“Ask Stella.” Nico stood up. “Now, forgive me, Tilde is waiting for me.”
“Of course. Put in a good word for me, will you? Tell her Stella’s future is maybe with the job, but it’s also with me. You can tell Stella that too.”
Nico bent down to hide the disappointment in his face. He picked up his bag. Gianni persisted in being cocky and possessive, a bad combination. Nico straightened himself up and whistled. OneWag came running with a small red rubber ball in his mouth.
“No.” Nico did not pronounce the word with any force, but OneWag took it as a command and let go of the ball. The three of them watched it stumble down the slope. Later, OneWag would retrieve it in the piazza below, and Nico would let him keep it. His no had been for Gianni.
Sotto Il Fico did brisk business at lunchtime, selling out of the zucchini lasagna, the stuffed rigatoni au gratin and the pappa al pomodoro. Nico gulped down the last portion of navy bean and kale soup served at room temperature. At three o’clock, the terrace had emptied except for two older Englishmen who were finishing the last drops of their 2013 Castello di Rampolla, a renowned vineyard they could spot in the distance. In the front room, Elvira napped on her armchair with the completed front-page crossword of the Settimana Enigmistica on her lap. Her pen had fallen to the floor. Enzo stood at his perch behind the bar, catching up on soccer news in the Gazzetta dello Sport. Stella was supposedly at home studying for the museum guard exam. Tilde and Alba, the Albanian helper, were wiping the kitchen. Nico finished loading the dishwasher. They had been too busy cooking, plating and serving to say more than two words to each other until now.
Tilde asked as she hung up the scrubbed skillets on the brick wall, “Did Salvatore find out the dead man’s identity?”
“Not yet. Look, there’s something I need to tell you,” Nico said.
“Ah, yes. Enzo saw you talking to Gianni up at the church. What did he have to say for himself?”
“Nothing interesting.” Nico did not want to add to Tilde’s bad opinion of Gianni. It was up to Stella to decide whether to keep him in her life or not.
“All right.” It was clear she didn’t believe him. “How was your dinner at Da Angela? I want to hear about every crumb you ate and every word you and Salvatore said to each other. You talked about the murder, yes?” The man’s death and his gold sneakers still haunted her. Shooting his face off, erasing his identity struck her as an act of rage. It brought back the memory of her own rage from years ago. That was what scared her. That rage was still inside her. “Start with what the two of you ate. Anything we should be serving here?”
“Can we take a walk?”
Tilde took in Nico’s serious expression. A walk meant he wanted privacy. Whatever he needed to tell her had nothing to do with food. “I’ve been on my feet since six o’clock this morning. I’m ready for a sit-down.” She took off her apron, hung it on a nail by the kitchen door and walked out of the restaurant. Nico retrieved his package of food from the refrigerator and followed. OneWag trailed them both to the steps of the church, where he had sat with Gianni. From this vantage point, they had a good view of the medieval town. The new houses had been built on the other side, below the hill.
Tilde sat on one of the steps and offered her face to the sun, eyes closed. Nico lowered himself down next to her, and she sensed how tense he was. “Let me guess what you ate,” she said to make the moment easier for him. Nico’s dinner with Salvatore made her think she knew what he wanted to say. “A plate of the usual antipasto, salame, prosciutto, grilled eggplant, yellow and red peppers, zucchini. Pecorino cheese with a sweet onion marmalade from Certosa.” She turned to face Nico, locking arms with him. “Then what? Pasta or risotto?”
Nico nudged her shoulder. He knew what she was up to, and it was working. “We had a historic meat course. La peposa. It was very good, although I would have liked a little less pepper. You should put it on the menu.”
“We do on occasion. And Salvatore, what did he tell you about the murder? You’re conspiring together to solve it, aren’t you?”
Nico took a deep breath. “Rita will have to forgive me. But before I get into that, there’s something you should know, something Rita asked me not to tell anyone here. I was a homicide detective in New York City for nineteen years before I left the force. Salvatore knows. That’s why he wants me to help him. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I wanted to honor Rita’s wishes.”
“Bravo. I’m impressed.” Tilde feigned surprise. Her aunt had told her the truth in that terrible last letter. A letter that had also told her Rita had stage-four cancer; a letter that had asked her to welcome and care for Nico once she was gone. Rita had correctly guessed Nico would move to Gravigna after her death.
Tilde took his hand in hers and squeezed. “Thank you for telling me. It must have been a very difficult job, and I’m proud of you.”
“I’m not sure Rita felt the same.”
“Of course she did. You were the earth and the sky to her. I imagine she was afraid for you. Not telling anyone meant you were safe. We women have funny ways of dealing with our fear. I worry that Stella won’t get the museum guard job she wants, so I spend half the night on the Internet, memorizing the art in that museum. It’s my good-luck charm for her.”
Nico kissed Tilde’s forehead. “I thought you would be angry.”
Tilde let go of Nico’s hand and stood up. “I think I used up my anger long ago. At least most of it.” She looked back at the church, hoping Nico wouldn’t see that she was lying. “I’m going back to work on dinner. You’ve done enough for today. I don’t want to see you tonight.”
“What about feeding me?”
“I don’t trust you. You’ll eat a single bite, then start serving on tables. Come up with a great recipe to feed yourself. Our menu could use another of your ideas. And don’t let Salvatore take over your life. He’s gotten bored with being married, and any excuse to stay out at night is good. Although I’ll admit murder is an excellent one.”
Nico was reminded of Gogol’s words that morning. “You know Gogol, don’t you?”
“Of course. He’s one of our village landmarks. The castle, the church and Gogol. I’ve heard you’ve become fast friends.”
“He got all worked up when he saw me talking to Salvatore. He said something odd. That there would be much weeping and no singing. That my wife is a good woman who knows the truth. What do you think he meant by that?”
Tilde felt a chill in her heart. “He’s probably misquoting Dante. Or letting his imagination fly in the wind.”
Nico lifted himself slowly. The church’s steps were low, and he was still feeling the morning’s run in his knees. “Maybe, but he was trying to warn me off something. I’d like to know what.” OneWag, who had curled himself in the shade of a potted hibiscus, stood up, stretched and sauntered over to Nico.
Tilde hastily kissed Nico on both cheeks. She was eager to reach the safety of her kitchen, a place she considered her own, where she felt empowered. “Find a good recipe,” she said simply, and walked away.
“I do have an idea. Easy, inexpensive. I just have to play around with it first.” By the time his final sentence had ended, only OneWag was listening.
EIGHT
Daniele and Perillo had delivered Katia and Bruno to their homes, warning them to stay in town. The tow truck was on its way to San Gimignano to pick up the Avis Panda. On its way back to Florence, it would stop by the Greve station to collect Robert Garrett’s suitcase, which had been carefully emptied by Daniele, its contents neatly laid out on two tables in Perillo’s office.
“Make a list,” Perillo said.
“Aren’t we sending everything to Florence?”
“Yes, but the dead man is an American. I wish to be prudent. The Florence lab will make its own list. We will have ours, witnessed by—who’s on duty today?”
“Dino and Vince.”
“Witnessed by Dino and Vince. Go ahead, don’t leave anything out. Toothpicks included.” He caught Daniele hungrily eyeing his computer in the back of the room. “A handwritten list first, Dani.” He opened his desk drawer, took out pen and paper and handed them over. “These are good items. They’ve been used for centuries. With these, no hacking, no computer malfunctions.”
“Paper gets lost.”
“Files get erased. You’ll type it into your machine later.”
A reluctant Daniele went back to the two tables and started writing. He listed the three most important items first. As soon as Daniele had written them down, Perillo slipped on a new pair of rubber gloves and transferred the listed items to his desk, where he could sit down and think about them. He had already read the information on the American passport back in the carabinieri parking lot in San Gimignano. Now he examined the hotel receipt that had been stuffed in a trouser pocket. Hotel Bella Vista, seven nights at 160 euros a night. No credit card numbers.
“He told Avis he was going to Radda in Chianti,” Perillo muttered to himself. “Instead, he stayed in Panzano. Why not Gravigna, his hometown?”
Daniele always listened to Perillo’s mutterings, hoping to learn something and also to have answers for him. “Judging from the other receipts we found, he was a Dario Cecchini fan. He ate at his top restaurant five of the seven nights he was here. Paid with cash every time.”
“Maybe Garrett didn’t believe in credit cards,” Perillo muttered to himself. He’d paid for the bracelet in cash too. There was no cash in his pockets when he was found. The killer must have taken it. Maybe the dog’s barks scared him off before he could grab the watch and the bracelet.
“Even kept the menu.” Daniele waved the large sheet in the air. “‘Leave all hope, ye who enter here. You’re in the hands of a butcher.’ I say, leave all your money ye who enter here. Fifty euros a meal. That’s crazy.”
“If we find the killer, I’ll take you there.”
“I’m a vegetarian, Maresciallo.”
“That’s right.” Why did he keep forgetting things like this? Was he already going senile? “You liked the leftover eggplant parmigiana.” He did remember the look of joy on Dani’s face as he stuffed himself. “I’m sure they’d have something for you too. And don’t ‘Maresciallo’ me.”
“Signora Perillo is a very good cook.”
“Yes, she is. Excellent, in fact.” And a lovely woman. If only the fire between them hadn’t flickered down to the strength of a single candle. “We have more important things to worry about here than my wife’s cooking skills. Get back to your list.”
“I never stopped, Maresciallo. Sorry, Ma—Salvatore. I can write and speak at the same time.”
Something Perillo had never mastered. “Good for you.” He picked up the third item on his desk. Another passport, Italian this time. He opened it. The photograph was of a much younger Garrett, the name different: Roberto Gerardi. This passport had been issued twenty-three years ago. The tax had been paid only that once, which allowed Roberto Gerardi to use his Italian passport for one year. Perillo slapped the passport down on the desk. “Why did Roberto Gerardi become Robert Garrett?”
“He became an American citizen.”
“But why change his name?” Perillo said, more to himself than to Daniele. “Your given name is who you are. It represents you.” He was proud of the name he’d been given by the Perillos, the couple who had opened up their home to him. On the streets of Pozzuoli, he’d been known as Sbriga because he was always hustling. He knew no other name until he was given the name Salvatore, “the one who saves.” It should have been Salvato, “saved,” but that was not a name anyone used. Salvatore replaced Sbriga. “You don’t just throw your name away like it’s garbage.” And yet, ashamed of what he had been, he had done exactly that with Sbriga.
“Maybe that’s what he wanted to do. I’ll see if he had a criminal record here.”
“Don’t bother. You can’t become an American citizen with a record. Or get a resident alien card.”
“What a terrible name, alien. As if immigrants come from Mars.”
“We’re all aliens to each other, I think.” Perillo watched Daniele write for a moment and remembered what Nico had said about making a list. Not a bad idea. He felt like he’d just been dropped into a high-walled maze where the exit would always be hidden. A list might help clear his head, arm him for the inevitable phone call to Della Langhe. He took out another sheet of paper and a pencil from his drawer. He’d always preferred pencil to pen. Mistakes were easily erased with a pencil, unlike in real life. He’d been lucky. He’d been given a choice and had the good sense to seize it.
Perillo bent over his desk and began in his best grammar-school handwriting. Signorina Bianchi, his teacher, had praised him for his neat, rounded letters. He chuckled as he remembered it was the only praise he’d received on starting school. Once he was done writing, Perillo folded the sheet of paper twice and started to tuck it in his pocket. A thought came to him and he unfolded it and added:
6. Remember to buy flowers for your wife. Just because.
List refolded and safely in his pocket, Perillo reached for the phone.
Nico’s cell rang just as he was slurping water from the faucet to cool his mouth. He’d been too eager to taste the ricotta tart he’d just plucked out of the oven. “Nico here.”
“We’ve identified the victim.” Perillo’s voice sounded triumphant. “The dead man was Roberto Gerardi, a Gravignese, and also Robert Garrett, an American owner of a vineyard in Napa Valley called Delizioso.”
“Good.” He was happy for Perillo, but half his mind was concentrated on what he had just cooked. Nico’s forefinger pressed gently on the surface of the tart. Still too hot. OneWag sat at his feet, hungrily gazing at Nico.
“His being American complicates things,” Perillo said. “Your people will want to take charge, send a detective or two.”
“They’re not my people anymore.” Nico walked away from the oven. “And they won’t take charge. It’s your jurisdiction. They might put some pressure on the embassy in Rome, but if they took charge, would it matter to you?”
Perillo thought over the question for a moment. If the Americans took over, they’d be the ones to have to deal with Della Langhe’s arrogance. That would be a relief. He and his men would go back to worrying about the pickpockets at the Expo del Vino opening tomorrow. Last year, more than twenty thousand people had shown up during the four-day festival. Only two wallets had been lost, one retrieved still full of money. A boring job.
“Yes, I would care,” Perillo said. He wanted to rise to the challenge of this difficult case, prove to the procuratore that he had a brain, that he wasn’t Southern Italian scum. “This is my case. Our case.”
At the other end of the line, Nico felt an unexpected thrum in his chest. He had both loved and hated his job in New York. Loved it when justice was found for the victim and their grieving family. Hated it for the ugliness he faced with each murder. In his last case, the ugliness had been the victim’s. He sighed loudly. Maybe with luck and some smart work, they could clean up the mess. “When you’re done with everything you have to do today and your wife doesn’t mind, come for dinner and we’ll go over the new details. Bring Daniele. He’s got some good gears in his head.”
“Thank you. It’s a welcome invitation. My wife is bringing dinner to a friend who’s fallen ill. I have two bottles of wine to make our minds and a moonless sky shine with light.” Never mind that the moon was almost full. Nico’s willingness to collaborate thrilled Perillo. Maybe their minestrone of backgrounds—American, Venetian and Neapolitan—had a chance of cracking the case. He started to add I made a list, but stopped himself. Nico’s suggestion had helped to clear his thoughts, but as a maresciallo of the carabinieri, he needed to maintain some dignity. “Daniele is a vegetarian,” he said instead.
/> Too bad, Nico thought. He’d found a loose brick downstairs, which had given him the idea to make one of his favorites—pollo alla diavola, the devil’s chicken. An easy recipe. All it took was a hot grill, a chicken split in two, well seasoned and brushed with olive oil, and a heavy brick to weigh it down and give it a crisp skin. “What about gluten?”
Perillo turned to Daniele. “Nico’s invited us to dinner. I warned him you only eat sheep and cow fodder. Any gluten problems to add to that?”
“No, none at all. Tested negative when I was a baby.” Daniele felt his chest warm, bringing a smile. He was being treated as an equal.
Perillo spoke into the phone. “We’re fine with gluten.”
“So I can serve pasta?”
“You can. We should be done here by eight, eight-thirty.”
“Call me when you’re on your way.” Nico hung up. Perillo followed suit.
Daniele had just finished listing all the items in Gerardi’s suitcase. He turned to look at his boss with a puzzled look.
“What, Dani?”
“I was wondering what happened to Gerardi’s cell phone.”
“Ah, that’s right. It’s missing.” Perillo tried to keep the annoyance from his voice. He had overlooked that. He was getting duller.
“I bet it was a new iPhone and the murderer pocketed it. With what they cost here, I don’t blame him.” Daniele’s face instantly reddened. “I mean, I don’t condone—”
Perillo dismissed his brigadiere’s embarrassment with the flick of a hand. “You’re speculating again. Gerardi could have lost the phone. My wife is always losing hers, buying a new one and then finding the old one weeks later.” He’d finally bought her a traded-in iPhone and activated the Find My iPhone feature. “The murderer could have taken the phone to cover their tracks.”
“They communicated?”
“Maybe.” Perillo sighed. Maybe, could have, might have, what if. Everything in the case was speculation. He’d put Daniele down out of pique, but now they needed to find the phone.
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