Murder in Chianti

by Camilla Trinchieri

  While Perillo rummaged through the suitcase, Daniele was looking through the window on the passenger side, wondering if he’d ever love a girl so much he’d steal a car just to take her to see another town. He didn’t have gloves with him, and not wanting to erase any possible evidence, he just stared at the inside, entranced.

  A terry cloth towel lay bunched up in the well below the passenger seat next to a half-empty plastic liter bottle of water and three empty bottles of Peroni beer. A torn package of condoms was wedged between the front seats, making Daniele think they had been too much in a hurry to open it properly. The ashtray was full; all the butts had traces of lipstick on them. His eyes traveled to the driver’s seat, which had a whitish smear on it. Daniele felt his cheeks get hot and looked away, spotting a blue fold of paper jutting out over the edge of the side compartment of the driver’s door.

  “Mother of God!” Perillo slammed the lid of the suitcase shut. “Where the hell is his passport?”

  Daniele pointed at the driver’s door, even though Perillo couldn’t see him. “Over there, maybe?”

  Perillo appeared from behind the trunk of the car like a Pamplona bull ready to trample anyone who got in his way.

  Daniele took a step back, still pointing. “In the driver’s-side compartment. Something blue is sticking out. Aren’t American passports blue?”

  “Right you are.” Perillo unlocked the door on the driver’s side and stuck his gloved hand in the side pocket. “Got it!” He held up the passport like a goalie showing off the soccer ball he’d just intercepted. “Bravo, Dani.”

  Daniele felt as tall as one of those towers in the distance.

  Perillo opened the passport. The color photo showed a man with a wide face, chiseled nose, full lips and the usual expressionless gaze people adopt for passport photos. Handsome. Not many wrinkles. He looked much younger than fifty. The picture had probably been taken years ago.

  “Surname,” Perillo read out loud for Dani’s sake. “Garrett. Given name: Robert. Nationality: United States of America. Date of Birth: The twenty-ninth of November 1974.” That made him only forty-four years old. Perillo looked under Place of Birth and whistled.

  “Is it our man?” Daniele hurried past the car hood to see for himself what made the maresciallo whistle.

  “Unless you believe in such coincidences.” Perillo held up the open passport for Daniele.

  “Don’t touch it. Just look under Place of Birth.”

  “Good God, and his mother,” he said instead. “He’s a local!”

  “And not just from the region, but our very own Gravigna, Italy.” Perillo flipped the page over. The bearer’s address was listed as Delizioso Wine Company, Route 29, Napa, California, 94581. The foreign address and emergency contact had both been left blank. Perillo extracted a plastic bag from his back pocket, slipped the passport inside and locked the bag in the leather suitcase. With trunk and car doors locked, he said, “Let’s go inside and interview those two idiots.”

  “It’s thanks to them that we have the car,” Daniele reminded him. He hoped they wouldn’t be in too much trouble.

  “They will get no thanks from me. Or you.”

  “Of course not, Maresciallo.” But he was grateful. Now he had an excuse to see Rosalba again, to tell her she wouldn’t need to see a sketch artist.

  In the entrance hall of the station, the two teens sat on a wooden bench holding hands. The boy, with a chunk of hair falling over his eyes and both sides of his head shaved off, stood as soon as he saw Perillo. “I didn’t know the car belonged to the murdered guy. I swear I didn’t.”

  The girl stayed seated, tossing her long chestnut hair to one side. She smiled at Daniele. He did not smile back. “It was just sitting there,” she said. “For two nights.”

  The carabiniere at the front desk pointed to the first door along the corridor. “Maresciallo, you can take them in there.”

  The boy grabbed the girl’s hand and followed Perillo into a small, windowless room with a wooden table and four metal chairs. They sat down next to each other at the far side of the table. The girl was short and “in flesh,” as Italians liked to say about someone chubby, wearing cutoff jeans and a spaghetti-strap top that showed off her abundant breasts. Her face might be pretty if she weren’t sulking. The boy was tall, strongly built. He had on jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt that showed his deep tan ended midbicep. A boy who worked outdoors.

  Perillo and Daniele sat down opposite them. Daniele took out his notebook and pen.

  “Your names?” Perillo asked.

  “We gave them to the fat guy at the desk,” the girl said. “And where’s your tape recorder?”

  Perillo nodded his head toward Daniele. “He’s my tape recorder, and an excellent one too. Please tell him your name, address and birthdate.”

  The boy leaned forward with an apologetic look on his young face. “We don’t want to get into trouble. I’m Bruno Dini, and she’s Katia Paccini. We both live on Via della Conca D’Oro in Panzano. She’s at Thirty-One, I’m down the block at Fourteen. I was born February sixth, 2002.”

  “Too young to have a driver’s license,” Perillo said.

  “I’ve been driving my uncle’s harvester since I was twelve.”

  Perillo turned to the girl. “Your age, Signorina Paccini?”

  “A woman should never reveal her age.”

  Bruno kicked her under the table. She kicked him back.

  Perillo said, “You’re not a woman yet.”

  Katia stuck out her lower lip in a pout.

  “She was born July seventh, 2003.” Bruno joined his hands together as if in prayer. “We’re really sorry we did this, Maresciallo. We just wanted to have some fun. Katia’s never been to San Gimignano. We were going to spend the day here, then drive the car back where we found it.”

  “And where was that?” Perillo asked.

  “The San Eufrosino sanctuary. We both live with our families and go there at night sometimes to get some privacy. You must remember how it is for young people, Maresciallo.”

  Perillo wanted to kick the kid for that remark. Instead, he nodded.

  “Only if the weather is good,” Bruno said, looking at Katia. “We don’t have a car, which I guess is obvious.”

  Daniele lowered his head to hide his smile. If you had a girl and lived with your family, the car became the bedroom. In Venice, the only place cars were allowed was in Piazzale Roma. His friends used to make out in gondolas. He’d tried it once, but the rocking made him seasick.

  “Some important information for you, tape recorder.” Katia eyed Daniele while she tugged at her top to reveal more of her breasts. “The car wasn’t there Sunday night. Monday, it was parked behind the sanctuary. I was cold and we tried the door. No luck and no keys on the ground till last night. How they got there, I have no idea. I looked everywhere the night before. Even got down on my hands and knees. It was freezing, and I wasn’t wearing much.” She dropped her elbows on the table. “Got all that?”

  Daniele kept his head down and wrote, praying he wasn’t blushing. Of course he was.

  Katia laughed.

  Perillo stood up. He had the information he needed and had had enough of Katia Paccini. “Let’s go, Daniele.”

  Daniele closed his notebook, slipped his pen in his pocket and followed Perillo without looking at the teenagers.

  “What about us?” Bruno asked.

  Perillo left the room without answering.

  Katie wiggled her fingers like a two-year-old. “Bye, tape recorder. Don’t let the battery run out.”

  As Daniele closed the door, he overheard Bruno whisper angrily, “Why do you always have to be such a bitch?”

  “It’s fun,” was Katia’s answer.

  The carabiniere stopped Perillo as he headed for the exit. “What do you want us to do with those two?”

&n
bsp; “Let them sit there for a bit and enjoy the San Gimignano air.”

  Once they were outside, Daniele asked, “You don’t think they’re involved with the murder?”

  “They’re dumb kids, but not quite dumb enough to kill a man and go joyriding in his car two days later.”

  “Kids do a lot of stupid things, though,” Daniele said in a tone that indicated he’d passed that stage long ago.

  Perillo lit up a much-yearned-for cigarette. “Of course. I did some pretty crazy stuff myself, but these two didn’t blow our victim’s face off with a shotgun.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “When I was a kid, I lived in a bad area and had to watch out for myself. After I was beaten up too many times to count, I developed an itch in my fingers whenever I met up with a bad one. Those two aren’t bad. Just dumb.”

  Weird, Daniele thought, not sure whether to believe the maresciallo’s fingers could serve psychic purposes.

  Perillo was watching him. “Okay, I’ll give you a more concrete reason. The killer clearly went through the victim’s pockets. There’s not a chance that besotted kid or his nightmare girlfriend would have left that watch and the bracelet.”

  Daniele rubbed his neck, as if that would hide the creeping redness. “What do we do now?”

  “We need a tow truck to pick up the car and take it to Florence. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the forensic technicians will get us some useful information about the killer before Father Christmas comes calling. We’re taking the luggage with us. It should tell us more about our victim. And we’ll take those kids home.” Perillo took a long drag. “That girl really took to you.”

  Daniele found a pebble to kick. He knew she was just toying with him to make Bruno jealous.

  “Rosalba and now Katia. You’ve got a way with women. Enjoy it.”

  There was nothing to enjoy. He hadn’t been with a girl since he’d moved into the barracks in Greve.

  Perillo stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe. “Dani, tell me the truth. How old do I look?”

  Daniele stood at attention. This was a serious question. Age was the maresciallo’s Achilles’ heel. “Thirty-seven, Maresciallo. Thirty-eight at most.”

  Perillo laughed and slapped him on the back. “You’re a good liar, Dani. That is an asset in our business.” He tossed the cigarette on the ground and headed to the victim’s car. “I want you to find out if those two kids ever got into serious trouble. Itch or no itch, it’s always best to turn over every stone.”

  Nico watered the aster plant and placed the fruit-juice bottle with Luciana’s daisies in it under Rita’s photo. He was relieved to be alone. The white of the flowers added a brighter sheen to the grayness of the picture. He resolved to bring more white flowers next time. He stood awkwardly, hands folded over his stomach, with OneWag curled at his feet. Gogol’s parting words had left a stone of guilt in his heart, one he needed to dislodge.

  You still live, Rita mia. In me, in Tilde, in Stella. You are unforgettable. Gogol, who shares your love for Dante, remembers you too. He thinks you know a gravely upsetting truth. I only know two truths. That you’re gone, which still brings tears, and that I love you.

  Nico leaned down, kissed Rita’s photo and slowly walked down the path to the gate. The stone in his heart was still there, but it felt lighter now. He trusted somehow that Rita heard him. It was true that he had trouble summoning her face now when he woke in the morning. Her voice had retreated to a distance he could barely reach, but he would fight to keep her with him. Letting her go was like letting go of the beauty in his life.

  OneWag trotted ahead of the man who cared for him, head and tail held high, eager to find somewhere smellier.

  Back down in the piazza, the dog stopped by Luciana’s flower shop to make a show of sniffing the flowers she kept outside. Luciana had cookies.

  “No begging,” Nico ordered as he walked past and waved. “Thanks for the daisies, Luciana.” He was thankful she was waiting on a customer, which meant he wouldn’t get one of her suffocating, breast-filled hugs.

  OneWag assessed the situation with one glance. He ran across the piazza and aimed his small body toward the steep road that led to Sotto Il Fico. Nico followed the dog up the street and allowed himself a smile when OneWag stopped in front of Enrico’s food shop. Yesterday, Nico had reserved two olive loaves for today. Had the dog stopped for the salty-sweet smell of the prosciutti hanging from the ceiling of the shop? Probably. Or was it the instinctual understanding some dogs had of their owner’s next move?

  There was a customer in the small shop. Behind the counter, Enrico was carving into a giant Parmigiano Reggiano wheel. After he’d extracted a chunk and wrapped it in butcher paper, Enrico dropped a round of mortadella on the slicing machine and worked his arm back and forth until five hundred grams of paper-thin slices sat neatly piled on oiled paper. Outside, OneWag gave a bark of protest. The smells had prompted a growl in Nico’s own stomach. He’d already gained six pounds since coming here. Best to distract himself with something else. Had any new evidence appeared in the murder case? Was Perillo—fine, Salvatore—any closer to knowing the dead man’s identity?

  The Parmigiano and mortadella customer brushed past Nico, bringing him right back to the matter at hand. Food.

  “Buongiorno, Enrico. Your arm must be aching after all that slicing.”

  “Salve, Nico.” He was a short, slight man with a pale face and a half-crown of thinning hair hugging his head. “I started slicing as soon as I was tall enough to reach the handle. After forty years, I’m used to it. I’ve got your two olive loaves. And here’s a slice of mortadella for you, and one for your dog.”

  “You’ll have him at your doorstep every morning now.” Nico stepped outside to give the dog his slice and got the usual one-wag response. Nico went back inside to taste his own slice. The meat was so soft and luscious he barely had to use his teeth. “Thank you. Delicious! I’ll take a hundred grams of it. And some ricotta. Just enough for two people. I was thinking of trying my hand at making a ricotta tart.”

  Enrico sliced some more mortadella. “Ask Luciana for her recipe. She makes a good one.”

  “Thanks, I will if my attempt fails.”

  “Don’t stint on the nutmeg.” Enrico weighed the food, wrapped it in two separate parcels and rang up the amount on an old cash register. Nico paid him.

  As Enrico handed over the change, he asked, “Any news about the dead man?”

  The question surprised Nico, and it showed.

  Enrico looked embarrassed. “You found the body and you’ve been seen with Salvatore, so some of us thought you were working together. You used to be a policeman, no?”

  So that wasn’t a secret anymore either. “I patrolled the streets, but I had nothing to do with murder.” Why was he still lying? Rita was gone. At least Tilde deserved to know what his job had really been. The forced retirement he would keep to himself. Himself, Salvatore and Daniele.

  Nico took the slim packages and the change. “For news, you’ll have to ask the maresciallo. See you tomorrow.” Nico pulled aside the beaded curtain that kept the flies out. “Come on, OneWag. Time to go to work.”

  Stella’s boyfriend blocked his path halfway up the hill to the restaurant. “Can I talk to you, Nico?” Today, Gianni’s face was darkened by a deep frown.

  “Is something wrong?” Nico asked.

  “No.” Gianni’s fingers nervously combed through his curls. “Well, yes. I need your advice. Let me.” Gianni reached for Nico’s bag. It made Nico feel like an old man, but he released his hold on the bag. Gianni was only being polite.

  “Maybe we can sit on the church steps?” Gianni asked. “Out of sight of the restaurant?”

  Nico nodded with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. If Gianni was having romantic problems again, he could listen for a few minutes. Tilde was expecting him t
o help with lunch. He followed Gianni the fifty uphill meters to Sant’Agnese, a largely restructured church dating back to the fourteenth century. If consolation was what Gianni was looking for, this would be the right spot.

  Gianni didn’t wait to sit. “Stella is pulling away from me, and it’s tearing me apart. What makes it worse is, I have no idea why.”

  Nico welcomed the sit-down. He picked the third step and stretched out his legs. Gianni loomed over him, his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. OneWag went exploring their surroundings.

  “Sit,” Nico said gently. “Did you tell her taking the museum exam was okay with you?”

  “Yeah, if that’s what she wants.” Gianni dropped down next to him. “She talks about the museum job as her future, but I mean, is sitting in a chair for eight hours looking at old paintings and answering stupid questions a future? ‘Hey, miss, where’s the john?’” He imitated an American accent. “‘I can’t find the Botticelli, whadja do with it?’”

  “There’s no need for that,” Nico said curtly.

  Gianni looked at him in surprise. “Oh, sure. I forget you’re American.”

  An apology would have been nice, Nico thought. “Maybe she doesn’t believe you.”

  “Why wouldn’t she? Tilde is getting to her. Stella has changed. I’m treating her like a princess. I tell her I’m going to marry her even if she ends up working in Florence. I’ll get a job there too. What more does the girl want?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that for you. I do think, though, that it would help if you treated Stella as a woman, rather than a princess. My wife taught me that what women want is respect first. It keeps the door open to love.”

  “Respect?” Coming from Gianni, it sounded like a foreign word. “What more do I have to do?”