One down, Nico thought. How many more to go? He sat back on the bench, willing his stomach to relax. “Anyone else get anything?”
“Oh, yes. Five million dollars’ worth. Five million dollars that corroborate Gogol’s story.”
Stomach clenching, Nico reached for one of Perillo’s cigarettes. “How so?”
Perillo flipped opened his Zippo and offered a light. “The money goes to three different organizations that deal with rape and domestic violence. To me, that says Gerardi was making amends. Maybe his success changed him, or the cancer, but the will shows he regretted what he’d done.” He was still holding up his Zippo. “Do you want to light that cigarette?”
“No.” Nico removed the cigarette from his mouth and looked at it. The wet filter showed teeth marks. “Sorry. I took it without even asking.”
“Friends don’t have to ask, and there’s more where that came from.”
“Anything from Gerardi’s computer yet?” There was a good chance he had written to his victim. Maybe even asking forgiveness.
“No, it should have come in yesterday. Somebody’s sleeping on the job. I asked Barbara to give the embassy a nudge. Actually, I said a kick in the ass, but that’s not very diplomatic.” A clickety-click sound made Perillo turn around. OneWag’s long nails tapped the tiles of the terrace floor. He stopped at Nico’s feet and looked up.
“Good timing, Rocco,” Perillo said. “We’re done.”
The dog jumped up onto his owner’s lap. His breath smelled of mortadella. Nico started kneading his ear and felt his own body ease. The only Italian woman in the will, then, was Maria Dorsetti.
Perillo stood up. “I’ll call you when more news comes in. Ciao.”
Nico smiled for the first time that day. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“We’re still partners.” Perillo gave OneWag a scratch on his back and walked away.
Nico stayed seated and let his mind turn to Stella. Her exam was in the afternoon. He called her. “When are you leaving?”
“At eleven-thirty. I don’t have to be there until three.”
He looked at his watch. It was just past nine. “Can I see you before you go?” There was something he wanted to give her.
“Sure. Gianni and I are having an early lunch. We’ll be there in an hour or so. Come by and wish me luck.”
Good. That gave him some time to go home and work on Nelli’s suggestion.
When Nico came back to Sotto Il Fico, Elvira was napping and Enzo was in the kitchen with Tilde, checking what to write on the day’s menu. Nico uncovered the large bowl of sauce he was carrying. “Add this too?”
Tilde looked down at the jumble of peppers, onions, sausage meat and Parmigiano Reggiano. She slowly inhaled its perfume. “Good with rigatoni. Thanks. Write it in, Enzo. I’ve already got the water boiling for Stella. She gets the first portion.”
“I added some dried hot pepper.”
“Bravo. A little heat activates the brain. She’ll need it today.”
Nico looked out the kitchen window. The terrace was set up for lunch, but no diners yet. “Is she here?”
“At the corner table, her favorite. Where I can’t see her from here. Gianni’s with her.”
He had hoped to catch her alone. “I want to give her my old rabbit’s foot for luck, but not in front of Gianni.” He’d only make fun of it. “Where’s her purse?”
“That’s nice. Thank you.” She was also going to slip something inside Stella’s bag. “Her bag’s hanging behind the kitchen door.”
The only thing hanging on the peg was a worn black backpack. Nico stuck his head back into the kitchen.
“A backpack?”
“Her bag’s in there.”
Nico unzipped it and dropped the small package into Stella’s handbag.
“Do you think you can stay?” Tilde asked from the kitchen. “With Stella gone, I could use your help.”
“Of course.” He welcomed the idea. It would keep his mind off worrying. He went out on the terrace and kissed Stella’s cheeks. “In the mouth of the wolf, my dear.”
“Shit” was her answer. It was the obligatory one, but Nico still didn’t understand what one had to do with the other.
While Nico was wishing Stella good luck, Tilde dug into her apron pocket and fished out the rosary she had bought after she gave birth. Stella had given her back her belief in God. He would watch over her baby. She went behind the kitchen door and pushed the rosary deep into the backpack, where her atheist daughter wouldn’t find it and have a fit.
Gerardi’s emails started coming in while Daniele sat in front of his computer, eating his share of the casserole Perillo’s wife had prepared: fettuccine with zucchini and string beans, coated with a tomato and béchamel sauce. As his loaded fork made its way to his mouth, Daniele read the first one. His fork crashed on the plate. They had their murderer.
Perillo picked up his phone from the kitchen table. Across from him, Signora Perillo crossed her arms on her chest and gave her husband a don’t-you-dare look.
“Are they in English?” Perillo asked with a full mouth.
“Italian. I’ll read the first one. It’s dated August twenty-ninth. It must be the last one he wrote.”
“Go on.”
Daniele cleared his throat. “‘Ciao, Maria. I have not written often and you know why. Your incessant requests for money were not met for a reason, which you very well know. You and your husband turned your back on me twenty-two years ago when I needed it most. I left Italy for various reasons, you being one of them. However, that’s in the past. Now it’s time to make amends. I have cancer and do not expect to live very long. You will receive money when I die. How substantial that amount is will depend on how my trip back home goes. I’ll text you once I’m there. I do not have your telephone number. Robi.’”
“Get ahold of Maria Dorsetti now.”
“I’m scheduled to take over for Vince at the front office in fifteen minutes.”
“He’ll have to wait.”
“I’ll bring him a sandwich.”
“Better make it two.” Perillo clicked off and plunged his fork into the fettuccine. He had plenty of time to finish lunch, maybe even a coffee at the bar.
Seeing her husband eat with such gusto, Signora Perillo unfolded her arms and went back to eating.
Elvira sat in her armchair folding napkins, looking extremely annoyed. “If you’re going to cook for a restaurant, you have to make more,” she said as Nico walked by to receive a well-earned espresso from Enzo. At three-thirty, the few diners still on the terrace were having their coffees. Nico was eager to gather OneWag from wherever he’d wandered and go home.
“The amount you brought was ridiculous,” Elvira complained. “What was it? Eight portions? They were gone in the blink of an eye.”
“It was my first attempt at this sauce.” Nico wasn’t about to mention that it was the result of a failure. He’d never hear the end of it. “I wasn’t going to make a huge batch and then have Tilde reject it.”
Elvira straightened her neck as far as it would go. “I do think I should be able to give my approval or disapproval of the food that is served in my restaurant.”
Enzo handed Nico his coffee. “Mamma, you should thank Nico. He wasn’t even supposed to work today.”
“He’s helping Tilde and getting some very strange ideas in his head.”
Nico laughed and sat on the barstool to drink his three sips of espresso. “I’m not trying to take over the restaurant.”
“Not while I’m alive.” Elvira put the napkins on the side table and slowly stood. “It’s time for my nap.”
Enzo rushed out from behind the bar. “I’ll bring the car around.”
“No, I need a walk, and as punishment for not allowing me to taste what several guests told me was a delicious pasta dish, Nico wil
l accompany me home.”
Enzo looked at his mother with disbelief. “Mamma, you asked them if it was good?”
“Of course. Don’t look so aghast. How else was I going to know what it tasted like?”
Nico walked to her and offered her his arm. They made their way slowly to the door. “They would never tell you if it was bad. You’re the owner.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that. I asked them what dish was their favorite.” She turned to her son. “Don’t pick me up tonight. I feel a cold coming on.”
Enzo shook his head. His mother felt a cold coming on every Sunday. “Rest up and drink lots of liquids.” Her favorite TV program would be on.
Elvira lived a short walk away, in a ground-floor apartment behind the church. Nico followed her past a narrow kitchen into a living room overstuffed with dark furniture. The only bright spots came from the white crocheted doilies on the armchair and sofa and two narrow windows that overlooked a large courtyard lined with blue hydrangeas.
“That’s part of the castle,” she said when Nico walked to the window to look out. “I like to say I live between God and royalty, although the royals are long gone and God with them.” She settled herself in the worn velvet armchair. “Sit.” She indicated a spindly-legged settee opposite her. Nico doubted it would hold his weight and chose the sofa. As soon as he sat down, his rear end was welcomed by a sharp spring. He winced.
Elvira nodded with satisfaction. “Men always think they know better. It’s an old home. My husband grew up here. When his parents died, my husband was only too happy to come back to what he considered his real home.”
“Did you mind?”
“I did, but said nothing. Men were obeyed in my youth. I’ve made up for it since. I’d offer you coffee, a must when you enter an Italian home, but you’ve already had yours at the restaurant. I’ve brought you here to set you straight.”
“About what?” He had no idea where this was going.
“You’re wrong about Stella.”
“What do you mean?”
“Stella was born early and, like all newborns, her eyes were blue. The village tongues started flapping. A small town breeds gossip. Enzo getting Tilde pregnant before marriage wasn’t shocking, so the tongues decided Enzo was forced to marry Tilde. My daughter-in-law has always been a strong, outspoken woman, which many women don’t like, and which is the very reason I like her.”
Nico tried to keep a straight face, but she saw through it. “I know. I’m not always nice to her. Showing affection was not something I was taught. I do care for her. It’s that sometimes I want to roll back time, have my husband and my son still with me. I shouldn’t complain. I have a sweet, loving son with a backbone that Tilde holds up nicely. That was my job once.” She looked down at her lap, smoothed her blue housedress over her knees.
Nico moved to another part of the sofa. He sank. No springs at all.
Elvira looked up. “Where was I?”
“Tongues flapping.”
She sucked in her lips, took a deep breath, exhaled. What she was about to say clearly pained her. “When Stella was six or seven months old, her blue eyes became the beautiful green you see now. The minute those eyes went public, the flapping tongues retreated behind closed doors. Walking on the street with the baby, we got silence. It meant their thoughts had turned uglier. To them, it was clear that Tilde was Robi’s mystery woman and Stella was his child.”
Nico wanted to point out that Elvira herself had implied that Tilde was that woman just the other day. Instead, he said, “The maresciallo has been asking about this woman. No one pointed to Tilde or to anyone else.”
“Because green eyes are proof of nothing, and they know it. Besides, the women in this town don’t betray each other.” Elvira looked at Nico with reproach in her eyes. “You also think Stella is Robi’s child.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You’ve been asking Tilde questions, and she’s upset. She’s good at keeping a tight grip on her feelings, but I’ve known her a long time. She’s kept her jaw clenched since you spoke to her on the church steps.” She unclasped her pocketbook next to her, fished out a small iron key and waved it at a heavy dark bureau wedged between the two windows. “Please unlock the second drawer and bring me the photo album.”
Nico did as he was asked. There was a knot of expectation in his stomach. He gave Elvira the album and went back to the sunken spot on the sofa.
Elvira carefully wiped the embossed leather cover with her handkerchief and placed the album on her lap. “I will show you why you and those tongues are wrong.” She slowly leafed through the crumbling pages. Each page was covered in small black and white photos with wavy white edges. As she leafed through, many photos fell out of their corner holders. Elvira let out a loud satisfied breath. “Here she is.” She held out the album. “Be careful, or we’ll have photos all over the floor.”
Nico carefully took the album and put it on his own lap.
“On the right-side page.” The pitch of Elvira’s voice rose. “Can you spot her? She has green eyes and is the very image of Stella.”
Nico saw several close-ups of a beautiful smiling girl with big clear eyes. They may have been green or blue, though the photo was in black and white.
“She was christened Anna, but when the color of her eyes turned jade, they started calling her Giada. She was Enzo’s paternal grandmother, Stella’s great-grandmother. I met her, and her eyes were as green as Stella’s. I am witness to that.” There was great conviction in Elvira’s voice. “You see, Nico? Stella’s green eyes have nothing to do with Robi.”
“Yes, I do.” He only hoped it was true.
Maria Dorsetti settled herself in the hard wooden chair, smoothed out the wrinkles of her beige linen skirt and looked up at Perillo with a smile on her face. She was nervous and trying hard not to show it. “I agree,” she said in answer to the maresciallo’s accusation. “The statement I signed the other day was incorrect. I knew Robi was coming, but what was the point of telling you? He died before he could get in touch with me.”
“I have only your word for that, which isn’t worth much now.” Perillo ruffled the papers on his desk, looking for copies of the emails Maria Dorsetti had sent her brother. One was particularly interesting. He looked back up at Maria. Her smile was still there.
“In his last email, your brother makes it clear that the size of your inheritance depends on his trip here. Do you have any idea why?”
She shrugged. “A while back, he mentioned that he was buying some property here. Maybe he needed to pay for it, which meant less for me. How much do I inherit, by the way?”
Perillo ignored her question. “Gerardi had an appointment with his lawyer today. The lawyer believes he wanted to change his will, which is something he implies in his last email to you. His being killed before going home lets the old will stand. That benefits you directly.”
Visible fear gripped her face. “You think I killed him.”
“Did you?”
“No.” Her chin started trembling.
“I have one more question.” With the palm of his hand Perillo spread out the emails, found the one he wanted and slipped it across the desk. “The email you’re looking at, dated in August of last year, seems to be in answer to some questions your brother asked you.”
She held the copy in front of her face and squinted. She was too upset to reach in her handbag and take out her glasses. “Yes, I sent that.”
“You tell him Tilde and Enzo are still married, that Stella has grown into a real Tuscan beauty. You add that her green eyes are the envy of all the girls in Gravigna.”
“I was answering his questions.”
“Why did you think he asked them?”
“It’s obvious. He was still in love with Tilde. You obviously haven’t figured it out yet, have you?” A flash of smugness crossed h
er face. “She was his mystery lady, and her daughter is the result.” She smirked.
“When I asked you at our first meeting if you knew who his mystery lady was, you said you didn’t.”
“Of course I said that. Women honor each other’s secrets.”
As long as it’s convenient, Perillo thought. “You’ve made two false statements, which is a violation of the penal code. You will be tried. Go home, call your lawyer and don’t even contemplate leaving the area.” He was glad to be rid of her for now, but he would need to search her home and the villa she took care of. She had raised a few questions that needed answering. He sat back, satisfied not only by his wife’s delicious fettuccine casserole but by the conviction that he was so near to the end of the case.
SEVENTEEN
The sky was fading to a gray-blue, and the birds had started their evening racket. OneWag was stretched out on the grass next to the rudimentary fence Nico had put up around his vegetable garden. Perillo stood behind the chicken wire, held up by dried branches of varying lengths as he watched Nico weed his zucchini patch. He had just finished telling him about the emails and the Maria Dorsetti interrogation.
“She’s the one, then.”
“Everything points to her. Tomorrow I should have the warrant to search her home and the villa she works at. I can search for arms and drugs on my own, but I want to get into her laptop and phone, and that requires Della Langhe’s approval.” He took hold of one of the branches and shook it gently. The chicken wire danced with the movement. “You need to get yourself a real fence. Any rabbit can break right through here.”
“I’ll get to it this winter. I was in too much of a hurry to start planting. It’s been a dream of mine. For now, let the rabbits in. Look at this.” He held up a zucchini the size of a pineapple.
“Good for soup.”
“You think?”
“With lots of leeks, shallots, carrots, celery. No tomato paste.”
“Do all Italian men cook?”
Murder in Chianti Page 25