Garini's eyebrows climbed all by themselves. “Commissario Pucci is sick?”
The cooked berry eyes disappeared beneath flickering eyelids. “Yes, unfortunately. He has a sore throat. A serious inflammation of the vocal cords. The doctor has forbidden him to speak.”
“How unfortunate.” Secretly, Garini was relieved. At least, Pucci wasn't going to mess with his investigation. He would have had to exert his imagination to keep him from the investigation for good, to avoid him causing any more damage.
“Of course, Ambrosiano will be at your service.”
“Ah, yes.” Dimly, Garini remembered the bony assistant with the throaty voice. They sure had a knack for hiring police officers with odd names down here in Forte dei Marmi. He wasn't sure if Ambrosiano was going to be any more help than his assistant Piedro in Florence, but he was willing to give him a try. He couldn't be much worse.
“As soon as he's back,” Lampone added with an apologetic shrug of the shoulders.
“As soon as he's back?” Garini blinked.
Lampone lifted both hands. “He's sick, too. Same thing. He can't talk. I'm afraid Pucci got it from him.”
“Is there anybody else who can assist me?”
Lampone shook his head. “We didn't expect a murder for ferragosto. Everyone's gone on vacation.” He jumped up again, took another turn around his desk, then went to the cactus, lifted it up with one hand, and pulled a file from beneath it with the other. “Here's the file on the murder of Alfonso Rosari.”
Ah, now Garini understood the Cactus. It was a sort of sign that showed where to find the current files. Ingenious. He took the file and opened it, then started to glance through the sheets of information.
Lampone jumped up again.
If he's going to circle that desk again, I'm leaving. Garini didn't voice his thought, but he gave Lampone a hard stare.
However, Lampone didn't notice because he was busy pulling at his collar with hasty jerks. “I'll leave you to it. If you need me or have any questions, just call.” He was already halfway across the room, when an exclamation from Garini stopped him in his tracks. “Yes?” He licked his lips.
Garini stared at the paper in his hand. He found it hard to believe, but the text was in front of him in black and white. “You've found another gun at the hotel? One that has been used recently? And it was in Aunt Violetta's room?”
Chapter 8
Lampone cleared his throat. “Yes, it was in the old lady's room. Didn't Pucci tell you? When he could still speak, I mean?”
“No, he didn't tell me. He couldn't, after all. I wasn't in charge of the case.”
“Yes, of course. I forgot.” Lampone gazed at the cactus as if it would give him some much needed answers.
“Could you give me some more details?” Garini looked at the sheet in his hands that didn't tell him anything but the bare facts.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Lampone went back to his desk, sat down again with the same nervous expectancy as before and said, “When Pucci searched the hotel, he also searched the room of the old lady in the wheelchair, and they found a gun. It was hidden in the space between the mattress of the bed and the wall. They tried to question her, but she was extremely . . .” His voice petered out. He pulled at his collar, then added, “. . . unhelpful.”
“I can imagine.” Garini's voice was dry. “Is the gun registered in her name?”
Lampone shook his head. “No. It belonged to her husband who died twenty years ago.”
Garini frowned. He'd never heard of any husband of Aunt Violetta, but maybe her overpowering presence had wiped out the weak memory. He would have to ask Carlina. He nodded at Lampone and said, “Is there anything else I should know right away? How about the other leads? Did Pucci investigate them?”
“Other leads?” Lampone gripped the desk with one hand and held onto it as if he was afraid he would fall off his chair without the added support. “What other leads?”
Garini stared at him. “The ex-manager of the hotel who was fired when Rosari got the job. That would be the first. And Rosari's wife, of course. Any of the other guests at the hotel.”
Lampone nodded. “Oh, yes, I know what you mean. Pucci said he would talk to them.” He took the file from Garini's hands and ruffled through the pages. “I'm afraid he hasn't yet found the time to write it down. That's it. He must have been so caught up with the details of the investigation, making sure that the trail wasn't getting cold . . .” his voice petered out when he met Garini's incredulous look.
“I have to talk to Pucci,” Garini said.
Lampone's lips twisted. “He can't talk, I'm afraid.”
“He can write notes. And nod “yes” or “no” to answer my questions. Surely that won't be too strenuous for Commissario Pucci?” Garini didn't care that his voice had taken on a biting tone.
“Listen,” Lampone jumped up and circled the desk once more. “I know you think we're doing a bad job. The truth of the matter is, we've not investigated a homicide for many years. We're a bit out of our depth here.”
“Then why didn't you call in help right away?”
Lampone winced. “Commissario Pucci said he could do it. He said the case was clear and easy. He's only worked here for a year, and he said he used to have cases like this all the time in the south, so I trusted him.” He eyed the file in Garini's hands. “Now that I think about it, it's possible that he hasn't talked to the people you mentioned.”
Garini closed his mouth with a snap to avoid saying what he thought. When he had mastered his emotions, he said, “All right. I'll stay here and read everything. If I have questions, I'll call you. I'll also leave a report for you every night.”
Lampone's eyes widened. “That's . . . that's great,” he stuttered. “I'd appreciate it.” He turned to go.
Exasperated, Garini looked after the man's departing back. Then he turned to the meager file. When he had finished reading it, he came upon the report about the gun that was found underneath Ernesto's bed. He glanced through it and was already putting it aside when he realized that something about it was odd. His hand froze, and he lifted the piece of paper to his face to scrutinize the details. He knew the lab that had analyzed the gun, and the top of the page with the company's logo looked genuine enough. But something was off. He frowned and stared at the paper. What was it? Then he saw it. The company's stamp was missing. There was an illegible scrawl for a signature, but the distinctive stamp that was put on every report wasn't there.
Garini's heart started to beat faster. Could it be that Commissario Pucci had falsified the report to get a quick conviction? If yes, Ernesto was safe – or at least, he was saved from immediate arrest.
He dialed the number of the lab and ended up listening to a voice mail recording. The lab was closed. Garini swore. Of course, it was Saturday, and the day after ferragosto. Nobody in Italy who could avoid it worked today. He sighed and racked his brain to remember the name of the contact person he usually talked to. It was something typically German because the guy's father had come from Germany. What was it? It had been some months since they'd last worked together, but Garini was fired on by the instinctive feeling that he was on the right track.
Stefano took a turn around the dusty office and straightened the limp cactus, then went to the bathroom and trickled cold water down his neck. Anything to take his mind off the problem, so his subconscious could grapple with it and spit out the name. If only he were at his own office. He had access to his e-mails there, to his address book, everything. With a sigh, he looked out the window and wondered what Carlina was doing now. She would be awake now, maybe she was even at the beach in that little leopard print bikini of hers. He sighed again, and with the sigh, the name he'd been looking for popped into his brain. Giorgiono Schmidt. Yes! He ran back to the office and looked up Signor Schmidt's private number. Please, let him be listed.
He wasn't, but there was only one other entry in the same name, so he decided to call it and trust his good luck. He was
lucky – it was Giorgiono's mother, and she was more than willing to get her son on the line. Thank God. “Signor Schmidt, I'm terribly sorry to disturb you on your vacation like this, but I need a piece of information very urgently.”
“No problem, Commissario,” Schmidt sounded relaxed and happy. “I should have known that you would dig up my whereabouts, no matter where I was on ferragosto.”
Garini had met him once and knew that he was always cheerful. “Again, my apologies,” he said, “but I need to know if you issued a report for a gun that was sent in from the police station in Forte dei Marmi yesterday.”
“I'm sorry, Commissario, but I can't tell you that.” It was clear from Schmidt's voice that he felt bad about not being able to give an answer. “I've been on vacation since Monday.”
Garini's heart sank. Drat it all. He'd been so sure he was on the right track, but every step he took forward dragged him two steps back. “Do you know who might have been on duty?”
“I could find out,” Schmidt said. “You say it's urgent?”
“Very urgent.”
“Okay. Let me make some calls, and I'll get back to you in fifteen minutes or so. I take it you're at the station in Forte dei Marmi?”
“Yes, but--” Before Garini was able to give him his cell phone number, Schmidt had hung up. Great. Now he had nothing to do but to wait for a return call. He wondered if he should just leave and let a colleague take the message, but then, he decided that the information was too sensitive to bandy around the office
To pass the time, Stefano made a list of the things he would have to do. Top priority was Rosari's wife. He copied her address from the files and found out how to get to her, then realized that his way would take him straight past the hotel. He might stop for a few minutes and squeeze in a short talk with Aunt Violetta. She had a nerve, to take a gun on the family vacation. Garini shook his head. When would the Mantonis ever cease to surprise him? Hopefully, he would also be able to see Carlina for a few minutes. Next time, they would book a vacation in Timbuktu. Far, far away.
He dragged his thoughts back to the case. Next on the list was the owner of the Albergo Giardino. He found his name and address and realized that he lived more than an hour's drive away. He would be lucky if he managed to talk to them all today. Maybe he should call them in advance to make sure they would be there . . . no, better not. He wanted to have the element of surprise on his side.
The office had heated up until he felt hot and sweaty. He downed a bottle of water and checked his watch again. Where had the morning gone? And when would Schmidt call back? Where was that famous German efficiency when you needed it?
There, the phone rang. Finally!
He pounced onto it and heard Schmidt's cheerful voice. “I say, Commissario, everything is all right. We did issue a report for a gun from Forte dei Marmi yesterday, after we had matched it with a bullet. It's about that hotel murder case, isn't it?”
Garini wanted to swear and throw the dusty cactus against the wall. Instead, he said, “But the report doesn't bear your stamp.”
“Now, go easy on a young guy.” Schmidt chuckled. “It was the first time that he was all alone at the lab, and he was already in jitters when he had to admit that he was the one who worked on that case. Wanted to know if everything was in order.”
“Is it possible that he made another mistake, too, and that the bullet doesn't match the gun after all?”
“Oh, no,” Schmidt said. “I thought about that and asked him if he was sure, and he was positive because another senior colleague happened to stop by – he had forgotten something -- and my young colleague made him take a look. I called the senior colleague up to be sure, and he confirms the story. That's why it took me so long to get back to you. So you see, the bullet is from that gun all right. There's no maybe about it.”
“All right. Thanks a lot.” Garini had trouble keeping his voice friendly. “Tell the young man not to forget the stamp in the future.”
“Will do, Commissario.”
What a wild goose chase! Garini hung up, kicked the leg of the dusty table and decided he had lost enough time for one day. He pushed the case file back into its place underneath the cactus and left the police-station equipped with a recording device that Lampone had unearthed somewhere. To his surprise, it worked without any problems once he managed to take off the layer of grime on top of it with some vigorous rubbing.
The morning's activities had taken much longer than he'd thought. He had missed lunch and could feel his stomach rumbling, so he stopped by a little trattoria and got a grilled sandwich to go. What a way to celebrate the middle of summer. No doubt the Mantoni family had eaten a wonderful and elaborate lunch and were now resting somewhere in the shade. He envied them.
When Garini arrived at the hotel, he stopped for an instant and took in the peaceful scene. The midday sun beat hot on the hard-baked earth, and from somewhere came a whiff of rosemary and pine. A fat bumblebee came up and circled him, then, having discovered that he wasn't an interesting kind of flower, flew off into the blue. The hotel had most of its shutters closed to keep out the heat, and it looked like any other drowsing summer building. But somewhere, there was evil, and he was determined to find out what had happened the night Signor Rosari was murdered.
He squared his shoulders and decided to take a cool shower and change his shirt before continuing with the investigation. It wouldn't do to face Aunt Violetta with anything but the coolest of minds, and it helped if his body was cool to begin with, though he didn't doubt for a minute that she would manage to get him hot under the collar in record time.
Fifteen minutes later, as cool as he could get in spite of the scorching heat, he set out to find Aunt Violetta. The hotel was deserted. At the pool, Emma rested on a sun lounger, fast asleep. Her husband lay on the lounger next to her, reading a paperback thriller. When asked if he had seen any of the other members of the family, he mutely shook his head.
Garini thanked him and ventured further into the garden, into the area where a small grove of olive trees provided a dappled shadow. He could see something red shining through the dark-green branches and followed a sandy footpath in that direction until he came to a charming clearing. Two hammocks were strung between three olive trees, creating a triangular space between them, and the space in between was filled with four sun loungers that were all occupied.
The lounger in the middle was an extra sturdy piece of garden furniture with a reinforced frame and a movable shade fixed to the top of the adjustable back. This shade was pulled down as far as it would go and almost touched the face of the person hidden beneath. A soft snoring floated out to him, sounding way too gentle for the formidable lady he was looking for. However, the sheer bulk of the resting person and the unmistakable red and white striped summer dress told its own story. It was the red stripe that had beckoned to Garini through the trees. He had found Aunt Violetta.
Garini sighed, but before he could decide what to do next, a cat-like face appeared over the edge of one of the hammocks, and Carlina beckoned to him. She wore the bikini with her favorite leopard print, and a few new freckles had appeared on her nose since he had last seen her.
He went up to her and kissed her softly, wishing that things were different and that he could join her in the hammock. It looked as if it could bear the weight of two.
She flung one arm up and pulled him close. “Hmm, you smell nice.” Her voice was low.
“I just took a shower to cool down.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “The heat? Or is it that bad?”
“Hmm.” He stroked her cheek. “Muddled.”
“What do you mean, muddled?” Benedetta, who'd been resting on the sun lounger right next to Aunt Violetta, pushed her sunglasses up into her dark hair and sat up with surprising energy, considering the time of the day and the heat. “Have you managed to clear Ernesto?”
Garini suppressed a sigh. He'd thought she was sleeping. Moreover, she had not kept her voice low, so now the othe
r members of the family – spread out on the loungers around him - were showing signs of awakening, too.
“Not yet,” he said. “I can't work wonders.”
She pushed her red lips into a pout. For an instant, she looked very much like a five-year old instead of a mother with three grown children.
“But you've been gone for hours,” she said. “I think you should have accomplished something.”
Carlina sat up straighter. “Aunt Benedetta! I think you should be grateful that he's giving up his vacation to help clear Ernesto.”
“Well, I don't see much progress,” Benedetta insisted. “And I have a feeling that time is running out for my lamb who never did anything bad at all in his whole life.”
“If that's really true,” Aunt Violetta's booming voice interrupted them from beneath the shade, “then it's high time that he started. Young men have to test the waters at some point.”
Benedetta gasped. “It's easy for you to talk, Aunt Violetta! You're not the person they suspect of being the murderer.”
Garini decided to throw normal procedure to the wind. He was not going to get any results if he advanced in the official way with this eccentric family. So he placed a restraining hand on Carlina's shoulder, knowing her tendency to interrupt, and said, his voice relaxed and clear, for all to hear, “Oh, I don't know about that. After all, the police found a gun in Aunt Violetta's room, too.”
The effect was much better than he'd expected. From all the sun loungers, heads lifted with alacrity, as if pulled by strings: Fabbiola to the left, then Leopold Morin, Benedetta, and finally, Aunt Violetta, who pushed back the shade with one decisive hand and sat up straight.
From the hammock opposite, Omar's dark face appeared with a jerk that made the whole thing swing.
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