Nico flicked the switch and watched as the glass bowls of three brass lamps slowly lit up his new home. Brick flooring in both rooms, as well as ceiling beams cut from discarded wooden railroad tracks. In a corner of the main room, a large cast-iron wood stove. In the cold months, the balcony would hold enough wood to get him through the winter. The wall abutting the bedroom and bathroom held a blackened stone fireplace the farmer’s wife must have used for cooking. There was no stove when Nico stumbled on the house on one of his long walks. Aldo had planned to demolish the place and build two apartments, but he didn’t have the money for it, and so they agreed on a five-year lease. Nico had chosen the place not in spite of but because it belonged to another time—and needed a good cleaning, a new bathroom, a brand-new stove. He would fix it up, maybe in the process fixing himself.
The work on the house was almost finished now. He wanted winter to arrive so he could see what more he needed to do. Nico quietly opened the balcony door and checked on his three swallows. They were home, asleep.
All was well, except for a man whose face had been blown off. Lying awake in bed, Nico found himself reliving his discovery. Would the poor man find justice? In his career as a detective, too many crimes had gone unsolved.
In his sleep, Nico dreamt the dog climbed into the bed and slept at his feet, keeping them warm.
Perillo parked the carabinieri’s Alfa Romeo in Gravigna’s main piazza. He wanted his presence noted. It was his wife who had suggested he wear his uniform to make his visit to the town more official. A murder had been committed nearby, and the townsfolk needed reassurance. The weather helped, with clear skies and a light breeze that would later take the bite out of a hot sun. Perillo checked his watch. Eight forty-five. He’d timed his arrival well. By now, the grade-school children would be in class halfway up the hill, and the older kids in their high school in Greve. Not being a parent, he was awkward at dealing with children. The parents would reassure them far better than he could.
“Buongiorno,” Perillo said, tilting his hat to the foursome of old men sitting on the benches surrounding the fountain. They were typically a happy lot, grateful to be alive, to be able to discuss the Viola, the Florentine soccer team, their ailments and what they’d eaten the night before.
As soon as he approached them, they crowded around him, assailed him with questions.
“Who was the victim?” “Was he a local, an Italian tourist, a foreigner?” “There’s a rumor he was a rich American. Is it true?” “Should we lock our doors at night?” “Was the dead man robbed?” “Was it a hunting accident?” “Are you going to find out who killed him?”
“Of course, I am,” Perillo said, waving down their questions with his arms. “I assure you, this is not a random killing. Nothing was stolen. You are not in danger. But it’s important that if you see something, hear something, know something, please come forward.”
Perillo watched the foursome go back to their benches, shaking their heads and muttering, unconvinced.
Carletta, the lavender-haired waitress of the trattoria facing the piazza, was readying the outside tables for lunch. “Keep me safe,” she called out as Perillo walked by. If she was afraid, her smile masked it well.
A truck parked on the other side of the street was making its weekly delivery to Luciana’s tiny flower shop. Luciana seemed too busy with the delivery of her beloved flowers and plants to worry about murder at the moment.
A few doors down from Luciana, Bar All’Angolo was crowded with locals in a huddle at the far end of the long space, hands gesticulating in the air as they argued, questioned, pontificated about the murder. Perillo walked in. The tourists, seemingly ignorant of the news, sat near the open French doors and enjoyed cappuccinos and hot cornetti. Sandro, the tall, handsome co-owner of the café, stood behind the cash register, ringing up orders, dispensing change, selling bus tickets to Florence and the neighboring towns. Jimmy, the other co-owner and Sandro’s husband, manned the espresso machine and the oven.
Perillo went straight to the group of locals at the back of the bar. He knew these men and women had come to the café to share their curiosity and their fears. It was his job to make them feel safe again.
Perillo repeated what he’d said to the foursome outside.
A few of his cycling pals contributed their own words. “Salvatore will find the killer in no time. Let’s stay calm. We’re in good hands.”
Some nodded. Others looked skeptical.
Perillo raised his hands again. “I’m sorry, I have no information to give you right now. I can promise you this. I will discover who the murdered man is and find his killer.” God willing, he thought as his stomach fluttered with doubt. Why was he so dumb as to ever promise anything? “What is most important is that if you come to know anything, no matter how trivial it might seem, please let me know. Call me or come by the station if you want privacy. Is that understood?”
Everyone nodded.
“Good. Now go on with your day.”
The group seemed more relaxed as they edged away from him. Perillo thanked his cycling friends for their trust in him. They were all going off to train for the big amateur race at the end of the month. He would have loved to have donned his racing gear and gone off with them, but until this murder was solved, his five-speed Bianchi Vittoria would be staying at the station.
“You’ve got a big one in your hands this time,” Jimmy said. “Here, console yourself with this.” Jimmy handed him a sugar-covered ciambella. “Espresso corrected with grappa, coming up. Breakfast is on us.”
“Thanks.” Perillo took a big bite and let the cream filling ooze down his throat. He needed the consolation after the promise he had just made. Last night’s visit to Aldo’s three male neighbors had yielded a zero. The search for the jeweler who might have sold the bracelet he’d found in the victim’s pocket hadn’t yielded any results yet. Two hotels had each reported one missing male guest and three female guests. Perillo didn’t worry about the missing women, at least not yet. He hoped, with all his heart, that their absence was due only to the joys of the Chianti vino and the attraction of the Italian male. The two missing men had gotten his hopes up.
Perillo had sent Daniele on his motorbike to the first hotel in Radda in Chianti. He’d picked the Panzano hotel because it was on the way to Gravigna. While he was en route, both hotels called within ten minutes of each other to say their missing guests had stumbled back in and were fast asleep in their rooms. He immediately called Daniele but got no answer. He blamed it on the young man’s motorbike making too much noise and texted him instead: go back to greve. the florentine jewelers list is waiting for you.
Perillo looked around the room. Could his killer be among the many locals who kept running in for that quick boost of espresso, then back to their jobs? They were good, hardworking people, from what he knew of them. The hunters among them aimed their rifles at boars, shotguns at hares and birds. To blast a man’s face off took so much rage. Where could that come from? Greed? Then why leave an expensive watch on the man’s wrist? Jealousy? Revenge? No, those gold shoes excluded a local.
Perillo’s thoughts were interrupted by Beppe, a slouchy eighteen-year-old, rushing in and shouting, “Two espressos in paper cups!” like his life depended on it. “Double the cups, so I don’t burn my fingers.”
Sandro took Beppe’s five-euro note and gave him change. “Our espressos taste better with a ‘please’ after the order.”
Beppe pocketed the coins and picked up the cups. “What century do you live in?” He spotted Perillo. “Salve, Salvo.” He grinned at his own bad pun.
“Salve to you.” Perillo hated the nickname Salvo but let the kid feel clever. He was sure it didn’t happen too often.
“Have you solved that murder yet?” Beppe asked.
“In fact, I’m here to arrest you.”
Beppe’s eyes opened wide. The tiny coffee cups in his
hands trembled.
Behind the cash register, Sandro laughed. “Come on, Salvatore’s kidding.”
Beppe blinked. The cups steadied. “That’s not funny.”
“Neither are you,” said Jimmy over the sound of steam foaming up milk for a cappuccino.
“I don’t try to be,” the young man said in his defense. He turned back to Perillo. “So who’s the dead guy? I bet him and the killer are somebody we know.” Beppe looked around the room, his face flushed with excitement. The bar had thinned out. Only a few tourists remained. “That would be something, eh?” he said, looking back at Perillo. “Every newspaper in the country would write about us.”
“La Nazione already has.” Nelli, who ran the art center, was reading about the murder in one of the copies of the Florentine paper the café provided for its customers. “What I don’t understand is, why would a grown man wear gold sneakers?” A woman in her forties, with pale blue eyes, a welcoming face, and a long braid of graying blond hair, she favored muted colors in her wardrobe and her landscapes.
“To hide the grave sin he visited on another,” Gogol announced as he shuffled into the bar, wearing a heavy overcoat and bringing with him the usual overpowering smell of cheap cologne. Luckily, most tourists considered him an added attraction, some asking to take his photo. He was a gentleman somewhere in his seventies who liked to wander through the town, offering to quote any verse from The Divine Comedy for a euro. It was the overcoat he could not part with, even in the worst summer heat, that had given him his nickname. Almost no one remembered his real name.
“What sins are you hiding underneath that coat?” Nelli asked. She had offered to buy him a new one countless times and been refused. The one Gogol wore looked as old and wrinkled as he was. At least they were both clean, thanks to the staff at the old-age home on the outskirts of town.
“No sin, gentle lady. It keeps my dreams safe.”
“What dreams can you have?” Beppe asked in a tone Perillo instantly disliked.
“Dreams of a blameless life.”
“Beppe,” the maresciallo called out, “why don’t you bring your mother her espressos before they’re too cold to drink?”
Beppe caught the hint with a disgruntled look on his face. As he stepped out of the open door, Gogol quoted his favorite poet. “‘I understood that to this punishment are damned the carnal sinners who let pleasure vanquish reason.’ I offer this verse for no charge except ‘a resting space bestowed.’”
Gogol walked to a table by the open French doors. Some people thought him stupid or mentally disabled, and no, he wasn’t as quick as the lizards he’d tried to catch as a boy, but he did know Sandro and Jimmy wanted him to sit near the open air. He sat and took a bite of one of the many crostini he had taken from Sergio Macchi, the butcher, who handed them out to anyone who walked into his shop, along with a glass of red wine. This one was with lard, like the ones Gogol’s mother used to make for him. He opened a napkin, placed a salame crostino in the exact center and pushed it in front of the opposite chair.
Jimmy leaned and whispered to Perillo, “That’s for his new friend. Five minutes maximum till Nico walks in.”
“How do you know?” Perillo asked.
“They’ve bonded. Nico treats him to breakfast every morning. He says Gogol reminds him of his wife.”
“That bad?”
“No, Rita was all of one piece. It’s because she liked to quote Dante a lot.”
“I’m glad he’s coming. It’s time I get better acquainted with Gogol’s new friend.” Perillo left the café to light a cigarette and wait.
OneWag saw him first. The dog scurried across the piazza on his short legs, fluffy tail high in the air. Nico turned a corner, running after him and yelling.
Perillo laughed as the dog stopped at his feet and sniffed his shoes. Sleek black leather ones this time. The dog licked a drop of cream from the left shoe, then sat down. Perillo bent down and scratched behind the dog’s ears.
Nico reached the sidewalk out of breath. “That’s the first and last time this dog is tricking me.”
“Buongiorno, Nico.” Perillo put out his cigarette against the wall. Americans detested smoking. “I think you have a rascal on your hands.”
“Sorry. Buongiorno, Maresciallo. I was afraid he’d get run over.”
“Salvatore. The formalities are over. From now on, let’s proceed on a first-name basis.”
From now on? Proceed? Nico had the distinct feeling Perillo now knew he’d been a homicide detective—easy enough to find out on the Internet. The good, at least. Maybe not the bad. “Okay, Salvatore it is.” Maresciallo Perillo was a mouthful.
Perillo saw Nico’s recognition. He needed to tread carefully. He wished them to be friends first of all, even though he’d met this ex–homicide detective only the day before. He sensed they shared a love of justice. He didn’t know why Nico had been forcibly retired from the police force, but he was convinced that whatever Nico had done had been done for a good reason. Perillo always prided himself on being a strong judge of character. This man was also clearly tutto di un pezzo, all of one piece. To ease the tension, he looked down at the dog, busy gnawing at a paw. “No leash?”
“I wasn’t planning to take him anywhere,” Nico said. “He slipped into the car without my noticing and jumped out before I had the chance to stop him.”
“He probably doesn’t need one. Strays know how to take care of themselves.” The dog stopped gnawing and looked up at him. “Clever mutt knows he’s being talked about.” Perillo bent down, gave the dog another scratch behind his ear and said, “Sharing a cup of coffee comes with the elimination of formalities.”
Befriend the dog, befriend the owner, was that what Perillo was up to? What Nico wanted was for Maresciallo Perillo to leave him alone.
Gogol waved from the open French door. “Ciao, amico.”
Nico waved back with a big smile. He’d just been given an excuse. “Thanks for the offer. Maybe some other time? I don’t want to disappoint Gogol.”
“Of course. Some other time.” Perillo held out his hand. Nico shook it and strode inside the café, followed by OneWag, his nails clicking against the tile floor. In the States, dogs got kicked out of communal spaces, but this café was a free country. “Buongiorno, Sandro, Jimmy. The usual for both of us.”
“Salve” came from both. He gave Sandro exact change. Jimmy called out, “One Americano, one doppio espresso corretto and four whole wheat cornetti coming up!”
The few remaining locals in the café turned to look at Nico. Stared more than looked. He steeled himself against the questions that he was sure were coming. Tragedy, for most people, was always followed by a nasty, all-consuming curiosity. Murder in a small, quiet village would prompt the ultimate version of this.
A couple of men nodded at him by way of saying hello. After a long minute, they turned back to whatever they were having, murmuring amongst themselves.
Nico relaxed as he realized he’d been wrong. They were certainly curious, but they didn’t ask. Maybe out of respect, but probably because he was not one of them.
As Nico walked over to Gogol’s table, Perillo made his way to the parking lot behind Macelleria Macchi. He would try again tomorrow. Maybe by then, he would have some concrete details about the murder to offer the American detective. As Perillo took out his keys, his phone vibrated in his back pocket. Perillo slipped it out and swiped a finger across the screen. “Yes, Daniele, what is it?”
“I kicked the ball in the net.” The loud excitement in his voice reverberated in Perillo’s ear.
“Calm down, I can hear you. You found the jeweler who sold the bracelet?”
“Yes, but not in Florence. Here in Radda. Gioielleria Crisani. It’s just past the Fattoria Vignale hotel. I know you told me to go back to the office, but I thought since I was here . . .” Daniele stopped and waited for the r
eprimand.
Perillo was thrilled but wasn’t going to let it show. “This time you got results. Next time, check with me first. I’m coming to talk to them, but first I have to go back and get the bracelet.”
“I have it with me.”
“Ah.” Perillo held back from saying “Good.” Daniele was young and needed reining in. Not unlike Nico’s stray. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Nico sat down across from the old man wrapped in his overcoat. The pungent smell of his cologne was almost gone, thanks to the fresh air coming in from the open doors.
Gogol nudged his chin toward the salame crostino in front of Nico.
“Thank you.” He wrapped the crostino in the napkin. “I’ll eat it later.” He could smell the cornetti coming out of the oven. “I’m sorry I didn’t show up yesterday.”
“We took care of him,” Jimmy called out.
“Thanks. I’ll pay.”
“No need,” Sandro said. “You’re a good customer.”
“You did not appear because,” Gogol said, “‘the river of blood draws near, wherein are boiling those who harm others by violence.’”
Nico picked up the words “blood” and “violence.” “Yes, there was a murder.”
Jimmy carried over a tray with their breakfast, to which he’d added a jar of his homemade raspberry jam. Nico watched Gogol grin with happiness as he slathered jam onto his hot cornetto. It was a sight that started Nico’s mornings on good footing. Too bad he’d needed to roast the tomatoes yesterday instead of coming to the bar. He would have made Gogol happy, and someone else would’ve found the body. He picked up his own cornetto.
Gogol pressed a finger on the back of his friend’s hand. Nico understood that he was about to say something he considered important. Two days ago, Gogol had pressed his finger on Nico’s forearm before revealing that his mother didn’t know who his father was, but God had forgiven her, and she was in Dante’s Paradiso with the poet.
Murder in Chianti Page 5