Murder in Chianti

by Camilla Trinchieri

  Irene placed both her hands flat on the glass counter. Below the glass, the display of glittering jewelry seemed to smile back at her. Looking at the necklaces, bracelets and rings always calmed her down. They were her riches, her strength. The shop had thrived under her ownership. She didn’t miss her father, a cruel man who had stunted her life. Her husband, whom she’d met only after her father’s death, had loved her, and in return she’d given him what little love she had left. “I’m afraid I can’t answer for them. My father and husband are both dead, and whether they knew that man or not is buried with them.”

  “Thank you, Signora. Please do tell Rosalba I stopped by.” Daniele suspected she wouldn’t, but for some reason his questions had made Rosalba’s mother sad. For that he was sorry, even if he disliked her. Sorry, but curious.

  Outside, the rain had stopped.

  Sitting at his desk, Perillo glanced at his watch as his stomach growled. One o’clock on the dot. Lunchtime. His cell phone rang. Punctual as ever, Signora Perillo informed him she’d just thrown the pasta into boiling water and he should come up. Today, she was offering spaghetti loaded with roasted yellow peppers and Parmigiano Reggiano, a dish he cherished. Since he’d given her those flowers, she’d been as sweet as those yellow peppers she was about to serve. The main course was breaded chicken breast and fennel and olive salad. As always, an espresso would be his only dessert.

  As Perillo hung up, his mouth already watering, the office phone rang. He let out a long sigh and for a second or two thought of letting the call go unanswered. No, spaghetti took nine minutes to cook al dente. Whatever it was, he’d make it brief.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a woman to see you,” said Vince from the front desk. “She’s got information on the dead man. She said she called earlier. Should I tell her to come back?” Vince knew how Perillo felt about his lunch break.

  “No, send her in.” Perillo understood that people who had information, or thought they did, wanted to be treated with importance. Making him wait until she had finished shopping was a clear indication that the woman felt very important. If he didn’t see her now, she might not offer any information. “Please call upstairs and tell my wife to keep the plate warm for me. That I’ll come up as soon as I can.”

  The woman walked in through the door Vince had opened for her, burdened by two large shopping bags from the Coop. “Here I am at last.”

  A pleasant-looking woman in her late forties, Perillo guessed, dressed in a beige ruffled blouse and matching skirt that showed off a good figure. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

  She lifted her heavy shopping bags as though she was ready to do some bodybuilding. “I should have brought these home first, but I knew you were anxious to know more about Robi.”

  Then you could have done your shopping afterward, Perillo thought as he stood up and said, “Very kind of you.” He extended his hand. “Maresciallo Salvatore Perillo. And you are?” Still holding on to the bags, she shook the tips of his fingers. “Roberto Gerardi’s sister.”

  His hunger pangs disappeared. “Very good. Please, have a seat.” He waited for her to settle her bags onto the floor and sit before sitting down himself.

  Her light-brown eyes didn’t blink. “There’s nothing good about it.”

  “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me.”

  She waved his words away. “Oh, you can be as insensitive as you like. Robi was not a very nice man to me—or my husband, for that matter. We already know each other, by the way, although it’s clear you don’t remember me. Too old to leave an impression, I guess.” It wasn’t a lament. She sounded very matter-of-fact about it. “When I was young, it was different.” She smiled, reminiscing. The smile made her more attractive.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so focused on your brother’s murder, everything else has ended up locked away in some cubicle in my head. Please tell me about him.”

  “I take care of the Boldini villa, just down the road from here. They spend most of the year in Milan. We had a theft there two years ago. You came over with another carabiniere. You never did find the thief. Whoever it was stole my cell phone and laptop. Do you remember now?”

  “Yes, of course. You’re Maria Dorsetti.” He also remembered being suspicious when he’d discovered that the Boldinis’ expensive objects and silverware had been untouched, only Maria’s things having been taken. Nothing else in the villa had been disturbed. No locks broken, no windows smashed. No other thefts in the neighborhood. She’d kept calling him for news, wanting him to come and check the villa again. After a few weeks, he’d filed the case away, judging her a lonely woman needing attention. “I’m sorry we didn’t find the thief.”

  She shrugged. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I was wasting my time.” Maria Dorsetti sat back in her chair and crossed her arms below her chest. It would muss up her blouse, but the weight of her arms gave her comfort. “I didn’t know Robi was here. I have no idea why he came back, unless he wanted to settle an old score, but he could have at least come over. He knew where I lived.

  “I didn’t hear from him at all, not even when my husband died four years ago. When I let him know, he sent a five-thousand-dollar check and not a word of condolence. I guess he thought money spoke for itself. Five thousand dollars certainly wasn’t going to replace my husband, but it did help.” Her words flowed like water from an open faucet. A lonely woman who had found her audience. “After that check, nothing. I did write from time to time, giving him tidbits of gossip. What was going on in Gravigna. Who got married, who had children, who did what.” The truth was, he’d been the one who kept writing, asking all sorts of questions about one woman in particular. “Gravigna’s our hometown. I was too proud to ask outright for money. I hear he was wearing a very expensive watch when he died. Does that mean he was rich?” She gave her cheek a gentle slap. “How greedy of me. I apologize, but I am, after all, his only living relative.”

  Ah, so that was it, Perillo thought. This was all for show.

  “Oh, but maybe not. He could have a family in America. Do you know if he did? It would be nice. Maybe I could fly over and meet them.” She stopped again and this time patted her chest. “I’m sorry, I’m nervous. I wish I could have loved him.” She pulled down on her blouse to smooth out the wrinkles that had formed. “When I was a young girl, I envied his good looks. He had such beautiful green eyes. Mine are the color of mud.” She gave a flirtatious, girlish laugh, perhaps hoping Perillo would contradict her.

  “The American embassy in Rome is looking into his life in America,” Perillo said. “As soon as I have information, I’ll let you know. You mentioned he might have come back to settle old scores. Did he have enemies here?”

  “I imagine a lot of husbands were mighty relieved when he took off.”

  “Any specific husband?”

  She straightened her back as if offended by the question. “I don’t know anything about the women who threw themselves at him.” He claimed not to have bedded any of them, but he had always liked to boast about his affairs around town. It had been a way to keep his great love secret, she’d decided. “Who I love is no one’s business,” he’d replied when she’d pressed him for the name. Calling his sister “no one” was insulting, she’d told him. He didn’t budge.

  “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted your brother dead?”

  “I just told you, I don’t. I’m so angry at him for not giving a damn about me.” She started to cry and reached for a tissue in her purse. “I’m sorry. He died in such a horrible way, could’ve lived a full life.”

  “He was very sick. Cancer. It was in the newspaper article. The medical examiner thinks he only had about six months to live.”

  “Oh. I didn’t read to the end. It was too upsetting.” Maria wiped her eyes and looked at Perillo, her eyes softening. The news seemed to give her some relief. “Maybe that’s why he didn’t
get in touch. Didn’t want me to see him so sick. Poor Robi.” She moved to the edge of her chair to be closer to Perillo. “That explains his coming back here, then, doesn’t it? He was making amends and saying goodbye. If he hadn’t been killed, he would have come to me. I know he would have.”

  “Making amends to whom?”

  Why had she used that word? Foolish. “I don’t know.” To the nameless woman. Something had gone wrong between them. It had been what drove him to leave. “I’m not a good man,” Robi told her a few days before he left. “I don’t deserve any love. Not even yours.” There was good reason not to reveal her name to the maresciallo, a name she had discovered only by the questions Robi asked in his letters.

  Perillo’s cell phone started to belt “O Sole Mio.” He glanced at it. His wife, probably furious. He cut off the ringer. “You are his only relative?”

  “Yes. It was just the two of us.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “I am not blessed.” The expression on her face was noncommittal.

  “Your brother worked for Aldo Ferri for a while.”

  “He loved that job. Robi told me he liked Aldo so much, he left his wife alone. That’s my Robi, his bird always ready to fly into a new nest. At least toward Aldo, he showed some respect.”

  “Wasn’t he in love with someone then?”

  “Well, isn’t that what you tell a girl when you want to get her between the sheets?”

  “Do you have any idea who the girl was?”

  “He never told me about his personal affairs. We weren’t close, you know. My husband disliked my brother, and I didn’t much like him myself. He was arrogant. Why would he stick with one woman when he could have any girl he wanted?” She looked straight at Perillo. He wouldn’t guess she was lying. Liars turned their eyes away, she learned from the police shows.

  “You can’t think of anyone who had a vendetta against him?”

  “Not from here. He left twenty-two years ago. Who holds on to hate that long? Besides, all he did was fool around. We’re not in Sicily. We don’t have honor killings in Tuscany. Maybe someone from America.”

  “Maybe. I do have to ask you this.”

  Maria eagerly leaned toward the desk.

  “Can you tell me where you were Monday morning between five and seven in the morning?”

  Of course, Maria thought. Just like on TV. She smiled at Perillo to show she understood he was only doing his job. “I was in bed, of course. I sleep at the Boldinis’ villa when they’re away. No witnesses, though, alas.” A smirk this time.

  “Do you own a shotgun?”

  “My father did. He went hunting every Sunday. That he would kill on the Lord’s day infuriated my mother. She always refused to cook his kill.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “No. He loved that shotgun so much, we buried it with him. A year later, Mamma was dead too. Then my husband. Now my brother.”

  She looked crestfallen, but Perillo wasn’t sure if that was genuine. “When you’re not at the villa, where do you live?”

  “The new development in Gravigna, via Moro Twelve. I’ve rented it to an English couple for the month.” She reached over the desk and took the maresciallo’s pen and a Post-it and wrote down her address and cell phone number.

  Perillo took the Post-it and stood up. “Thank you. If you think of anything else that might help, please call. I’ll get one of my men to drive you home.”

  She laughed. “How kind of you.” She leaned over the desk and gave him an awkward hug. “You’ll let me know what the embassy says? And if there is a will. I know I sound crass, but if I inherit even a little money, it will be like winning the lottery.”

  “I understand. I’ll let you know as soon as I know. I have to ask you to make an official statement and sign it.” He picked up her shopping bags and walked her to the door. “Vince in the front room will take it down.” He would have preferred to have Daniele take the statement—Vince always insisted on writing in long hand to show off his meticulous handwriting. There was a chance Vince would still be writing when he came back down from lunch.

  “I do have to ask you not to take any trips until your brother’s death has been cleared up.”

  Her expression brightened. “Am I a suspect?”

  “I may have more questions.” Certainly she was a possible suspect. The only one he had so far. “Vince!”

  Vince showed his round, curly-haired head in the doorway, his mouth working on a focaccia sandwich. “Please take Signora Dorsetti’s statement, then get Dino to take her home.”

  Maria blew Perillo a kiss he did not acknowledge.

  Upstairs, in his one-bedroom apartment, part of the barracks, the kitchen clock showed it was 1:52 p.m. He called to his wife. She didn’t answer. Neither did the cat. The bedroom door was closed. The table was now set for one. He found his meal in the warm oven. As he slipped his hand into an oven mitt, he made a mental note to get her a box of chocolates.

  TWELVE

  Nico parked the 500 on the bald patch of earth that had once been for farming equipment behind his new home. He held the door open and OneWag, who’d been fast asleep, took his time to stretch and examine what might need cleaning or scratching.

  “Come on, mutt. You’ve got a job.”

  OneWag’s ears perked up. He understood that something was required of him, which was much better than being locked away upstairs. The dog jumped out of the car and looked up at Nico. Expectation made him wag his tail—once.

  “We have to find Gogol.” Nico started walking toward the path edging the olive grove, the path he had taken Monday morning looking for a hurt dog.

  OneWag followed, nose in the air, taking in the smells. Olives ripening, their green tartness softening, the dark richness of wet earth. Pine sap. From far away wood burning. Nearby, his master’s sweat and his own damp fur. Nothing that didn’t belong in their surroundings.

  They reached the woods. Birds stopped singing and the light became a lacy pattern of sun and shadow. Gogol was somewhere in here, Nico was convinced, but not because it was his favorite spot. Twenty-two years ago, Gogol had attacked Gerardi with a tree branch. The other day, he had shown up at Gerardi’s hotel for the first time, laughing his heart out. He was happy the man was dead. And now, Gogol could be laughing where Gerardi had been killed. Maybe where he’d killed him?

  OneWag scrambled to keep up with Nico’s fast-scissoring legs, his own panting tongue bobbing to the rhythm of his shorter steps.

  As Nico got closer to the site, he was purposefully loud as he walked, crushing twigs. He didn’t want his presence to be a complete surprise.

  A thick oak loomed in front of Nico and the dog, its thick branches twisted with old age. Stepping to one side, Nico walked past it. OneWag instead stopped and stood still, swiveling his snout from left to right like a periscope. The dog turned his small body to the right. He whimpered a warning to Nico and took off.

  Nico heard only the sudden rush of crackling twigs. OneWag had picked up Gogol’s scent! He ran after him.

  A hundred yards farther, underneath another old oak, Nico found OneWag with his head deep in a wicker basket. “What are you doing?”

  OneWag retrieved his head from the powerful-smelling mushrooms, lay down and stretched his hind legs behind him, looking very pleased with himself. He had found food. Far more important than a smelly old man.

  Gogol had to be nearby. “Gogol, it’s Nico. Where are you?”

  “‘Turn your eyes to the valley,’” Gogol quoted.

  There was no valley to turn to, but Nico followed the voice.

  Ten feet deeper into the woods, Nico found Gogol rocking on his knees in front of the clearing where Gerardi had been killed. A forgotten strand of police tape hung limply from a branch. Raindrops dripped from the tree leaves onto his face.

  Nico knelt
next to him. “Come with me. This is no place for you.”

  Gogol pushed him away. “His is the place of justified violence.” He laughed, a raucous sound like rock rubbed against rock that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul. “Roberto Gerardi boils in hell.” He stopped rocking and turned to Nico. “I burn too. I saw it and did nothing.”

  “You saw the murder?”

  “The murder of a heart. Her body twisting, turning, his body a weight to carry for a lifetime. I heard the moans, mournful sounds escaping through fingers set on silence.”

  Nico assumed Gogol was quoting Dante again until he heard him say, “I drown in shame, friend. You understand?” Tears mixed with raindrops.

  “You witnessed a rape?”

  “Carnal violence. And did nothing.” His body shook with sobs now.

  Nico held him. “You were scared.”

  “He died for the grave sin he visited on another. I breathe, I eat, I shit, but I too have died. When I quote the great poet, I quote from hell.”

  OneWag nudged his head against Gogol’s thigh. The old man picked up the dog and held him under his coat.

  “Who was raped?” Nico asked.

  “You will not know from my mouth. At least I can keep silent.”

  More questions would come only after Gogol calmed down. Part of Nico hoped Gogol had only imagined this terrible thing. “Let me take you home.”

  Gogol lifted one of OneWag’s long, furry ears and dried his eyes with it. In response, OneWag licked his face. “My mushrooms.” He scrambled to his feet with Nico’s help, holding the dog tight. “I must gather my mushrooms. Thank you, friend. I go now. Hell’s gatekeeper is waiting for me to make dinner.”

  “I’ll take you home.”