Murder in Chianti

by Camilla Trinchieri

  Nico had to admit he was intrigued, but he still had no interest in becoming involved with an official case. “As I said, I’ll listen.”

  “Your ears are good, Nico, but I need your New York mind.” Perillo lifted his glass. “Let us toast to America and Italy, Salvatore and Nico, with your excellent whiskey.”

  Nico raised his glass.

  “Cin-cin, amico,” Perillo said.

  “To your health.”

  “And Rocco’s.”

  “OneWag’s.”

  They clinked glasses.

  It was a few minutes past midnight when Perillo got home; Daniele was waiting for him outside the carabinieri station.

  “Why still awake, Dani?”

  “The substitute prosecutor wants you to call him immediately.”

  “At Palazzo Vecchio?”

  “He’s in his office. I guess the gala was a bore. He didn’t sound happy.”

  “Mother of God and all the saints!”

  “Sorry, Maresciallo.”

  “‘Sorry, Salvatore,’ and you don’t need to apologize. You should have just left a note.”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t see it.”

  “You’re right. There’s been too much food, wine and whiskey tonight, but an important connection has been forged.”

  “I’m glad. Shall I put the moka on?”

  “No, thanks. Go to sleep, Dani. I’ll go face my penance in the office.”

  “I was hoping to listen in.”

  “I like your enthusiasm, although you might regret it.”

  Before calling Della Langhe, Perillo made himself a drink with bicarbonate of soda and water. It would stave off the hangover that was sure to come. There was nothing he could drink, unfortunately, to stave off Della Langhe.

  The prosecutor answered on the first ring. “Perillo, your report is unacceptable.”

  “It has only been two days, Maresciallo.”

  “I am perfectly aware of how long it’s been since that poor devil was atrociously murdered. The idea of having a man’s face blasted to pieces no bigger than confetti”—There he goes with his florid imagination, Perillo thought as he stirred his awful drink with his finger—“is repugnant to me. A man’s face is the mirror to his soul.” Della Langhe was both handsome and vain, and Perillo had often caught the procuratore looking into whatever reflective surface he passed. Perillo was guilty of stealing glances of himself here and there, as his wife occasionally pointed out. In his case, it had nothing to do with being handsome, which he was not. His vanity came from having survived.

  “We will find the man who did this, Maresciallo. But there are quite a few questions in this case that will take time to answer. Would you like to hear them?”

  “I’m a busy man. I am only interested in answers.” Busy, but he had time, as always, for his closing speech about the evil of today’s youth, how the rejection of sound Christian values was leading the world to utter chaos. He was probably thinking of his daughter.

  “Maresciallo, I am in perfect agreement with you.” The last time Perillo had gone to church was for his own wedding twelve years ago. “Let us hope this new Pope will bring our young ones back to the church. As soon as I have some news, I’ll let you know. I am not, may I point out, the only slow one. I haven’t been sent the autopsy report yet.”

  “Ah, yes. The autopsy report. I have it here.”

  “I should have been sent a copy.”

  “I’m sure you were. Ah, no, I have the second copy here. Yet another clerical error. Let me see.”

  Perillo slurped the last of his drink, not caring if the man heard him. Merda, how long had that autopsy been sitting on Della Langhe’s desk?

  “Ah, Perillo,” Della Langhe exclaimed smugly. “This could change everything.”

  Perillo did not rise to the bait.

  “Maresciallo, your silence makes me wonder if you are interested.”

  With this man in his ear, his headache was only getting worse. “It is my duty to be interested. I did not wish to interrupt.”

  “I did not think you capable of such thoughtfulness. This man’s death, as horrid as it was, may have been a mercy killing. Dr. Rotunno has written here that the man had at the most six months left to live. His body was riddled with metastasized cancer. The possibility of a mercy killing lifts my heart. Finding the perpetrator may turn out not to be so urgent.”

  Perillo was tempted to remind the substitute prosecutor that mercy killings were still considered murder by Italian law. He controlled himself. “Difficult to establish whether it was a mercy killing.”

  “I speak of it as a possibility, Maresciallo, not fact. I will have my secretary fax you your copy of the autopsy. Urgent or not, keep me informed, Perillo. We’re in full-blown tourist season. The Chianti Expo starts tomorrow. We want our wine drinkers to be happy, not fearful.”

  Keep me informed. Six months to live. Mercy killing. Perillo’s head couldn’t make sense of it, not without another espresso. A double, corrected with grappa.

  At nine forty-five that morning, the local coffee and cornetti crush had abated at Bar All’Angolo. Now it was the tourists’ turn. Nico had come earlier and had been lucky enough to snag a table by the open French doors. He was happy to sit. His legs ached after running an extra two miles to fend off last night’s food and drink. His Dante-quoting friend was very late. Nico yearned for a whole wheat cornetto, but he didn’t want to offend Gogol by not waiting for him. He whiled away the time reading La Nazione, skipping the crime section. He wasn’t avoiding the paper’s account of the murder, although he was sure it wouldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know from Perillo. He was avoiding the cruel, sometimes petty crimes that filled this section every day. An elderly lady robbed by two men pretending to be carabinieri. A metal donation bin that collected clothes for the poor, broken into and ransacked. Teenagers beating up a sleeping immigrant who had survived the boat crossing from Africa. Because of Rita, he had always held Italy to a higher standard than the States. She believed Italy was a fairyland, and therefore so did he. Even now. It was why he wanted to help Perillo, despite his reservations. Solve the murder and wipe this corner of the world clean again.

  Nico stretched his legs in front of him and looked out onto the piazza. It was another clear day with a breeze that would later keep heat at bay. The week’s only rain had been on Sunday, just enough to wash dust from the vines and his vegetable garden. The retired men were sitting on their usual benches chatting, one of them smoking a Toscano cigar. No Carletta with her lavender hair setting up the outside trattoria tables outside today. The restaurant was closed on Wednesday. On the far end of the piazza, the weekly fish truck was doing brisk business. Were its goods frozen? The Mediterranean was at least forty-five miles away. Many restaurants, even those close to the sea, served frozen fish, but there was always an asterisk that warned the customer. Nico constantly marveled at how a peninsula surrounded by the sea had the most incredible selection of frozen fish in its supermarkets. He preferred his fish fresh.

  Nico looked at his watch as Sandro walked over with a small tray. Where was Gogol? Before he worked any further with Perillo, he wanted to know why Gogol thought the maresciallo was a bad man.

  “It’s time to eat,” Sandro said as he slid the tray on the metal table. “This is Jimmy’s last whole wheat cornetto, just out of the oven, your Americano and yesterday’s cornetto for the dog. You’ve been stood up, amico.”

  Nico dropped the stale cornetto into OneWag’s open mouth. “Maybe he’s sick.”

  “In all the years I’ve known him,” Jimmy said, “he hasn’t missed a day of spewing Dante to the tourists. My bet is he’s pissed with you.”

  Nico waited until he’d swallowed a bite of his cornetto before asking, “About what?”

  “Something to do with Salvatore, probably,” Jimmy said. “
You might have misunderstood him.”

  “Jimmy has sharp ears,” Sandro said.

  “I can see that.”

  Jimmy leaned over the counter. “Like I said, you fart and the whole town knows about it, me included. You’ll have to forgive me.”

  “What did I misunderstand?”

  “Salvatore’s a good man, and Gogol knows it. He must’ve been talking about someone else.”

  “According to town gossip,” Sandro added, tugging at the earring on his left ear, “Gogol hasn’t had a friend since his mother died. We put up with him. We give him money every once in a while. The kids make fun of him. We make sure no one hurts him, but that’s all. It doesn’t necessarily make us feel good about ourselves, but it’s good to know someone cares.”

  “I do.” Nico finished his cornetto and Americano and got up. He wasn’t quite sure what it was that had made him latch on to Gogol. Yes, Rita and Dante had to do with it, but there was more. He saw Gogol as a lost man, maybe one who reminded him of himself. “I’ll stop by the butcher’s to see if he’s there.”

  “If he’s not,” Jimmy said, “come back. I’ll give you a thermos full of coffee and a ciambella. You’ll find him somewhere.”

  “Who was it who didn’t care?”

  Jimmy shrugged. Sandro busied himself counting change for a customer.

  Luciana peeked out of her shop as Nico and OneWag walked by. “Ciao, Nico. Thank you for the olive loaf. You’re a dear. Enrico couldn’t figure out how I got it. It’s our little secret! Are you going to visit Rita? I’ve got some pretty daisies today.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be going later.”

  “Well, stop by. I’ll be happy to give them to you.”

  He lifted his hand in a salute and turned the corner. Sergio, the butcher, was a few shops up the road to the cemetery. Nico walked in. On one side, a long refrigerated counter held beautiful cuts of meat that Sergio, following Dario Cecchini’s lead, imported from Spain. There wasn’t enough pasture in Italy to meet the demand, Sergio had told him on one of his shopping trips for Tilde. There was no sign of Gogol, but against the wall on one side of the shop, a long marble table held plates of crostini topped with lard or salame. Nico picked one of each and wrapped them in a napkin. He turned down the plastic cup of red wine an aproned young man offered him.

  Sergio was behind the counter, weighing a mound of bright-red beef diced in quarter-inch pieces to be used for beef tartar. He was big, handsome, all muscle, with a large steak tattooed on one of his biceps. On the wall behind him was a sign celebrating the rebirth of the great bistecca alla fiorentina, the thick, delicious Florentine T-bone steak that had been banned during the mad cow disease scare. Luckily for Sergio and his far more famous rival Dario Cecchini in Panzano, the ban had lasted only a year.

  Nico lifted the napkin holding the crostini. “Thanks. I’ll come back and pick up a chicken later.”

  “Anytime,” Sergio answered without turning his head.

  Wednesday morning, Daniele left his room in the barracks at six ten. He had slept badly, thanks to Rosalba. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t pin down what. It wasn’t just that she was older than he was. Maybe it was the man without a face who kept intruding on his dreams, frightening him. He went downstairs and peeked into the back office to exchange a few words with the brigadiere on night duty. Vince was slumped over his desk, fast asleep. Daniele woke him up.

  “Go to bed. I’ll take over.”

  “Thanks,” Vince mumbled. “Nothing came in.”

  “Too bad. We could use some news.”

  Daniele went to the maresciallo’s office, turned on the computer and started searching for a pirated download of Wonder Woman. He’d seen pictures of the Israeli actress playing Wonder Woman. She looked a lot like Rosalba.

  The call from the carabinieri station in San Gimignano came through at six twenty. They had spotted the missing Avis car being driven on the outskirts of the town by a kid and his girlfriend. The carabiniere on night duty asked whether Maresciallo Perillo wanted to pick up the car and the kids or the San Gimignano station should take over.

  “I’ll let you know,” Daniele said, and hung up. Should he wake the maresciallo? He’d gone to bed late last night and was sure to have a hangover. Besides, he never came down before eight. Could it wait? Wonder Woman was ready for download.

  No. Duty came first, even if the maresciallo’s mood would be black for the rest of the day.

  Daniele picked up the phone and called upstairs.

  Nico followed OneWag, who had picked up the scent of Gogol’s cologne and was scurrying down the road that led out of town. They found him sunning himself on the stone bench in the Medici garden behind the old-age home. His overcoat was open. Underneath, he was wearing pajamas. His feet were bare.

  “I brought you breakfast.” Nico sat beside Gogol and placed the thermos and the crostini between them.

  Gogol snatched the lard one without looking at Nico. OneWag sat at the old man’s feet, looking up with hope. “‘I craved for peace with God on the last shore of life.’”

  “You’re nowhere near the last shore yet,” Nico said. He understood this quote. Gogol didn’t want him there. “I am sorry I made you angry yesterday.”

  Gogol chewed on his crostino.

  Nico unscrewed the thermos top and poured Gogol some coffee. The old man ignored the offer. “I don’t blame you for not coming to the café.” Nico held on to the cup. “This sun feels good.” The garden, a large, elegant space with winding paths and arched stone niches at one end, was now in a sorry state. A carpet of weeds covered the gravel paths. The boxwood hedges had dried out. The few moldy rosebushes that had survived desperately needed pruning.

  “I misunderstood you,” Nico said. “The maresciallo isn’t a bad man, is he? You were trying to tell me something else.”

  Gogol leaned down and gave the dog what little was left of the crostino. “‘If to thy mind I show a truth . . .’” He grabbed the thermos cup from Nico and drank. “Jimmy is a coffee artist. His brew brings happiness.”

  Nico leaned forward and turned his head. He wanted Gogol to look him in the eye. “What truth were you trying to tell me?”

  The old man shook his head and bit into the salame.

  “Gogol, do you know who the dead man is?”

  “Dead is good.”

  “You do know. Who is he?”

  “You are my friend. Stay away.”

  “If we are friends, tell me why I should stay away.”

  Gogol wrapped his arms around himself as though a cold wind were sweeping right through him. “Because your heart no peace will claim.” He started rocking back and forth. “There will be much weeping and no singing. Your wife is a good woman. She knows.”

  “My wife is dead.”

  Gogol stopped rocking and wrapped his arms around Nico. “I go now.” He rose from the bench and waved. “Tomorrow, if I live.”

  Nico and OneWag both stood up. “We’ll walk you back to the villa.”

  “I am in no danger of straying into a dark forest. You are the one who must be careful. Part of your wife lives on.”

  Gogol had already strayed from a normal life, Nico thought as he watched the man shuffle up the incline that led to the old Medici villa, now a place for the infirm. What did his friend mean by part of Rita living on? Was it her memory? And what had she known?

  SEVEN

  On the way to San Gimignano, Perillo called Nico and filled him in on the latest. “Garrett’s car’s been found. We’re on our way to pick it up and interrogate the two kids who stole it. And listen to this. When I got home last night, Della Langhe was waiting for me to call him. It made me sober up pretty quickly. The autopsy showed Garrett was in the late stages of cancer. He had only a few months left. Della Langhe thinks it’s a mercy killing.”

  The phone call had com
e in as Nico was getting into his car with OneWag. He took a long breath to think over the possibility, then said, “The prosecutor thinks the victim hired a man to kill him by shooting his face off? And after being paid to kill him, he takes his wallet and credit cards but walks away leaving a five-thousand-dollar watch and fourteen-hundred-euro charm bracelet?” He shook his head. “No.”

  He heard a loud noise. Perillo hitting something. “No was my thought exactly. Murder it is. Ciao, Nico.” He clicked off. “Caro Daniele, today is going to be a very good day.”

  Daniele smiled with relief.

  A tall, good-looking carabiniere in uniform greeted them outside the San Gimignano station. Perillo and Daniele were in jeans. “We’ve got the two kids inside. We fingerprinted them, but that’s it. I thought you might want to be the one to question them.”

  “Thanks,” Perillo said after he introduced himself and Daniele to Maresciallo Second Grade Davide Serroni. “The kids can stare at the walls for a while. Car keys?”

  Serroni handed them over. “The car’s in the back.”

  “That’s good,” Perillo said when he spotted the Avis Panda.

  Daniele hitched his thumbs into his jean belt loops and looked to the fourteen towers that gave San Gimignano its fame. Once, the town had boasted seventy-two towers. One day soon he’d visit. “It’s good that the car was found.”

  “That too, but what’s also good is that it’s still covered in dust and bird droppings, which means the kid who stole it didn’t bother to clean it up. I’m hoping he didn’t bother with the inside, either. If the car belongs to the victim, we should find some useful information.” Perillo slipped on rubber gloves and opened the trunk. An expensive-looking tan leather suitcase took up most of the space. On top of the suitcase, a set of spread-out keys, looking like they’d been tossed carelessly there. Perillo picked them up. A brass ring held five different keys and an inch-long enameled wine bottle key chain. Three of them were stamped star, made in the usa and seemed to be house or office keys, while the other two were small. He picked the longer of the small keys and tried the lock on the suitcase. It fit. Perillo looked into the side pockets first and found neatly folded white sport socks. He lifted the clothes. Two pairs of tan slacks, one dress shirt, several polo shirts, T-shirts. No pajamas. No shirt with an embroidered golf club on the pocket. Underwear. A swimsuit. Blue New Balance sneakers.