Murder in Chianti

by Camilla Trinchieri

  In a small, hot room filled with unopened cartons of medicines, shampoos and creams but no chairs, Daniele told Perillo and Nico about the love nest, the snake earring Arben had found and kept. He didn’t mention why.

  “Bravo, Dani. Get the earring from Arben tomorrow morning. Unless it has the jeweler’s markings on it, I’m not sure it will be of much help. But whether it is or not, excellent thinking on your part.”

  Daniele felt his cheeks get hot. Was he supposed to be proud? Disappointed? Both, maybe. But he was still convinced the forgotten snake earring would help to solve the puzzle of the mystery lady.

  Perillo leaned back against a wall of well-stocked shelves. “Now you, Nico.”

  Nico told him what he had learned from Nelli.

  “So you think Gogol really witnessed a rape?”

  “Nelli believes him.” Nico noticed Perillo go pale.

  “For now, let’s concentrate on the earring,” Perillo said, pulling himself together. “Maybe it’s one of Crisani’s. Thanks to you two, we have a new lead. We’re already short-staffed at the Expo, so pursuing it will have to wait until tomorrow morning. I’m sorry, Nico. I would love to have you come with us to Crisani’s, but I’m afraid it’s not possible.”

  “Of course.” Nico was just as happy not to go. He had Tilde to worry about. Tonight, after dinner, he had more questions for her, unsure he wanted to know the answers.

  FOURTEEN

  At eleven at night, the downhill slope that led to the main piazza was empty and dark. Tilde lowered herself onto one of the church steps just above Sotto Il Fico and placed the bowl of string beans on her lap. On each side of her, a line of terra-cotta pots filled with pink geraniums disappeared up the dark stairs. She reached into her apron pocket and took out a cigarette, lit it, took two puffs and placed the lit cigarette carefully on the step. Her fingers started snapping one end of the string beans. The lamp outside the restaurant barely gave her enough light, but after years of experience, Tilde could have snapped those string beans in pitch black.

  Nico sat down next to her. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “I don’t.” She avoided looking at Nico. Instead, she looked straight ahead, the snapping mechanical.

  “Rita used to snap both ends,” Nico said as a warm-up.

  “Italian string beans are thin, they don’t need it.”

  “How are you cooking them?”

  “In tomato sauce, but I know you’re not here for cooking tips. Go ahead, ask your questions.” Her tone was angry.

  Nico reached for her hand. She pulled away, picked up her cigarette and took a deep drag. “I gave up smoking when I was pregnant.”

  Nico leaned in, his voice low. “Tilde, I don’t want to pry in your affairs, but I’m worried you’re not telling me the truth about Gerardi, and if Perillo decides to question you . . .”

  “I don’t remember what I told you.”

  “If you don’t, that means you were making it up.”

  “No, it means I am very tired, Nico, so let’s get this over with. I’m not Robi’s mystery woman. I knew Robi the way I know most of the people who live here. We were friendly in a ‘hi, how are you’ sort of way, whenever we happened to run into each other.”

  “His sister says you and Gerardi were very close.”

  “She can say whatever she wants.”

  Nico put his hand on her arm. This time, she let it stay.

  “He didn’t harm you, did he?”

  Tilde looked at her half-smoked cigarette. “Why, am I trying to kill myself?” She stubbed it out on the stair, put the butt in her pocket and turned to face Nico. In a perfectly level voice, she repeated his question, adding, “Why would you ask me that?”

  Nico softened his expression. Even in the semidarkness, he could see that her face was wiped clean of emotion. He wished he could hold her, as Rita would have done. “Because of what Gogol witnessed.”

  “If you insist on talking about it, I’ll ask you a question. Did he see who she was?”

  “Does that mean you believe him?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? If Gogol saw a rape, he saw a rape. I just don’t want to talk about it. I already told you that.”

  “If Gogol did see who the woman was, he won’t say. That’s why I brought it up again. I’m sorry, but after what Maria said . . .” He let the rest of the sentence drop.

  She started snapping peas again. “How awful for Gogol.”

  “Worse for the woman.”

  “Yes, much, much worse.” She snapped faster.

  “It wasn’t you?”

  “If it were, I wouldn’t kill him for it. I’d have erased it from my mind by now. I’m sure whoever it was has dealt with it.” Tilde stood up with the bowl in the crook of her arm. “Women are much more resilient than you think.”

  Nico got on his feet. “Rita showed me that every day.”

  Tilde stood on her toes and kissed both his cheeks. “Thanks for worrying about me, Nico. I’m fine. I really am.”

  Nico very much wanted to believe her.

  At nine sharp the next morning, the Crisanis’ seventy-year-old housekeeper, Pina, answered the door. Seeing Maresciallo Salvatore Perillo and Brigadiere Daniele Donato standing on the landing in their well-pressed uniforms, she let out a small cry.

  Perillo smiled to reassure her. “Nothing to be afraid of. We’re only here to have a word with Signora Crisani.”

  Pina straightened her back to cover her embarrassment. “There is no Signora Crisani here. Maybe you mean Signora Castaldi?”

  Perillo cast a look of reproach in Daniele’s direction. He should have been told of the married name. “Yes. Signora Castaldi.”

  “Good. If you wanted Signorina Crisani, you’d be out of luck. She’s at the seashore.”

  Daniele’s shoulders slumped. Expecting to see Rosalba, he’d dreamed of her all night.

  “Who is it?” asked a woman’s voice from the apartment.

  “Two carabinieri, Signora. They want to speak to you.”

  “Then let them in.”

  Pina stepped back and, with a grim expression, opened the door wide.

  Irene Crisani Castaldi appeared in the large, dark foyer, wearing a long, red caftan made of a light material that billowed as she walked on bare feet. Her nails, toes and lips all matched the rich red of the caftan. Long, black hair hung over her shoulders. A stunning woman, thought Perillo. She barely looked older than her daughter.

  “Come in.” Irene had a deep, harsh voice that seemed to contradict her beauty. “Pina, make us some coffee and bring your lemon pound cake.” She turned to Perillo and said in a flat tone, “She’s a wonderful baker.” From her lips, it didn’t sound like a compliment.

  Perillo introduced himself and Daniele. With a nod of acknowledgment, Irene led them into a large room overstuffed with heavy furniture and dark oil paintings. “Forgive my attire. I wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour.” In truth, she never expected anyone at any hour, except for her daughter and faithful Pina, who had brought her and then Rosalba up. They were the only people she loved. The rest of her heart was reserved for her grandfather’s jewelry store. Would these two men understand that devotion? She doubted it.

  “Please sit down.” She floated down into a brocaded armchair and arranged the caftan around her legs. Perillo watched her as he undid the bottom button of his jacket in order to sit on the sofa. The sofa was a deep one, and Perillo was now on edge. Either his wife had moved the button or he had to go on a diet, a prospect he’d planned to avoid. What he found more interesting was the fact that Irene Castaldi wasn’t in the least nervous or intimidated. They were either wasting time, or she was a very good actress. But Pina, the maid, had cried out on seeing two carabinieri at the door. For Perillo, that was a first.

  Irene sat back in her armchair. “How can I help you, Maresciallo?�
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  Daniele took out his notebook and sat at the far end of the sofa. Perillo leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m hoping you can help us with information about the murder victim, Roberto Gerardi. I believe you knew him before he left for the United States.”

  She frowned as if trying to place the name. “If I did, I don’t remember. Twenty-two years is a long time.”

  Daniele looked up in surprise.

  Irene noticed and smiled at him. “I know he left twenty-two years ago because I read it in the paper.”

  Perillo kept his eyes on Irene. Daniele really did need to learn to keep a straight face.

  “Robi, as everyone in Gravigna calls him”—had her eyes just widened at the nickname, or was it wishful thinking on his part?—“had told a friend he was very much in love with a woman and wanted to marry her.”

  Irene reached for a cigarette and was about to light it when Pina came in with a silver tray holding a silver coffee service, delicate cups, a stack of small plates and a large one with sliced lemon pound cake. Pina kept her eyes on the shaking tray. Perillo wondered if his presence had anything to do with that shaking.

  “Thank you, Pina.” Irene put her cigarette and lighter down and indicated the wide wooden bench in front of the sofa. “Just set it there. We’ll serve ourselves.”

  Rosalba is rich, Daniele thought sadly as he eyed the moist, pale-yellow slices of pound cake. They smelled of lemon and vanilla. He would never be able to afford her.

  Perillo accepted the coffee, added three sugar cubes and stirred for a long time. “No cake for me, thank you.” Accepting coffee from an interviewee was perfectly fine. A cup of coffee was like a glass of water. Accepting food placed them at a disadvantage, made them indebted to her. “Gerardi used to meet this woman in a small abandoned farmhouse belonging to Aldo Ferri. Gerardi worked for him then.”

  Irene picked at the pound cake slice. “A place filled with mice.”

  Perillo leaned forward, almost hitting the coffee cup with his knee. “Was it?”

  Irene put the plate back on the bench and lit her cigarette. “Aren’t all abandoned houses filled with mice?”

  Perillo scanned her face. Her cool control had changed. To what? Defiance? Anger? Not at him. At something, someone more distant.

  “Your father was a difficult man,” Perillo ventured.

  “Yes, he was.” Pina had begged her to walk away, make her own life, but her father made it clear that he would disinherit her if she did. She had promised her grandfather, who had no love for his son, that she would one day take care of the business, that it would always belong to a Crisani.

  “That must have been hard for you.”

  “No more than for most children who lose their mothers early.”

  “Gerardi mentioned that there were problems with the relationship. It seems her family didn’t approve.”

  “I suppose that’s sad for him, but why are you telling me this?”

  “Gerardi was seen entering your jewelry store a few weeks before he left.”

  “Not mine back then. My father’s. It became mine on his death fifteen years ago.” His death had brought her a joy she was no longer ashamed of. “Many people went into Crisani’s.”

  “But I imagine not many were kicked out of the store by your screaming father.”

  “Any little thing set my father off.” She took a deep drag of her cigarette. On the exhale, she did her best to wipe her thoughts clean.

  Perillo noticed the change. She was once again controlled, calm. He had no evidence she was the mystery woman except for the discovery of the earring—a coiled silver snake with tiny green eyes. Maybe it was the same pair Gerardi had shown Cinzia, an engagement present for the woman he loved.

  “Please tell me the truth, Signora Castaldi.”

  “What truth? There are always many versions, don’t you think? My truth is that I didn’t kill Gerardi.”

  “Were you Roberto Gerardi’s lover?”

  “No.” Irene stood up abruptly. “If you have nothing else to ask me, I really must get dressed and get to work. I open at eleven.”

  Perillo and Daniele stood. “Thank you for your time.” Perillo planned to come back when Irene Castaldi was in the shop and talk to the housekeeper. Pina had been genuinely frightened at seeing them. Either she had been up to no good or she was frightened for her employer.

  Irene walked the two carabinieri to the door. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Maresciallo.”

  “Don’t be. Being disappointed is part of our job. As is being persistent.”

  As Irene lowered her head to turn the lock, several strands of her long hair fell over one side of her face.

  “Thank you for your time,” Perillo said as she opened the door. As he stepped across the threshold, Irene’s fingers tucked the fallen strands behind her ear.

  Daniele stared, inhaled deeply and said, “What a beautiful earring, Signora.”

  Irene quickly covered her ear with her hair. “Thank you,” she said with a stiff voice.

  Perillo stepped back into the foyer. “Let me see?”

  “An unusual design,” Daniele said, eager to keep this part of the interrogation on his plate.

  She didn’t uncover her ear. “A present from a friend, nothing special. I have far more beautiful earrings in the store.”

  Daniele reached into his pocket and took out the earring Arben had given him that morning. “Did your friend give you this one too?”

  As Irene’s eyes dropped to the silver snake earring, its sheen tarnished by twenty-two years of neglect, a tidal wave of pent-up emotion washed over her. Irene stared so intently that Daniele closed his fist over the earring, afraid she might try to snatch it.

  Irene took her eyes away. She had turned ashen.

  Daniele asked, “Do you need to sit down?”

  She nodded. He took her arm, walked her back into the living room and sat her back in the armchair. Perillo followed.

  “A glass of water?”

  “Yes,” she said in a threadbare voice. “Tell Pina it’s for you. Keep her in the kitchen, please.”

  Perillo sat down on the sofa, impressed by Daniele’s initiative. His young brigadiere had pinned Signora Castaldi into a corner.

  A minute later, Daniele came back from the kitchen with an apologetic face. Behind him came Pina carrying another silver tray, this time with the glass of water on a doily. She took one look at Irene and turned to glower at Perillo. “What have you done to her?”

  Irene waved Pina away. “It’s nothing, Pina. Please leave us alone.”

  Pina put the tray with the glass of water on the bench, then straightened up to her full five feet two inches. Her anger seemed to turn into stone. In a glacial voice, she said, “As you wish, Signora,” and retreated on slippered feet.

  While Irene drank the water, Daniele eyed his boss. Perillo nodded. Daniele sat at the other end of the sofa as before and took out his notebook. He understood that his time with Signora Castaldi was over.

  Irene put her glass down and sat back in the armchair. Some of her color had returned. “Where did you find it?” Her voice was still weak.

  “In your love nest. The abandoned farm.”

  “When?”

  “Shortly after Gerardi left town.”

  “Who?”

  “That is of no concern to you.”

  She looked at Daniele and held out her hand. “Please?”

  “I’m sorry, Signora,” Perillo said. “You will get it back when we have found his killer. Now, I think it’s time you told us the truth.”

  Irene reached for the ear that hadn’t been exposed and removed an earring identical to her other earring and to the one Daniele had in his pocket. She held it out for them to see. “I kept the box, you see. When I couldn’t find it, I went to a jeweler in Florence and
had a copy made.”

  “The eyes are different,” Daniele said.

  “They’re onyx. I didn’t want them to be identical, and black seemed appropriate. I turned down his marriage proposal, you see. I loved him very much, but my father made it very clear that he would have nothing to do with me ever again. He was a widower, and I was his only child. Once he died, there would have been no more Crisani Jewelry. I couldn’t accept that.” She sat up. The wave had receded. The strength that had allowed her to carry on without regret all these years was back. “It was a painful decision, but the best one under those circumstances.”

  Perillo leaned forward. “What circumstances?”

  “He’d stolen from Aldo Ferri. He was fired.”

  Before Daniele could control himself, the words slipped out. “Maybe he needed the money to pay for these earrings.”

  Perillo shot out a curt “Daniele!”

  “That was the problem. I was rich, and he was poor and probably always would be.” She had loved him in spite of that, or because of it. She no longer remembered. What she did remember was the pain of that decision. Irene looked down at the coiled black-eyed snake in her hand. She had always liked money too much. It was that simple.

  “Gerardi became a successful owner of a California winery.” How successful, Perillo hoped to discover over the weekend.

  “I likely helped with that,” Irene said. “Anger is an excellent motivator. I knew it was Robi when I read about the gold sneakers. When I told him it was over between us, he was furious, spat out insults. His last words to me were, ‘I’ll show you, you bitch. When I come back, I’ll be wearing gold shoes, that’s how rich I’ll be.’”

  “But he didn’t come here to show you how rich he had become?”

  “No. After I broke up with him, I never heard from him again. I guessed that the dead man was Robi from the description of the shoes, but once the newspaper confirmed his identity, I was surprised he hadn’t gotten in touch to show me how wrong I’d been to leave him.”