Noticing the maresciallo’s dark face, Daniele regretted having brought up the missing phone. It was all about timing with his boss. He should have remembered that Perillo was tired. “I’ll bring something typically Venetian tonight.”
“Bravo. Nice idea.” Perillo handed over the two passports. “Get Vince or Dino to make photocopies of the American picture—it’s more recent—and get it faxed over to La Nazione and Chianti Sette. Put everything back in the suitcase and make sure someone sticks around to hand over the suitcase when the tow truck arrives. Then you can play with your computer. Don’t forget to get the typed copy witnessed. Then scrounge around and see what you can come up with for Bruno and Katia. If Della Langhe calls, stall. Not a word about the victim being American.”
“I’ll do my best, Maresciallo.”
“I know I can count on you, and as a reward, tomorrow morning you can take a copy of the victim’s older photo up to Radda to see if he’s the man who bought that bracelet from the beautiful Rosalba.” They had not found a receipt for the bracelet among Garrett’s belongings. Too often a cash payment meant no receipt. That was the finance police’s problem, not his.
As expected, Daniele blushed. “I’ll go first thing in the morning, Maresciallo.”
“The store doesn’t open until eleven, but you might find her again at the café.” Perillo slipped on his leather jacket. “On my birth certificate, the name Maresciallo does not appear.”
“Yes, Maresciallo.”
“Yes, Salvatore,” Perillo corrected. Daniele was turning purple now. It was time to leave. “I’m off to Hotel Bella Vista. Who knows what hidden nuggets of information I might find there.”
With OneWag following, head and tail held high, Nico took the plate with the cooling tart out on the balcony and sat behind the small round metal table that must have once belonged to a café. The center held a fading painted ad for Lavazza Coffee. He plunged a fork into the now-cooled tart and tasted.
What a disappointment! The tart was much too bland. And here he had thought it would make a nice appetizer for the restaurant. For a toddler, maybe. Nico lowered the plate to the floor. “All yours, OneWag.”
The dog approached the plate and sniffed. After one lick, he padded back inside to sleep on the sofa. Nico went inside and threw the tart in the garbage. “Come on, off to shop for food,” he told the dog. “We have guests tonight.”
OneWag jumped off the sofa and scrambled to the door with a small pink tongue protruding from his dog smile.
Nico smiled back.
The well-named Hotel Bella Vista sat on the crest of a hill facing away from Panzano. The wide stone building was embraced by a semicircle of tall chestnut trees. The front side faced a garden filled with late summer flowers, which ended with a descending slope marked by slanting lines of young grapevines. In the distance, a perfect view of Vigna Maggio.
“It has been a working farm since the early fifteenth century,” said the woman, who had been pointed out to Perillo as being the manager of the hotel. A hotel guest listened by her side. “The original Vigna Maggio was built by relatives of the Mona Lisa Gherardini, rendered famous by Leonardo Da Vinci. It’s perhaps the most renowned hotel in the Chianti region.”
Perillo listened patiently, not wanting to interrupt with his sordid business. The manager, somewhere in her twenties, had a caressingly soft lilt in her voice, a lovely face with rounded cheeks, a pale complexion and long, blond wavy hair that fell loosely down her back and glinted pink in the sun, features he always associated with Tuscan women. She wore a long, loose skirt of deep-blue cotton with a white scoop-neck blouse trimmed with lace. Perillo thought she could have walked out of an eighteenth-century portrait hanging in the Uffizi.
The manager sensed a movement behind her and turned to face the man. “Oh!” She seemed startled. As this was official business, Perillo was in uniform. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“I just need a minute of your time, when you’ve finished.”
“I need to be off,” said the guest, an older woman whose face had surely been tightened by a surgeon’s hand. “Thank you so much,” the guest said. “I’m sure our stay here will be a delight.”
The manager smiled. “My pleasure.” She turned to Perillo and held out her hand. “Laura Benati. I’m the manager here. How can I help you?”
He shook her hand, introduced himself, and showed her the hotel bill. “Your guest Robert Garrett is the man we found murdered in the woods.”
Laura’s only reaction was to study the hotel bill more closely, as if it could tell her that Perillo was mistaken. “You found him on Monday morning, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“He paid the bill Sunday night in cash. He said he had to leave very early Monday. He seemed very excited, and had a lot to drink at the bar that night, which he hadn’t done the other nights he stayed here. I thought he was just nervous about flying back home to the States.”
“Did he only speak English to you?”
“Yes, although he did have an accent, and quite a strong one. Spanish, I thought.”
“He was Italian.” No harm in revealing that much, even if Della Langhe hadn’t been informed yet.
“Odd, I didn’t spot it. Are you sure the dead man is Garrett?”
“I am. I won’t go into how we know, but there is no doubt that the murdered man was Robert Garrett. Has his room been cleaned out?”
“Yes, and rented to the signora you just saw. He did leave a dirty polo shirt in one of the drawers. I was going to mail it to him.”
“Did you by any chance find a cell phone? His is missing.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
Perillo had no doubt Garrett/Gerardi had a cell phone—everyone and their grandmother did, but it was best to ask anyway. “Did you ever see him use a cell phone?”
“The guests aren’t allowed to use their cell phones in the hotel’s public spaces. Some naturally pay no attention, but if they’re quiet, I let them be. If he did, I didn’t notice. My job keeps me rather busy.”
“Did he have visitors or anyone asking for him? Phone calls?”
“Not while I was at the front desk. I’ll have to ask the two girls who take over from me. Why don’t you come inside while I fetch the shirt and call them?”
Perillo followed Laura to the hotel. The wide front hall had a beamed ceiling, old tapestries on the walls and dark furniture scattered here and there. On the floor, a gleaming expanse of old terra-cotta floor tiles for which Tuscany was famous.
Laura suddenly twirled to face him. “One odd thing did happen. You must know the man everyone calls Gogol?”
“Who doesn’t. What did he do?”
“Tuesday, the day after the man you say is Garrett was killed, Gogol walked into the front garden laughing loudly and clapping his hands. He had never come here before. He was making a lot of noise, and I had a hard time getting him to leave.” She put on a smile she didn’t mean. “I’ll get the shirt for you and make those calls. While you wait, can I offer you a coffee?”
“Thank you. A coffee is always welcome.” Perillo followed Laura to the bar at the back of the hotel, a small room with wooden bookcases filled with books in various languages covering three sides of the room. Perillo had to weave his way between two small leather sofas and armchairs to reach the bar. Behind it, a man who looked to be on the wrong side of eighty was drying a glass.
Laura flung her arm toward the bartender. “Meet Cesare, the man who holds this place together. Cesare, this is Maresciallo Perillo of the Greve Carabinieri. Cesare has been working here since the dinosaur age. We can’t live without him.”
Cesare grinned, all his teeth still in place. “I’m really the ghost of the original owner, who died in 1891. I was a bad one in my day and am paying my dues by humbly bartending until the end of time.”
“Cesare likes to
tease, and the foreign guests eat it up. The maresciallo would like a coffee. Excuse me, I’ll be right back with the shirt.”
Cesare shrugged and put the dry glass away. “I guess I have to be serious with you. Anything stronger than coffee?”
“No, thank you. An espresso will be fine.”
“So I finally get to meet the man who keeps order in these parts. What has kept you away from this nice hotel and our bar?”
“You haven’t needed me.”
“But now you’re looking into the death of that man found in the woods.”
“Yes, I am.”
“The look on Laura’s face told me. Her face was a burst of sunshine before you showed up. Now she’s a storm cloud. And she’s gone to get a shirt—perhaps the shirt one of our guests left in his room?”
“You would have made a good carabiniere.”
Cesare turned to the large shiny espresso machine, filled the holder with fresh coffee and fit it into the machine. “All it takes is knowing how to add. I learned that in the third grade.” After less than a minute, Cesare placed the espresso on the wooden counter in front of Perillo.
“Addition with calculus thrown in, I think.” Perillo took a sip. Cesare went back to picking up glasses from the mini dishwasher behind the counter and drying them. “How long have you worked here?”
“I’ve been behind this bar since I was eighteen.”
Two sips and the cup was empty.
“Did you ever serve a guest who called himself Mr. Garrett?”
“He was a strange one. Liked an Aperol Spritz every night. I can make you one now, if you want. On the house. It’s refreshing.”
“I don’t go for orange drinks. Did he look familiar?”
“Never seen him before. Aperol Spritz is the latest craze from Venice. Prosecco, Aperol, soda water. Three, two, one is the formula. Signor Garrett would have just one and take it to his room.”
“Was that what made him strange?”
“What was strange was that he kept to himself for five days and on the sixth, Sunday night, open sesame, the cave opened and he couldn’t stop talking. Like he knew he wasn’t going to get another chance. He boasted a lot about his success in America. Repeated himself. It sounded to me like he was the one who needed convincing that he’d done all right with his life. His American had an accent. Italian, I thought.”
“You thought right.”
“I wanted to ask him, but I’ve learned that asking isn’t always welcome. Listening is the most important part of my job.”
“And what did you hear?”
“That for all his bragging about being rich, he was very nervous about something. Insecure. He said he had an important meeting in the morning that was going to make things better. I wanted to ask, what things? He had all the money he could want, according to him, a great big house overlooking the Pacific. He showed me a picture. Again, asking isn’t part of my job.”
“He was dying of cancer,” Perillo said, divulging a fact that was going to be in the papers tomorrow.
“That might explain it, I guess. He did mention that the purpose of his trip here was to heal. Maybe he was meeting up with a doctor, maybe one who was going to sell him some crazy cure. When people are desperate, they’ll believe anything.”
Was it his cancer that had brought Garrett home? Perillo wondered. The man had booked a flight back to California, which meant he hadn’t planned to die here. Maybe the fact that he was dying had prompted him to come back. To do what, heal somehow? The cancer had been too far along to hope for a recovery. Perhaps to take care of something?
Cesare noticed the maresciallo was lost in thought. “Maresciallo, yours is a tough job. You need a break from murder. A glass of 2013 Panzanello Riserva on the house?”
“Did Garrett mention anything about a gold bracelet he’d just bought?”
The bartender was about to answer when Laura walked into the room. “I’m sorry I took so long,” she said. “The housekeeper had locked the shirt up in the linen closets. I had to track her down for the key.”
“I know nothing about a gold bracelet,” Cesare said after a look at Laura.
“Neither do I,” Laura said, holding out the shirt, seemingly eager to get rid of what had belonged to a murdered man. “The girls said no one called or asked for Signor Garrett.” Tucked in the pocket of the shirt was a piece of paper. “I wrote down their numbers in case you want to ask them yourself.”
“Thank you. Not that I don’t believe you.”
She nodded. “Do have a glass of wine.” What she meant was, Take this and leave.
Perillo responded to Laura’s words at face value. “Thank you, I’ll pass on the glass, but how much is the bottle? I’ll take two.” It would save him a trip to the wine store. He couldn’t show up at Nico’s empty-handed.
“Consider them a welcoming present from us,” Laura said.
“Too kind, thank you, but I must decline.” Daniele would be proud of him. His wife less so. She wasn’t happy about his pay.
“We’re not trying to bribe you,” Laura said with an annoyed look on her face.
“I know, but it’s policy,” a policy to which Perillo suspected too few colleagues paid attention.
Laura placed the shirt in his hands with determination. “I understand.”
Perillo noticed the golf club embroidered in red on the pocket of the blue shirt. This was the shirt Rosalba had mentioned, the one Garrett had worn to buy the bracelet. He was glad it was now accounted for, but it would tell him nothing more. “Thank you for the coffee and the shirt. If you ever need help, let me know.”
“I hope you’ll come back without us needing your help,” Laura said, playing the welcoming manager with clear insincerity. He didn’t blame her—a carabiniere on-site in uniform wasn’t the best for business.
“Come back for another espresso anytime,” Cesare said, tossing a wet dish towel over his shoulder. “I hope I was of some help.”
“You were. Your last name, please? For the report.”
“Cesare Giovanni Costanzi.”
“Thank you. Thank you both.”
Laura accompanied Perillo to the entrance of the hotel.
“If you think of anything that might help with the investigation, please call me.” He wished he had a business card to give her as he’d seen the TV detectives do, but he’d never had the need for one. “I can give you the number if you have something for me to write it on.”
“I don’t think anything else will come up, but if it does”—if it did, she wasn’t sure she would tell him; she hated the thought of the hotel’s name being connected to the gruesome murder—“I can easily look up the number. Here’s my card.”
Perillo took the card and they shook hands. Laura stood at the entrance and watched as Perillo stopped and took in the view, then walked down the gravel path to the carabinieri car he’d parked just outside the gate for all the guests to see. Tomorrow, even if they didn’t read Italian newspapers, her guests would discover that a fellow guest had been murdered. How many visitors would she lose? She had nothing against Perillo. He was a nice man just doing his job, but she hoped to never see him again. He brought trouble with him. No, she was wrong. He followed trouble and she didn’t like trouble. No one did.
“What did the maresciallo ask you?” Laura asked when she walked back into the bar.
Cesare sipped the Panzanello Riserva wine he had offered Perillo. “It’s what he told me that’s interesting. Gerardi was dying of cancer. That explains why it took me a while to realize who he was. It’s been decades, and he was all swollen, I guess with steroids.”
“Why didn’t you tell the maresciallo you recognized him?”
“Sixty years a bartender, I know when to keep my mouth shut.”
NINE
Nico had just finished the pasta sauce when Perillo called
to say they were leaving Greve.
“Good. I’ve left the downstairs door open.” The two carabinieri were his first dinner guests. Tilde never had a free evening. The one night of the week the restaurant was closed, she inevitably wanted to stay home. He’d put on clean khakis and a dark-green polyester short-sleeved shirt. Both needed “a touch of the iron,” as Rita used to say, but sweeping a hot gadget back and forth without burning anything was a skill Nico had yet to master. At least cooking was easier. Nico dipped a coffee spoon into the sauce and tasted, a hungry OneWag watching closely.
“Sorry, you’ll have to wait. Guests come first.” Nico added a pinch of salt and pepper, used the wooden spoon to mix it all up. It was a nice sauce, nothing to be ashamed of. Thinly sliced leeks, broccoletti and mushrooms browned in butter, then wetted with a little white wine. Once the wine had almost evaporated he’d added vegetable broth, salt and pepper and let it simmer until slightly thickened. The last touch was whisking in a few tablespoons of mascarpone. Tonight he was going to serve it with penne, although any pasta would do the sauce honor. If Daniele and Perillo liked the dish, Nico would suggest it to Tilde. While cooking, he’d even come up with a name: Pasta Nico’s Way. He was getting arrogant in his old age. Well, at least he was trying to make a mark in the kitchen, if not at solving crimes.
He filled the large pot with water, put it on the gas flame and placed the sea salt next to the pot as a reminder. Rita had taught him he had to wait until the water boiled to add the salt, otherwise the water would take forever to boil. In his zeal to eat, often he’d toss in the pasta and forget the salt.
Nico filled a small bowl with Castelvetrano olives from Sicily and chunks of Parmigiano Reggiano. He poured himself a glass of Aldo’s white wine and took the bowl and his glass out onto the terrace. Clouds had slipped in and darkened the sky. The air was cooling. Dinner would have to be inside. He had no tablecloth or place mats, just cheap plates and cutlery he’d bought at the big Coop in Greve. As he went back inside and set the table he could hear Rita clucking her tongue. All the stuff in their Bronx home, he’d given to the Salvation Army. He didn’t need to take any more weight with him.
Murder in Chianti Page 13