“Not that I’ve heard. You’ll have to ask Salvatore.”
“What’s taking so long? The whole town is on edge.”
“You certainly are.”
“No. I worry about the poor soul who’s waiting for him to come home.”
“Yes, there is that.” How many times had he brought bad news to wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, children? Sometimes their reaction had been a clue that led to the killer.
Tilde waved him away. “Today’s not your day to help out, so go. I’ll see you tomorrow at lunchtime. If you want an olive loaf, Enrico, by some miracle, still has a few left.” Enrico had a shop halfway down the hill that supplied the restaurant’s bread. The olive loaves usually sold out by nine-thirty. It was now past ten. “But you’d better hurry.”
“Thanks. See you tomorrow.” Nico kissed her on both cheeks, part of the Italian hello and goodbye.
Halfway down the hill, Nico spotted Gianni trudging up in jeans and the leaf-green and purple Ferriello T-shirt Aldo’s employees all wore. He was a not particularly tall young man, with a trim body and a handsome face crowned by a mess of curly dark hair. Gianni waved at him and stopped.
When Nico reached him, Gianni gave him a hug and the double-cheek kiss. A first for Gianni, who usually just said hi and went on his way. “Ciao, Nico. All is well, I hope?” He was all smiles.
“Everything is fine.”
OneWag ambled over from the gutter, where he’d been on the lookout for intriguing smells and stopped to sniff Gianni’s sneakers carefully.
“Glad to hear that after what happened. I’ve been meaning to tell you you’ve been great. You know that?”
“I have?”
“Helping Stella at the restaurant. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Stella is family.”
“She’s lucky to have you. You’re reasonable, not like her mother. I don’t know why Tilde dislikes me so much.”
Nico didn’t like getting into other people’s affairs, but he was on Stella’s side. A controlling boyfriend was not good news. “Stella loves you, Gianni. Be grateful for that. Don’t try to control her. Even if she listens and doesn’t take the exam, she will end up regretting it and taking it out on you. It’s only an exam. She might not win the job, and even if she does get the job, it doesn’t mean she’ll stop loving you. Have faith in her.”
Gianni laughed and gave him another hug. “Right you are, Nico. I’ve been an asshole. I got her so upset I risked losing her even before she takes that dumb exam. I told Stella she can do whatever she wants. I love her and I’m going to marry her.” He showed off a wide grin.
“Good. And maybe you can come by in the evening and help Stella at the restaurant sometime.”
Gianni dropped his grin. Nico regretted his remark. It was unnecessary and not his place to have said it, but there was a cockiness to Gianni’s remarks that had gotten under his skin. The young man had looked so obviously pleased with his generosity toward Stella.
“Ciao, Gianni. What I do for the family gives me joy. No thanks needed.”
Once back at the main piazza, OneWag ran across the street, aiming straight for Luciana’s shop, just two doors down from Bar All’Angolo. Nico yelled his name just as a car rushed past the dog.
New flowerpots the truck had brought that morning lined the outside of the shop. OneWag sniffed the first one, a white cyclamen.
Nico hurried across the street. “Don’t you dare!”
The dog ignored him and sniffed the next plant.
Nico watched, ready to snatch OneWag at the first hint of a raised leg. He would buy the plant, of course, but he’d have a hard time facing Luciana, who was Tilde’s good friend. Hers was the only flower shop in the village, and every petal and leaf was her tesoro, her darling. She was capable of banishing him. He’d have to drive to Panzano to find flowers for Rita. It wasn’t far, but he owed Luciana his loyalty. She had arranged the wreath of yellow roses he had requested for Rita’s burial and refused to accept payment.
Luciana appeared in the doorway. A forty-year-old woman with a wide face, hazel eyes, a chiseled nose and a mass of thick henna-tinted curls that could pass for chrysanthemums. A black tentlike dress covered her large body. “Buongiorno, Nico, bello.”
He looked up and smiled at her addition of “bello” to his name. Beautiful or handsome he had never been—not even as a baby, as his mother liked to remind him. “Buongiorno, Luciana.”
She looked down at the paper bag on his arm that read da enrico. “How many did you get?” Enrico was her devoted husband, a man half her size in height and width.
“Two.” The small loaves were made with soft, chewy seven-grain bread dotted with salty black olives. “I reserved for tomorrow.”
“I should start doing that. You’d think he’d set aside at least one for his wife. Not a chance. His customers come first.” She moved aside to let Nico pass. “Come and see! The truck brought some lovelies in this morning.”
Nico looked down at OneWag, who was examining his third flowerpot, one crowded with blue asters. Rita would like those. “I’m worried he’ll lift his leg on the flowers.”
Luciana shook her curls. “Not this one; I already know him. He’s a smarty. I give him a treat, he sniffs and leaves his signature somewhere else. Come on, little one. You too. I’ve got sunflowers that will turn your head. And biscuits for the little one. You can have one too, if you want.”
OneWag scampered inside, followed by Nico. “No thanks, Luciana.” He looked at the new plants. More cyclamens, mostly red. Small flowers that looked like asters and were called settembrini because of the time they flowered. Early chrysanthemums, the Italians’ flower of choice for the Day of the Dead. Rita would never, ever have those on her tomb. For her, only flowers that stood for life. While Nico browsed, OneWag got his biscuit, which he took outside to eat.
“That dog has manners,” Luciana said. “Someone must have owned him once. Maybe Titian. Have you been to the Uffizi?”
“Years ago, with Rita. I’m clueless about art.”
“Look it up on the Internet. Titian’s Venus of Urbino. The little one’s on the bed, fast asleep. You’ve got yourself a Renaissance dog.”
“Tilde told me about the painting. What I need to do is take him to a vet.”
“You don’t have to. He’s had his shots.”
“You took him?”
She nodded. “I would’ve brought him home too, but Geisha, my Siamese, would have scratched out my eyes. I’m so glad you’ve taken him in.” She lunged at Nico and pressed him against her big, soft body. “You are a good man.”
Nico held his breath, every nerve in his body wanting to squirm free. He hadn’t welcomed Rita’s hugs either. He hadn’t been hugged in his childhood, despite his Italian mother and grandmother. They only hugged their own unhappiness. And his father only liked to use his fists on his wife and his son. At fourteen, Nico had hit him back, and the man had walked out for good.
Luciana must have sensed his discomfort. “Don’t worry. I still love my Enrico.” She let him go. “I will tell you this. I am relieved you were the one who found that poor man. You are a big-city fellow, more used to violence than us Gravignesi.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Can you imagine one of us finding him? A child, even? Terrible. Thank you for being the one.”
Nico didn’t know how to answer that. “I’ll take the blue aster plant outside.”
“Ah, Nico, you break my heart. Always you pick my darling of the week. I was going to take it home, believe me, but for you and Rita, I give it up gladly.”
She said that every week. Nico thanked her, paid and kissed the cheeks she offered. On the way out, he left one of Enrico’s olive loaves next to Luciana’s handbag.
Nico was halfway out of the parking space in front of the salumeria when the blue A
lfa screeched to a halt next to him. “Ehi, Nico,” Perillo called out from the open window. “Have you eaten at Da Angela yet?”
Nico’s response was a sigh.
“No? I know you’re loyal to Sotto Il Fico, but you have to try this place. It’s in Lucarelli, twenty minutes from here. My treat. How about tonight?”
Damn! Why couldn’t this guy leave him alone? In the backseat, OneWag reached up to the open window and barked a welcome. “What is it you want, Maresciallo?”
“Salvatore, please.” Perillo left the motor running, got out of his car and leaned down to meet Nico’s face at the open window. “I know about your old job and your forced retirement.” His voice was low now. “Don’t worry. That information stays with me.”
Shit, Nico thought.
“I don’t—”
“Daniele found the information online. Don’t worry, he’s as silent as a tomb.”
“So you know. Now what? Are you planning to blackmail me?”
“Dio mio!” Perillo jumped up from the window, hitting his head against the top frame. He rubbed the top of his head. “How could you think that? Daniele suggested I ask for your help. It was a good idea.”
“No!”
“Why not? You’ve spent as many years seeking justice as I have. And doubtless with many more cases like this.”
“There’s a reason I was fired.”
“That’s regrettable for you, but changes nothing for me.”
“It wasn’t regrettable. It was deserved.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that you have expertise I don’t have. I’ve dealt with only a single murder in my career. Holy heaven, New Yorkers must have murders every day.”
“That’s not true by any means.”
“I know. I’m just trying to make a point. Much more than in the villages of Tuscany, you would agree?”
“I don’t have the data, but I suppose so.”
“Let’s have dinner together. If you don’t wish to get involved, we can discuss other things.”
“How can we talk about the murder with other people around?”
This question was good news for Perillo. “First we eat, drink a good bottle of Chianti Classico, then I drive you home and we strategize like two generals fighting a war. Do you accept?”
“If I don’t?”
“I will do the best I can to find who killed this man. He was not American, we discovered this morning from the young woman who sold the man a charm bracelet with a mysterious date on it. He was Tuscan.”
Nico recognized the setup game. His partner had been an ace at it when interrogating suspects. Dangling a new detail in front of them and waiting for them to swallow the bait. No harm in playing along. “What bracelet?”
“I will tell you this evening.” Perillo reached into the back window and scratched OneWag’s head. “Forza, convince your friend. You can come too. We’ll eat in the garden.” He put his scratching hand back in his pocket and turned to face Nico, laughing. “Asking for a dog’s help is the sign of a drowning man.” There was the truth. No more saving face. Honesty was best with the American.
Nico leaned over the steering wheel and crossed his arms. He’d heard of Angela’s from Tilde, who’d said it was excellent. A good meal, a report on the food for Tilde, maybe discovering a new dish or two to add to Sotto Il Fico’s limited menu. And also listening to what Perillo had to say.
He sat back up. “I don’t have any lifesavers to throw at you, but I’ve been told I’m a good listener. I pay for my own meal.” No way was he going to owe this man.
“As you wish. I’ll meet you here in the piazza at eight.” Perillo prayed the restaurant wasn’t booked solid, as it was most nights.
As Nico watched Perillo drive away, Gogol’s words came back to him. The maresciallo talk to you. Stay away. A very bad man.
Tilde had just finished stuffing al dente rigatoni with a veal and broccoli ragout when Stella slipped into the kitchen. As Tilde poured a light tomato sauce over the pasta, she looked at her daughter’s unsmiling face. Damn that Gianni. Tilde put the saucepan down and wiped her hands on her apron. It was time to have another conversation with her beautiful, unhappy daughter before Elvira and Enzo came back.
Stella raised a hand in protest. She could tell what was coming. “Don’t, Mamma. I’m sorry I’m late.” She didn’t sound sorry. “What do you want me to do? Set the outside tables?”
“Isn’t that what you do every morning?”
Stella sighed loudly and went into the main room to get the cutlery. Tilde followed her. “Did you get a chance to study for the exam last night?”
Stella opened the heavy drawer of the oak chest that hugged the wall behind Elvira’s chair and ran her fingers through the forks, making as much noise as possible.
“There’s no need to act like a child. You know I worry.”
“Yes, Mamma, I know you do. And I did study. Not a lot, though. I couldn’t stop thinking about the man who had his face blown off.” Stella looked back at her mother, completely pale. “I’m scared.”
“Oh, Stella, sweetheart.” Tilde enfolded her daughter in her arms. “That man’s death was terrible, but it has nothing to do with us.”
“Are you sure?”
Tilde cupped Stella’s chin and peered into her daughter’s green eyes. “Of course I’m sure.” If only she could believe that. Those damned gold sneakers. It was ridiculous to think they had anything to do with Robi. “Please don’t worry.”
Stella pushed herself away from her mother and dropped down in Elvira’s chair. She started leafing through her grandmother’s Settimana Enigmistica. “I just have the creepy feeling that the man who died was the same man who was following me for a couple of days.”
“What man?” The thought of a strange man following her daughter took the breath from her.
“I don’t know. An older guy. I kept running into him in weird places. The first time I saw him, he gaped at me with this stupid grin on his face. He didn’t say anything or try to touch me; I would have hit him if he had.”
Tilde felt her knees weaken. She held on to the doorjamb. “Was it someone who came to the restaurant?”
“I don’t think so. I couldn’t really tell. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled down low over sunglasses. The first time I noticed him was in Panzano. He was at Dario Cecchini’s butcher shop, drinking a glass of wine.” Stella did not add that when the man saw her, he nearly dropped the glass. The next day, when she went to pick up Gianni in her Vespa at the vineyard, she thought she saw the man driving behind her. Gianni told her she was crazy and started to make fun of her. Having her fear dismissed so quickly angered her. She was beginning to think her mother was right about Gianni, but what other man was going to love her as much as he did?
“Why do you think he’s the man who got killed?”
“I don’t know. He was so creepy.”
Tilde rubbed her stomach to calm herself. Her beloved daughter, prey to men’s hunger. She knew where that could lead only too well. She had lived with that fear from the day Stella was conceived. “Darling, you are beautiful, and men will always look at you, no matter how old they are. Maybe you made him remember when he was young and in love, or maybe he just wanted to fall in love one more time.”
Stella looked at her mother in amazement. “Since when were you a romantic? Feet on the ground, Mamma, please. I don’t want you getting sappy on me. He was probably looking at my breasts.”
Tilde laughed in relief. This was the daughter she knew. Sassy and down-to-earth. “You do have to get used to men staring at you. There’s no need to be scared.” She too had to stop being scared. She had let her imagination run away with her. “Just be careful.”
“Yes, Mamma. I’ve heard it all before.” It was her eyes the man had liked. She’d bumped into him again at the big Coop in Greve. He’d bare
d his teeth at her, like he was ready to bite into her. “You cannot imagine how happy you make me,” he whispered. Gianni was with her and threatened the man with his fist. She dragged Gianni out of the supermarket as fast as she could, the shopping she needed to do completely forgotten.
“You know that old turd,” Gianni accused when they were out on the street. He seemed not to believe her when she said she didn’t. His ridiculous jealousy was one of the reasons her feelings for him were cooling.
She kissed Tilde’s cheek to reassure her. “I’m not stupid. I can take care of myself.”
“But you were scared of this man. Did you think he might hurt you?”
“No. It’s just the way he kept staring at me like we knew each other. Then the murder happened, and for some reason I linked the two.” Stella stood up and grabbed a handful of forks. “Come on, Mamma. Time to work.”
“Right you are.” Tilde pushed the old memory back into the hidden recess of her mind where she had kept it for twenty-two years and went back to the kitchen to toast the bread crumbs she would sprinkle over the rigatoni before putting them in the oven.
The small cemetery was on a hill behind the town, enclosed by a high stone wall and the stately cypress trees that acted as a cemetery’s logo throughout Italy. It was a modest place. The one mausoleum, a sixteenth-century marble temple edged with Doric columns, had belonged to a humbler branch of the Medici family whose villa now housed Gogol’s old-age home on the outskirts of town. The rest of the grounds were covered with stone and marble gravestones neatly divided by narrow dirt aisles, many with enameled photos of the dead. Only a few embellishments. A two-foot-high marble angel wept over a child’s nineteenth-century grave. A stone basket filled with meticulously carved grapes sat atop the grave of a man who had died the year before. A faithful stone dog lay atop another grave. Flowers real and fake graced every grave, even the ones from past centuries. The Gravignesi cared for their dead.
Nico and OneWag passed through the open wrought-iron gate and walked to the water fountain in the corner. Nico picked up one of the empty plastic water bottles left there by other visitors for anyone to use and filled it. Water gurgled from the old spout. OneWag, thirsty again, sat up on his hind legs, a trick he’d picked up watching fancy dogs beg for a treat. Nico lifted him up and let him catch as much water as he could. With the full bottle in one hand and the dog under his arm, he walked to where Rita rested next to her parents. He watered the cyclamens he knew Tilde had brought for all three, then placed his own aster plant over Rita. He straightened up and stood, looking at the neatly carved letters of his wife’s name, the numbers that marked the years of her life, at the bottom, the words bella, dolce donna e moglie, “beautiful sweet woman and wife,” words he had thought of in English, but had wanted in Italian so that all who came here would know how wonderful she was.
Murder in Chianti Page 7