Murder in Chianti

by Camilla Trinchieri

  “I never saw him again. A few weeks later, I found out he’d left town shortly after the incident.”

  “I’ll talk to Gogol. Try to reassure him. I know he’s not the killer.” Nico’s heart told him that, though his head had room for doubt.

  “Of course not. He’s petrified of guns. Gustavo told me the kids used to shoot at him with BB guns when he was young. Gustavo was probably one of them.”

  “You don’t think Gerardi was in love with anyone?”

  Nelli leaned back and bit into her ciambella. She took a sip of her cappuccino, then looked at Nico with an indecipherable expression. “If he was, it wasn’t me, although back then, I wished it with all my heart.”

  ELEVEN

  Perillo held the phone away from his ear as Della Langhe went on one of his tirades. After a few minutes of being told he was incompetent, that he was unnecessarily complicating Della Langhe’s life, that if the case wasn’t solved quickly his career would be in jeopardy, Perillo tried to interject with, “It’s not my fault Gerardi became an American citizen.”

  The substitute prosecutor seemed to grasp this, because his tone changed. “My secretary has already contacted the American embassy. As soon as they inform us of the name of his lawyer and whether he had any family there, she will inform you.”

  “We also need to know if he corresponded with anyone in Italy.”

  “Whatever information the Americans give us, I trust you will then act quickly.”

  “I assure you, Maresciallo, that I don’t waste time. As we say back home, the rooster crows in the morning.”

  Della Langhe sniffed over the phone. “I wouldn’t know about roosters, and Southerners do not have a reputation for haste. Keep me informed.” The line went dead.

  Perillo slammed down the phone and made for the door of his office. “I need a cigarette.” Daniele followed.

  Outside, the rain was coming down in thick sheets. Perillo stood under the eaves and took drag after drag. Why was he saddled with a pompous ass like Della Langhe for this case? Why not a reasonable substitute prosecutor? Maybe there weren’t any reasonable ones. He’d heard Della Langhe had gotten his job because he was in deep with the conservative party, who was now in control. But in Italy, no party stayed in control for long. Elections were coming up in March. There was hope. This time, he’d vote against Della Langhe’s party. In the past, he had left the ballot blank in protest. Politicians were all liars.

  Daniele stayed on the other side of the entrance. Rain splattered on his shoes. “Do you think it will let up soon?” He was hoping the maresciallo would calm down and find a registrar’s office employee so he could ride his motorbike up to Radda, get the name and address of Gerardi’s sister and finally tell Rosalba she wouldn’t have to deal with the Florentine sketch artist. By now, she must know they’d discovered the identity of the man who’d purchased the bracelet. He didn’t have to go, but he wanted to see her, and he was more comfortable armed with an excuse. He had dreamt about her early that morning. The two of them were holding hands, their faces close. He’d leaned in to kiss her just as his alarm went off.

  Perillo finished his cigarette in silence and tossed the butt into a wide puddle at the bottom of the stairs.

  Daniele winced. He would pick that up later and throw it in the garbage.

  Perillo ignored the wince and asked, “Did you look into the records for those kids?”

  “I did. Bruno Dini and Katia Galli. No arrests. Same for the bartender at Hotel Bella Vista. I also checked to see whether there was any land for sale in the area. I came up with nothing.”

  Perillo nodded and lit another cigarette. Daniele hovered.

  “What is it?”

  Daniele hugged the wall, trying to protect his shoes. He had spit-shined them late last night in anticipation of his trip to Radda. “The registrar’s office is closed.”

  Della Langhe’s words were burning a hole in his stomach. “Yes, you told me. I’ll get on the phone and see if I can find someone to open up for you.”

  Daniele nodded. Waiting was good. The rain might stop.

  “I just need a few minutes, Dani.”

  “Yes, Maresciallo.” Daniele retreated backward through the open door.

  “Yes, Salvatore!” Perillo yelled after him and took out his phone.

  Nico was putting a wet OneWag into the 500 when his phone rang.

  “No need to come at lunch,” Tilde said. “With this rain, very few people are going to show up.” Sotto Il Fico had only five indoor tables.

  He dropped into the driver’s seat. “I’ll come by anyway. You’ve seen the paper?”

  “Heard it thanks to Elvira, who read the article out loud over breakfast like I was illiterate.”

  “Did you look at the photograph?”

  “No need.”

  “Then you knew Gerardi?” He heard Tilde’s intake of breath.

  “In Gravigna, everyone thinks they know everyone. That doesn’t mean they do.” Her voice had turned steely.

  “And you?”

  “I saw him around.”

  “I’d like to find out whatever you, Enzo and Elvira know about him.”

  “I thought you weren’t getting involved.”

  Nico didn’t remind Tilde that she had been the first to suggest it. “Perillo asked for my help. I reluctantly agreed.” During last night’s dinner, as Perillo, Daniele and Nico talked about the murder, his reluctance had melted away. He was working on something important again. Something that needed resolution. Being part of a team, puzzling things out together was what he most missed about his years as a homicide detective. “Anything you can tell me will help.”

  “You should be looking at his life in America.”

  “He was killed here.” The phone beeped again.

  “That doesn’t mean a local killed him,” she insisted. “The wine festival in Greve brings Americans in by the dozens. The opening is tonight. Go look for your killer there.”

  That was Tilde’s local pride talking. “I’m sure Perillo and the substitute prosecutor in Florence will look into the American angle. So will the American police. Can I come talk to you about him?”

  “I don’t have that much to tell. I’ll feed you lunch if you want. We’ll talk afterward.”

  “When Elvira has gone off to take her nap.” He’d said it to make Tilde laugh but was met with silence.

  Nico’s phone rang as soon as he clicked off.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait a few days to know about Gerardi’s American life. And no one is around to open up the registrar’s office,” Perillo announced. “According to a grandmother I got ahold of, the whole group went off in this rain to the castle of Meleto to celebrate a birthday. They’ll be back in the late afternoon. I’ll get someone to open up the office then. Della Langhe can’t blame this delay on me. The employees are all Tuscan.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He yelled for a bit, then insulted me by saying Southerners are not known for their haste. Is that something you believe?”

  “I’ve heard that said about all Italians.” Nico wasn’t about to say that the reputation was worse from Rome on southward.

  “Yes, yes, I know. You Americans want to fly through your lives, then end up with a heart attack. ‘Who goes slowly goes far and stays healthy,’ is the saying here. Not so today for Daniele. He was like a racehorse at the starting gate, pawing at the ground and waiting for that whistle.”

  Nico laughed. “That’s called love.”

  Perillo remembered how love had made him crazy for a while. Four women he had loved; only one endured. The craziness of it had now been replaced by comfortable habit, warmth and a hint of boredom. “With that beauty, good luck to Dani.”

  “Did anyone answer your appeal for information?”

  “A lot of people came in, worried abou
t their safety. I assured them that they had nothing to worry about. It wasn’t a random murder, and we’re not dealing with a serial killer.”

  “What about a murderer who’s lost his mind?”

  “I wasn’t about to point out that possibility. I don’t believe it, anyway.”

  “Don’t rule it out. In my experience, you have to keep every possibility on the table.”

  Perillo nodded. “A few men came in to offer information, which amounted to nothing. They didn’t know him well, didn’t like him, saying Gerardi thought himself the only rooster in the henhouse. They didn’t know anything about a girlfriend or even his sister’s name. Arben, the Albanian who works for Aldo, confirmed Aldo’s story about Gerardi stealing from him. He just flew back yesterday from two weeks in Tirana. He offered to come in and show me the boarding passes. I told him not to bother. I did get one phone call that sounded interesting. A woman, says she knew Gerardi very well. She wouldn’t give her name, but she’s coming in after she’s done shopping. Anything on your end?”

  “I was about to call you. Nelli, the art center director here, told me that Gogol attacked Gerardi with a tree branch here in the piazza right before Gerardi left town. She asked him why. Gogol’s only response was, ‘A river of blood.’ That could be one of his usual Dante quotes, but it could be that he wanted actual blood. I’m on my way to the home to see if he’ll talk to me. I’m also going to ask Tilde and her family if they know anything about Gerardi that might be useful.” Twenty-two years ago, Tilde was in her early twenties. If Gerardi was as handsome as Nelli said, Tilde would have at least noticed him, and Elvira would have known what gossip there was about him.

  “See if you can find out who he was in love with. If he walked out on her, whoever it is could still be carrying a grudge.”

  “Nelli didn’t know. Neither did Ettore and Gustavo. Do you know them?”

  “Sure I do. Half of the Bench Boys. I gave them that name because I can’t keep their names straight. Thanks, Nico. I appreciate your help. Ciao for now.”

  “Ciao.” At the sound of the phone’s click, OneWag jumped in Nico’s lap and pawed at the window.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  OneWag dropped his head between his paws and whimpered his protest.

  “Don’t try that on me. Be reasonable. You’d get soaked.”

  OneWag looked up at Nico’s determined face. After a few seconds, the dog dropped his head back down and closed his eyes. At least he had the comfort of knowing this man would never abandon his car.

  Nico got out of the passenger seat, shut the car door and unfurled his umbrella. There was no place to park near the “house of rest,” as Italians called an old-age home. As Nico walked the five hundred meters to the home, he hoped his own old age would be filled with much more than rest.

  The woman at the front desk raised an eye in Nico’s direction and went back to crocheting her yellow wool and reading the newspaper. He noticed it was open to the page with Gerardi’s two passport photos. “Gogol’s gone. Who knows when he’ll be back.” She kept her head down, showing a scalp covered by thin, short, curly white hair. He could see through to the pink skin beneath. Nico didn’t know her name, though Gogol had once referred to her as Cerberus, the three-headed dog guarding hell.

  “How did you know I was going to ask for him?”

  “You’re Gogol’s friend.”

  Nico held out his hand and introduced himself.

  She reluctantly set down her crocheting, shook his hand quickly and went back to her work. “Lucia,” she muttered, keeping her last name to herself.

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Mushroom picking. What else can you do in this weather?” She raised her eyes for a moment with a look that questioned his mental capacity.

  He knew that many of the guests at the home had mental disabilities. “One could stay dry at home.”

  “Gogol was too happy for that. Took one look at Robi’s photos and laughed his head off.”

  “He was happy Gerardi was dead?”

  “Seems so to me. It didn’t surprise me.” She looked at the strip of yellow wool and started counting loops. “Whatever happened between those two must have been nasty. Gogol has always been a good man. No trouble at all, if you don’t mind his Dante gibberish.”

  “Are you referring to the time Gogol went after Robi with a big tree branch?”

  “Robi was able to stop him and no one got hurt, God be praised.” She crossed herself and brought the gold crucifix that rested on her chest to her lips.

  “You have no idea why?”

  She was back to swinging the crochet hook in and out with a twist of her wrist. “No one does. Robi said they’d never even spoken to each other. Gogol must have just been seized by some anger from his childhood. He’s never been a hundred percent, and the kids used to bully him mercilessly.”

  “Could Gogol have killed Robi?” Nico asked just to see her reaction.

  “May God forgive me for saying this,” she said, kissing the crucifix again, “but humans are basically cruel. Cain killed his brother. From then on, we have been killing each other. God isn’t even trying to stop it. The world turned away from God from the moment Eve stuck her teeth in that apple. We do not merit the life He gave us.”

  “Did Robi merit death?”

  “I would say he was not a God-fearing man, but I’m sorry Robi had to die in that terrible way. To think that he would have died naturally six months later in his own bed. Only God knows why this happened to him. As for Gogol, God’s light shines on him. He cherishes all life. Gogol promised to make me a potato and mushroom omelet if he found enough porcini. He’ll be back by dinnertime.”

  “Gogol cooks?”

  “When something makes him happy, he stirs it up in the kitchen. There’s nothing wrong in his head when he’s cooking.”

  “You wouldn’t know where Gogol went mushroom picking, would you?”

  “The woods behind the Ferriello Vineyard is his favorite spot, but he could be anywhere. I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

  The woods behind the Ferriello Vineyard had been where Gerardi was killed. He needed to find Gogol. “Thank you, Signora Lucia.”

  “Signorina, and proud of it. As a young girl, I suffered men’s ways and promised myself to keep them at a distance. My life couldn’t have been more pleasant.” Her head stayed bent over her work. “I won’t forget.”

  Nico walked away, wondering if “I won’t forget” meant telling Gogol he had been by or her suffering of men’s ways.

  Daniele parked the bike, took off his helmet, removed his plastic poncho and spied himself in the door of the ceramic shop next to Gioielleria Crisani. Wanting Rosalba to forget he was a carabiniere, he had dressed in newly laundered jeans and a striped red and purple birthday present from his mother. As he looked at his reflection, his hopes of making a good impression on Rosalba sank to nothing. His boots, the bottom of his jeans and the lower half of his face were dark with mud. He unlocked his motorcycle seat and took out a towel. He wiped down his face, put the towel and the helmet under the seat, locked the bike and filled his lungs with air, then pressed the buzzer.

  The door opened. Daniele looked up to see an older replica of Rosalba standing behind the counter. The same round face, large dark eyes, full lips, long black hair coiled back in a loose bun reflected in the mirror behind her.

  Irene Crisani eyed the boy with his cheap shirt and his muddy boots dirtying the floor. At the most, he could afford a small silver trinket for his girlfriend or his mother. “Can I help you?”

  Not an exact copy of Rosalba, Daniele decided. Her warmth was missing.

  “Good morning.” He tried to imitate the maresciallo’s officious tone. “I need to speak with Rosalba Crisani.”

  Irene looked at Daniele with renewed interest. What need did this boy have
to see her daughter? Was he another one of Rosalba’s strays? She often wondered where Rosalba had gotten her overfriendly genes. Certainly not from the Crisani side of the family. Maybe from her charmer of a father.

  “She’s not coming in today.” A lie. Rosalba was taking over after the lunch break. “I’m her mother.” She didn’t bother to give her name. “You can tell me.”

  He took out his carabinieri identity card. “Brigadiere Daniele Donato. Maresciallo Perillo and I are looking into the murder of Roberto Gerardi.” The shine in her eyes disappeared, Daniele noticed. Or perhaps it had never been there. It was just that the rest of her had so instantly recalled Rosalba. He explained his previous visit to the store.

  “Yes, you asked about a bracelet my daughter sold to a man. She told you all she knew. What is it that you want from my daughter now?”

  Irene’s condescending tone didn’t sting Daniele. He disliked her for it but was grateful. Disliking someone always made him feel as though he had the upper hand. It stopped him from blushing. “I wanted to show her the picture of Gerardi, to see if he was the man who bought the bracelet.”

  “She saw the photo in the paper and told me she was almost certain he was the same man.”

  “Almost certain?”

  “The man wore a baseball cap pulled low. I will ask her to call the maresciallo if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you, and please thank her for her cooperation.”

  Irene nodded. She had no intention of mentioning this brigadiere.

  “Rosalba is too young, but perhaps you knew Roberto Gerardi?”

  Irene fiddled with the gold bands on her wrist. “I doubt my age is reason enough to assume I knew him.”

  The bracelets kept clinking. For a moment, Daniele felt bad about her discomfort. “I’m sorry, Signora Crisani. I’m not very good at explaining myself. Your age has nothing to do with it. It’s the fact that Gerardi knew this shop. If not you, maybe your husband or your father knew him?” Daniele was aware he was going out on a limb. Gerardi could have just as easily found the shop by chance, but he had told Avis he was coming to Radda. Why say that and end up in Panzano? Maybe because he knew he would buy his bracelet here, the only jewelry shop that had existed here twenty-two years ago. Daniele had double-checked that last night.