to respond.

  He said, “Thank you.”

  Clearly disappointed by his terseness, she gathered her shopping bags and struggled to get out of the small car. She waved at Nico as he took off.

  As he climbed the hill, he noticed in his rearview mirror that she stayed on the sidewalk and watched him drive off. Nico remembered the time he and Rita had gotten lost trying to find Dal Papavero, a famous restaurant in a village above Gaiole in Chianti. Rita had asked for directions from the only person they could find on the road—a teenager kicking around a soccer ball. The boy offered to take them there. Rita accepted before Nico could stop her. “He’s going to take us where he wants to go,” he had muttered in English. Rita had laughed, her way of shutting him up. The boy got in the backseat, gave Rita directions, and seven winding uphill kilometers later, Dal Papavero came into view. The boy didn’t live in the tiny town, wouldn’t accept a meal or money. He said he did it because they were lost and he was bored. Rita watched him kick his ball back down the hill.

  With dessert, a delicious torta della nonna, “grandmother’s cake,” Nico had gotten a lecture on trust.

  “Buona sera, Signor Doyle.” Perillo stood behind a large desk placed at the end of a deep room. The distance from door to desk gave him the time to study the people who came to complain, snitch, lie, or tell the truth. It gave him a head start.

  Perillo watched the tall man stride confidently into the room. Not smiling, but at ease with his surroundings. Most people, even honest ones, were nervous walking into the carabinieri station for the first time. Not this man. Perillo had discovered several interesting facts about Signor Doyle, thanks to the Internet.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. I wasn’t expecting so much traffic.”

  “An apology is not necessary. Your dog is waiting for you under the desk. He behaved very well.”

  “Hi, pal.” Nico bent down.

  The dog ignored him. His coat had turned into sparkling white fluff. His paws were clean too. Some fur had been trimmed off.

  “Somebody gave you a bath.” He reached down and stroked the dog’s long ears. “You look good.”

  Still no response. Was he hurt? “What did you do to him?”

  “The technicians examined him with great regard. His fur was carefully combed out to catch whatever might have been trapped there. His paws meticulously scrubbed. I do not believe he will solve our murder, but it is best to be thorough. We also took an imprint of your boots. As you seemed anxious about the dog, I brought him b
ack to your house when they were through. You weren’t present, so he came here. I was afraid he might run away. I left your boots by your doorstep.”

  “I was at Sotto Il Fico.”

  “Good restaurant, but I find their zucchini lasagna too thin. Only three layers of pasta, no tomatoes, no ricotta, just zucchini, herbs and béchamel. A poor man’s meal, which is what Tuscan food is all about, after all. In the South, where we are far poorer than the Tuscans, our lasagna are small mountains of pasta filled with a richness for which we can only thank Apollo, the sun god.”

  “You washed him.”

  It sounded like an accusation, something Perillo was used to from indignant tourists and, too often, his wife. “My wife took it upon herself. We live upstairs. I didn’t think you would mind. He needed it badly.” He said it with a slight reproach in his voice. Tit for tat. “She also shined your boots.”

  “Please thank her for me. Let’s get on with the deposition, then.” Nico’s tone was brusque. The maresciallo supposed it was easier to be annoyed with him than with the mutt.

  He pointed to a chair on Nico’s side of the desk. “Please, sit.”

  Nico sat down, taking care to make sure his feet didn’t hit the dog. He heard voices coming from another room. He wondered how many carabinieri worked here. Perillo pulled up a wooden armchair to the other side of the desk and sat down. “Would you like to dictate to Daniele?”

  At the sound of his name, the young man who had been at the wheel of the blue Alfa Romeo appeared from another room in his well-pressed summer uniform—lightweight black slacks and a blue short-sleeved shirt. “Good day, Maresciallo.” He took his place in front of the computer at the far end of the room.

  “He’ll transcribe your words directly into the computer. He’s very skilled.” It was thanks to Daniele’s ability to navigate the mysterious web that Perillo had discovered Conor Domenico Doyle’s interesting past. The name Conor was on his birth certificate. But by the time he’d joined the police force, Conor had disappeared from his name. Why erase a name? Daniele had unearthed more. The Venetian police weren’t the only ones with a computer expert on staff.