Murder in Chianti

by Camilla Trinchieri

  Nico prepared himself for another quote he would not understand, but this man deserved to be listened to. “Yes, tell me.”

  “The dead man is a not a good man,” Gogol said. “Better dead.”

  Nico put his food back on the plate and looked into Gogol’s water-blue eyes. People said the old man was simple, but anyone who quoted Dante at will had to have some intelligence. “You know who he is?”

  “Stay away. He will hurt you.” Gogol rubbed his hands over his face as if needing to wipe it clean.

  “The dead man will hurt me?”

  “Salvatore. Stay away.”

  “Why?”

  “Bad man.”

  “Why is the maresciallo a bad man?”

  “No!” Gogol slapped his hand on the table, spilling his coffee. It dripped onto the floor. “I go now. Tomorrow, if I live.” It was his usual way of signing off.

  “You will live, and you will tell me more tomorrow.”

  “‘Through me is the way to the lost people,’” Gogol quoted, as he tightened his coat around his body and slowly made his way out of the café.

  “Don’t take him seriously. He’s the lost one, unfortunately.” Sandro brought over a mop and started wiping the floor. “You’re manna from heaven for him. Not just because you feed him. Not many people really listen to him. They might give him a euro but they don’t hear a word. I’m surprised you understand Dante’s Italian. I had a tough time with it in school.”

  “I only catch words, not whole sentences. I tried to read The Divine Comedy in English to make my wife happy, but gave up pretty quickly.”

  “And yet you listen. Good for you.”

  “The man deserves that much.” What Nico really listened for was the words between the quotes, the man behind the Dante screen. He hadn’t found him yet. And what did Gogol have against the maresciallo?

  “Has Gogol ever had trouble with the law?” Nico asked Sandro.

  “No. We’d know if he had.”

  Jimmy, who was washing down the counter with a sponge, joined in. “In this town, even your farts aren’t secret. Not that anyone really cares. Live and let live. You picked a good place to live.”

  “I know.” Live and let live was exactly what he needed. Nico stood up, and OneWag followed his lead.

  Sandro moved the pail out of Nico’s way. “Don’t worry about what Gogol said. He and Salvatore get along fine, but since he really likes you, please do us all the favor of smashing that cologne bottle of his.”

  “I can try to talk him out of using it.”

  Jimmy laughed. “You’ve got as much a chance at that as winning the lottery.”

  FOUR

  The historical center of Radda, the medieval heart of Chianti, was a pedestrian-only zone. Perillo drove down one tree-lined viale that skirted the village, then back up the other side. As he expected, no free parking spots. September, with weather that restored the soul after the gagging heat of August, was his favorite month, but also the month the tourists poured in, thanks to the mild sun and all the wine and food festivals. They brought in much-needed money, but Perillo resented their taking over as though the place was theirs. His wife’s complaints didn’t help. Endless lines at the food shops, crowded cafés, bread selling out early, the best tomatoes gone, restaurants reserved weeks ahead when it had always been possible to reserve the very same day. Not that he ever took his wife out to a restaurant.

  Lost in the iniquities brought on by tourists, Perillo drove right by his uniformed brigadiere standing in front of Gioielleria Crisani.

  Daniele waved. “Maresciallo!”

  Perillo saw Daniele in his rearview mirror and braked. The Fiat behind him swerved to avoid hitting the carabinieri car. Perillo shrugged an apology as the driver passed him, holding back what Perillo knew was a deserved vaffanculo. He turned off the motor, got out and joined Daniele, who was looking at his double-parked car with dismay. Perillo didn’t care. Double parking was a privilege that came with the job. It was unfortunate that everyone else thought they had the same privilege.

  “We won’t be long.” Perillo rang the bell by the door and was buzzed in. The store was a small, narrow room with every available space covered by glass cases displaying glittering and expensive jewelry. He was reminded of the Ponte Vecchio stores he’d seen with his wife in Florence. This one had no view of the Arno in the back, but the young woman behind the display case was just as enticing a sight. Black, wavy hair falling to the shoulders framed a marble-white oval face, full bare lips, large, dark eyes nesting below a thick fringe of black eyelashes and perfectly shaped eyebrows. Perillo took his eyes away to look at the ceiling. The sight of good-looking women lightened his heart, but the sight of the two video cameras, one above the door, the other above the young woman, made it jump.

  “Buongiorno, Signorina.” He took out his identification.

  She held up a graceful hand, devoid of any jewelry. “No need, Maresciallo Perillo. Daniele told me you were coming.”

  Perillo looked at his underling. “Daniele?”

  “I gave her my full name.” Daniele was smiling like someone who’d just found the end of a rainbow.

  God, Perillo thought. This woman calls him by his first name and he’s already in love! Lovelorn men were useless. Perillo turned back to the woman. “And your name is?”

  She smiled. “Rosalba Crisani.”

  “You are the owner?”

  “My mother is.”

  Perillo held his hand out behind him. Daniele understood and dropped the bracelet in his palm. Perillo spread the bracelet and its dated charm on the velvet cloth on the counter. “Now, Signorina Rosalba, I see that you have two video cameras in the store, which is a very good thing for you and I hope for me. Were they running the day someone bought this bracelet?”

  “Only the tape from the camera above the door.” She pointed to the video camera on the ceiling behind her. “This one was being fixed that day. I’m sorry.” She looked chagrined.

  “It’s not your fault,” Perillo said. There was a sweetness to her that made him want to reassure her, despite cursing his own bad luck. “It would have been far worse if you had been robbed that day. I hope it’s working now.”

  “It is.”

  “We will want to see the tape from the working camera.”

  “I’m sorry. We tape over them at the end of each week.”

  Perillo held back a groan. Annoyed, he asked, “Then why did you tell us about the other camera not working? You would have taped over that one too, correct?”

  “Daniele told me I had to tell you everything.” She offered her pretty smile as if it was of help.

  “I did, Maresciallo.”

  Perillo turned to look at his brigadiere. “I don’t doubt it.” At the same time, Daniele surely asked for her phone number, email, Twitter handle and whatever else young people used to communicate these days. Dio, to be young.

  Daniele, who knew to stay in the background when Perillo was questioning witnesses, stepped up to the counter to explain. His face was watermelon-tinged. “I had a fruit juice at the bar by the hotel, and she was having a coffee next to me. I introduced myself and asked her where I could find a jewelry store.”

  Perillo softened, remembering how many times, at Daniele’s age, he’d used “Do you know where I can find . . .” as a pickup line. He turned to Rosalba. “Please tell me everything you remember about the man who bought this bracelet.”

  “There isn’t much to tell. He came in last Wednesday, just as I opened the shop at eleven.”

  “You open at eleven?”

  “Yes. Tuesday to Saturday.”

  Perillo pointed to his watch. “It is now ten of ten. Why did you open so early?”

  Rosalba looked at Daniele, then back at the maresciallo, her expression not in the least bit puzzled. “Daniele asked me to.”
/>   She was either obedient by nature, or Daniele had made quite an impression on her. “The man came last Wednesday,” Perillo repeated.

  “Yes. Daniele said it was important to be exact, so I looked up the sale on the sales log. I’m trying to get Mamma to list our sales and receipts on the computer, but she doesn’t trust it, so it took me a while to find it.”

  Perillo nodded. It never paid to hurry a witness along.

  “Sales have been very good lately.”

  “I can see that.” There were quite a few empty spaces in the display cases. “Can you describe him?”

  “Big man. Fat belly,” Rosalba said. “Dressed in jeans and an old polo shirt with a golf club embroidered on the pocket. Just the golf club, no lettering. I noticed because my mother used to play golf with my stepfather whenever she got the chance. I’d take over here, and off she went. She doesn’t do that anymore. He died two years ago.” She addressed this personal fact to Daniele, who voiced that he was sorry.

  There was no emotion in her tone, Perillo noticed. “Can you describe the buyer’s face?” he asked.

  “I didn’t look at him really. Old. Maybe fifty?”

  Perillo wanted to laugh. Fifty was middle age. He was about to hit that milestone himself in three years, and young women like Rosalba had stopped looking at him long ago. “Can you go into more detail?”

  “He wore a blue baseball cap pulled low in front, so I couldn’t really see his eyes. He had a big nose. Dark, leathery skin. Lots of wrinkles.”

  “Anything written on the cap?”

  “LA Dodgers.”

  Perillo let out a sigh of satisfaction. Gold sneakers, baseball cap. An American, then, just as he’d thought.

  Daniele leaned toward Perillo and quietly said, “The watch.”

  Perillo nodded. “Forgive me, Signorina, one last question. Did you happen to notice what kind of watch your client was wearing?”

  “A Swatch, I think. Nothing fancy. He wasn’t dressed like a rich man, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Rosalba’s answer didn’t surprise Perillo. A foreigner wearing an expensive gold watch would attract muggers. The victim had been prudent enough not to wear it everywhere, yet he’d had it on the morning of his death.

  “I’d like to send a sketch artist from Florence to draw his face according to what you remember,” Perillo said. “She’ll show you different lips, eyebrows, eyes, chins. It might jog your memory.”

  Rosalba didn’t answer right away. Her expression showed she didn’t relish the thought of getting more involved. Perillo couldn’t blame her. Rosalba, with her perfect diction, hair styled down to the strand, her pretty silk dress, came from a world that shied away from the sordid. “Has the man done something wrong?”

  “He died.”

  “Oh.” Rosalba traced her finger over the bracelet. She kept her head down when she spoke. “I’ll try if it will help.”

  “Thank you. A few more questions.”

  She lifted her head. No smile. “Please, ask.”

  “Did he pay with a credit card?”

  “No. All cash, which surprised me. The bracelet and charm cost fourteen hundred euros.”

  Daniele whistled and caught Perillo clenching his jaw. He was going to get a good talking-to after they left.

  “It’s heavy, eighteen-carat gold,” Rosalba said. “The chain isn’t hollowed out. He gave me three five-hundred-euro notes. I don’t like holding large amounts of cash. It’s dangerous. As soon as he left, I closed the store and ran to the bank. Luckily, it’s just around the corner. I was sure he was American, you know, the baseball cap and”—a car honked loudly out on the street—“he didn’t say buongiorno after I buzzed him in, which made me immediately think he was a foreigner, but I was wrong.” She had to raise her voice because of the continued honking. “He spoke pure Tuscan. You know, how some people substitute their consonants with an ‘H.’” By “some people,” she meant ones outside her social class.

  Perillo covered his disappointment with a smile. “‘Hasa’ instead of ‘casa.’” He’d been so ready to bet the man was American. Hoped for it. They had passports. Their names and passport numbers were recorded in the hotels they slept in or by the real estate agents who rented them fancy villas. They paid with traceable credit cards. A Tuscan could disappear in the crowd more easily. On the other hand, a murdered American would stir up the American press and maybe their police. The botched Amanda Knox case had left a nasty stain on Italian law enforcement.

  Rosalba flashed a smile at Daniele for a second, then turned to Perillo. “Your brigadiere is Venetian. What about you?”

  “I’m from Hampagnia.”

  She laughed. A light, musical sound that made Perillo’s heart jump.

  The car on the street kept honking. Perillo took a quick look outside and threw his car keys to Daniele. “Take that man out of his misery.”

  Daniele was happy where he was, but he had no choice. Keys in hand, he gave Rosalba’s lovely face another look and left to move the car.

  “Did he talk about the date he wanted you to inscribe?” The Maresciallo turned over the round charm to show the date—1/1/97. “Say anything about what it stood for?”

  Rosalba knitted her well-groomed eyebrows together. “He did say something. What was it? He got very nervous and excited when he talked about the date. He asked to see all the different fonts we had available. It took him a long time to decide on cursive. He was giving it to someone he loved very much, that was clear to me. I hope she gets the bracelet.”

  “She will when we find out who she is.” As long as she wasn’t the killer. Perillo pocketed the bracelet and gave Rosalba a card with both the station’s and his own phone number and email. “In case something comes to mind.” He suspected she already had Daniele’s personal information. Perillo held out his hand. “Thank you. We’ll call you when the sketch artist is ready.”

  “All right.” She shook his hand and held on to it. “I hope you find her.”

  “So do I.”

  On the street, the car was gone. Daniele, the moralist, had refused to park in the now-empty space because it was in a no-parking zone, which meant he was now circling Radda looking for a spot. Perillo debated between waiting and getting an espresso at the nearest café. He opted for the espresso and rang Rosalba’s bell. At the buzz, he opened the door and offered to bring her one.

  “No, thanks, Maresciallo, but I’m glad you came back. I was about to call your cell. What the man said about the date popped back into my head. He said it stood for the day he did something both despicable and wonderful.”

  “Thank you. That’s helpful.” He had no idea what it meant, but it was something to chew on. He started walking in search of a café when up ahead he saw the squad car reversing into a legal parking spot. The luck of the young!

  Perillo crossed the street and joined Daniele just as he was getting out of the car. “You and I need to talk.”

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have whistled back in the store.”

  Perillo got in the driver’s seat. “You showed initiative today, and I like that, but you can’t fraternize with anyone involved in this case. Besides, she’d chop you into hamburger meat and feed you to her dog. Now, get on your motorcycle and follow me back to Greve.”

  Daniele flushed with anger.

  After buying La Nazione and yesterday’s New York Times International Edition from Beppe at the news shop, Nico and the dog strolled up to the castle at the very top of the hill. All that remained was crumbling walls and a restored tower. He liked to take in the clear views of the valley the grounds offered. He could see Aldo’s winery spread out mid-valley. He thought he could spot his new home, the dark speck near the Ferriello olive grove. Behind that speck was the wide expanse of woods where he’d found the body. Death was following him around, even now. He whistled to OneWag, who came ru
nning. It was time for flowers.

  On the way back down, Nico stopped to say hello to Tilde and ask if she needed any help. She was alone in the kitchen, rolling small balls of spinach and ricotta in her palms, which the Tuscans called gnudi, which she would later serve in brown butter and sage. The word meant “naked.” He found them delicious, but when he tried to make them, they always fell apart.

  “That’s another secret you’re going to have to share,” Nico said.

  “No secret. Experience.”

  “Okay, I’ll try again. How are you?”

  “Fine. Busy.”

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Enzo drove Alba to the Coop. Elvira is getting her color touched up, and my daughter is late.”

  “Gianni?”

  “No, she stayed at a girlfriend’s. Or so she said. Not that she has to lie to me. She’s very nervous and down. Gianni, the museum exam, who knows? Daughters are impossible. You’re lucky you never—” Tilde clasped her hand against her mouth, her eyes wide with regret. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  He wiped ricotta and spinach from Tilde’s chin with his handkerchief. “There’s nothing to forgive.” After Rita miscarried for the third time, they’d locked away their dream of having children. “Come meet my dog.” He’d ordered OneWag to stay outside, and to his surprise, the dog obeyed.

  “Bring him in.”

  “Into the restaurant?”

  “Why not? My clients’ shoes walk the same streets his paws do.”

  “Well, look at him,” Tilde exclaimed when Nico carried in a panting OneWag. “His portrait is in the Uffizi, next to a naked lady. You have to go see it.” She turned on the cold water at the sink and reached for a bowl. “Put him down. He’s thirsty.” She placed the full bowl on the floor. OneWag licked her hand and eagerly lapped up the water. The climb to the castle had been too steep for his short legs.

  Tilde picked up the quickly emptied bowl. “Any news on who the man is?”