Margo, she didn’t have a clue—just like me that day on the trampoline—nor was there any reason she should have. Especially now, what with her and Jonathan having reconnected, two cozy and enraptured lovers-to-be warming the sofa, already renewing their plans to embark on the romantic interlude to Portofino. Without me, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Now I really was alone, at least for the short time it was taking Lorenzo to open up a bottle of Asti and for Zia Octavia to arrange a platter of formaggio and fruit. Fonso had made himself at home, foraging in the fridge in search of something more substantial. For a gypsy who claimed to know what no one else knew or sooner than anyone else would know, I couldn’t help but wonder how the Tania/Nadya retributions had slipped by him and his Roma community. Or if the simple explanation he’d just given us was the story we were supposed to buy into—and did. A formality if nothing else, odd that Commissioner Dante didn’t see through it … or perhaps he had more pressing matters to resolve, matters outside of the Roma community.
I bypassed the entire group, made my way to the terrace, and checked out the garden below. Not a cat in sight. Or the mysterious lady in the garden, except she was no longer mysterious because I now knew her name: Anita Gentili, wife of the presumed widower Lorenzo Gentili.
For the second time that day he came up behind me, again the Gucci, his breath warming my neck with his words. “Please stay, Elena. Somehow, some way, we—I—will work this out. You must trust me.”
“I’d love to say yes but have to say no. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Si,” he said, “which makes your decision all the more painful.” He nuzzled his lips against the rim of my ear. “You’ll stay the night?”
“No, better I should leave with Margo and Jonathan.” But not stay with them. Being on my own, confident of my independence, fit the new me better than I’d ever imagined it would have when I left Florence. Make that Firenze. I turned to face Lorenzo, wanting to see his reaction to my next question. “About yesterday, the scene of the accident, did you see what I saw?”
“I don’t know, Elena. What did you see?”
“Nicco Rizzi entering the rear seat of the taxi, at a time when Lila may still have been alive, God only knows.”
“Si, only God would know.”
“When Nicco backed out of the taxi, his gloved hands were covered with blood.”
“Which makes sense because Lila was covered with blood, isn’t that what Margo had said, Fonso and Jonathan too.”
“But Lila was still alive then and able to speak. Perhaps Nicco executed his own brand of justice.”
“Perhaps you are reading more into this than the situation warrants. Or that Nicco deserves. It is not unusual for accident victims to speak one minute and die the next.” Lorenzo snapped two fingers. “Just like that, si?”
“But what did you see, Lorenzo.”
“What you saw and nothing more.”
“And how well do you know Nicco Rizzi?
“Well enough to know he is a good man, an honorable man.”
“With ties to the Roma community,” I said more than asked.
“That I cannot answer,” he said.
“Cannot or will not?”
He answered with a kiss so passionate I almost cried, But, I didn’t.
Neither of us dared to say what we both knew: that Nicco had ended Lila’s life, that justice had been served, and I was in no position to prove either.
And Lorenzo’s final kiss was his way of answering the last question I would ever ask of him.
Memo to self:
In the future avoid all Italian men who smell of Gucci and lemons.
###
If you enjoyed Italy to Die For, please recommend it to your friends.
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About the Author
Loretta Giacoletto divides her time between the St. Louis Metropolitan area and Missouri’s Lake of the Ozarks where she writes fiction and essays for her blog Loretta on Life while her husband Dominic cruises the waters for bass and crappie. An avid traveler, Loretta has written several sagas inspired by her frequent visits to the Piedmont region of Italy, a soccer mystery that takes place in St. Louis, and an edgy New Adult novel about a young drifter searching for the father who doesn’t know he exists. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous publications including Literary Mama, which nominated her story “Tom” for Dzanc’s 2010 Best of the Web.
Connect with Loretta Online:
http://www.lorettagiacoletto.com/
Or email to:
[email protected]
A note from the author
My thanks to Andrea Gaudi, Marina Imocrante, Heather Giacoletto, Diane Giacoletto Lambert; and Dominic Giacoletto.
Other novels, collections, and short stories by Loretta Giacoletto
CHICAGO’S HEADMISTRESS
THE FAMILY ANGEL
FAMILY DECEPTIONS
FREE DANNER
LETHAL PLAY
A COLLECTION OF GIVERS AND TAKERS
THE BAKER’S WIFE
YOUTHANASIA
LETHAL PLAY
Newly widowed Francesca Canelli would do anything to help her son Matt. Financially strapped and emotionally devastated, she accepts a sexual proposition from his soccer coach who promises to help Matt secure a coveted scholarship. Their bargain quickly sours when the coach abuses her, demeans Matt, and threatens to renege on the deal. The coach with more enemies than friends soon winds up dead and Francesca becomes a prime suspect in his murder.
Chapter 1
The night was too quiet, laboring under a murky sky that offered momentary glimpses of February’s moon. It cast a faint light over Missouri’s Show Me Soccer Park, deserted except for a St. Louis County Police car cruising through the stark winter landscape of the complex. The vehicle turned onto a narrow service road that ended behind the main field and parked on a large rectangle of asphalt. Two uniformed police officers exited their sedan, strolled over to a nearby SUV, and inspected the vacant interior with their flashlights.
“Rex Meredith again,” said Officer Raymer. “He must be somewhere around here, probably designing some amazing new strategy for his team.”
“Since when do soccer coaches work in the dark?” asked his sidekick, a probationary officer with barely two weeks under his belt.
“Good point, Baker. I’ll switch on the lights; you check out the field.”
While Raymer headed for the utility building, Baker walked a hundred feet or so to where he stood beside the pitch, a field of turf that enthusiasts of youth soccer considered the finest in the Midwest, perhaps the entire country. He waited another minute before the area transformed from a silhouette of geometric forms and eerie shadows to a panorama of bright lights which seemed out of sync with the unnerving calm. He took his time scanning the entire pitch, starting with the south goal and ending at the north, whereupon he did a double take, shifted his stance, and looked again, allowing the distant scene to finally register within his brain.
“Holy Mother of God,” he managed to yell in a voice shaking with disbelief. “We have a huge problem over here.”
“Rookies. Dear god, why me.” Raymer shook his head but still came running. He stood beside Baker and squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to the glaring lights before addressing the north goal. There, hanging from the crossbar was the figure of a man swaying with the slight breeze. He appeared to be wrapped in mesh, probably stripped from the goal post. White socks covered his feet dangling fifteen inches above the ground, and nearby an orange water cooler lay turned on its side.
“What now?” the rookie asked, his voice reduced to a quiver that made Raymer wanted to haul off and stuff some guts down his throat.
“For starters, don’t piss your pants,” Raymer said. “Instead, get your ass to the car and call for backup. While you’re there, grab a roll of yellow tape and meet me at the goal.” He hurried onto the field, yelled from
over his shoulder. “And make it snappy, Baker.”
One look at Rex Meredith told Raymer the man was beyond saving. Raymer figured the rope squeezing Meredith’s neck must’ve been the same one used to anchor the net to the post. His neck was stretched like that of a dead bird, head bent to the side, his face swollen and battered, a deep gash cutting a diagonal across one eyebrow. Blood had oozed from his nostrils and both corners of his mouth. His eyes were wide open, locked into a sightless expression, of what—disbelief, desperation, regret? The stench of feces and urine sent a message to Raymer, urging him to toss his coffee and donuts, an invitation years of discipline had taught him to ignore. Still, observing the aftermath of violent death never came easy, especially with the victim someone he once knew. As did most everyone connected with youth soccer in the St. Louis metropolitan area.
“Baker, dammit where are you,” he yelled.
“Right here, sorry.”
Where, dammit. He jerked around to see Baker stopped within two feet of the goal, his head leaned back for a better view of the deceased, like some hayseed gawking at a piece of museum artwork. Raymer waited for the anticipated reaction and Baker didn’t disappoint him. The rookie doubled over, hands to his mouth and seconds away from tossing his donuts.
“Dammit, Baker, don’t even think about contaminating this area,” Raymer said. “Take your business elsewhere, and be sure to mark the site after you’ve finished.”
As usual, Baker obeyed. He stumbled over to a patch of frozen grass where he emptied his stomach with four gut-wrenching heaves, and then sectioned off the area with tape. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he said on his return.
“Quit apologizing and help me tape the crime scene. You did call for backup, didn’t you … never mind.”
Raymer already had his answer. The sound of sirens wailing into the night announced the arrival of two more police cars plus an emergency van carrying the paramedic unit. One of the paramedics checked the victim’s vital signs, confirming what everyone already knew: Rex Meredith, the illustrious coach of St. Louis’s nationally-ranked boys soccer team, was indeed dead. His body continued to hang from the crossbar while a team of crime scene investigators collected evidence, starting with one of them snapping photographs, first an overall view before moving in for medium range shots, and finally, close-ups of the deceased. The investigators tagged every scrap of paper, every bit of fiber, strand of hair, footprint impression, and scruffy dirt pattern before depositing their findings into paper bags and cardboard boxes.
Two CSI worked in respectful silence as they unwound the netting from Meredith’s body. After releasing his body from the crossbar and onto a stretcher, they wheeled it over to a woman with arms crossed over her chest and boot-laden feet stomping the frozen ground. Having already observed Rex Meredith from a suspended position, Dr. Hannah Cooper now spent a few minutes studying him from a lateral perspective.
“This must’ve been some fight,” she said through puffs of cold air, “one-sided, judging from the lack of trauma to his hands or knuckles.” She leaned in closer. “What’s this on his left pec? The tattoo of a winged horse in flight, how befitting for the coach of Pegasi United.”
She touched her fingertips to her lips, as if to say goodbye.
“I take it you knew the deceased,” said one of the first responders.
“You’re standing in my light, Detective.”
“Sorry, Doc.” He moved three feet to the left.
She slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and began her preliminary examination while the offending detective hovered with no further comment. He waited a good five minutes before opening his mouth again.
“Is it too soon to ask?”
The coroner ripped off her gloves, stuffed them in her coat pocket. “The body’s still warm and rigor mortis hasn’t started yet. Given the outdoor temperature, I’d set the time of death around ten forty-five, give or take a few minutes.”
“Life and death minutes,” he said. “Raymer got here around eleven.”
“A tough break for Rex.”
“So, how well did you know him?”
She lifted one shoulder. “He coached my kid some years ago, but only for one season. According to Rex, our David didn’t have what it takes; he’d never meet the standards of an elite soccer team.”
“Too bad, it must’ve been a real downer.”
“Nah, we got David on another team right away. He’s still playing with the Dynamos and loving every minute. My husband never misses a game. I see as many as my work permits, which puts me in the category of a lackluster soccer mom.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“Not in my book. Poor Sunny, she’s Rex’s wife … widow, the epitome of soccer moms—such unwavering dedication. I don’t envy the detectives who have to make that home visit. As for me, I’ve done all I can, at least for now.” Looking around, she raised her voice. “Anybody from CSI?”
A squat woman in her mid-thirties answered the call. “Right here,” Fran Abbot said. “Can we bag the hands yet?”
“Be my guest.” This time Dr. Cooper patted the deceased’s shoulder. “Dammit, Rex, I hate seeing your life end this way.”
“You think he offed himself?” Fran asked while securing a paper sack around Meredith’s right hand.
“After the beating he took and all that netting, it seems doubtful,” Dr. Cooper replied. “Still, at this stage anything is possible. I’ll know more in the autopsy room.”
Fran moved to secure the left hand. “Whoa, you said something about the deceased having a wife.”
“Yes, there’s a problem?”
“No wedding ring on his finger.”
“So maybe he didn’t wear one,” the detective said, holding up his left hand. “I don’t.”
“So maybe he took it off, leaving a telltale band of white in its place,” Fran said. “As is the case with certain husbands inclined to fool around.
Chapter 2
Five weeks earlier on the twenty-ninth of January in 2009, a single runner jogged through the pre-dawn streets of a sleepy St. Louis suburb. Ben Canelli didn’t believe in short-changing himself, especially when it came to maintaining a physique that celebrated its forty-two years with few apologies. He adhered to a strict discipline of running every morning at five-thirty, rain or shine, as long as the temperature registered above twenty degrees and snowshoes were not a prerequisite for navigating through his Richmond Heights neighborhood. Before leaving home on this overcast but unseasonably warm day, he’d consider waking Matt but then decided against inviting him along on such a routine run. Fifteen-year-old boys need plenty of rest because they grow while they sleep; at least that’s what Ben’s dad used to tell him. And Ben always relied on those pearls of wisdom which would eventually define his dad’s legacy. The late Al Canelli had been a respected athlete—a soccer standout into his thirties and later the coach of a topflight St. Louis mens team. To Ben’s regret, he hadn’t lived up to Al’s athletic abilities, not that the old man ever complained. He’d been too much of a gentleman to show any disappointment, one of many admirable traits Ben strived but often failed to emulate.
The light drizzle peppering Ben’s face reminded him to pick up the pace since he hadn’t thought to bring along his windbreaker. Still, the navy sweat suit and turtleneck underneath should keep him warm until he returned to the brick Tudor on Windsor Lane. He’d left Francesca there, still in bed and purring in the aftermath of wake-up sex. One thing he could count on when he got back was the smell of freshly ground coffee brewing, a pricey gourmet blend she preferred and he tolerated. Sweet Francesca, she loved him almost as much as he loved himself. Besides Matt, she’d given him Ria. What father wouldn’t be crazy about an eleven-year-old showering him with kisses and then executing an enthusiastic though less than perfect string of back flips. Matt could turn back flips too, from a crouched position and as smooth as any seasoned gymnast. Those flips made a great show on the soccer pitch, as long as the kid didn’t overd
o it. No coach likes a grandstander.
Ben nodded to a passing runner he encountered once or twice a week. He wiped a patch of chilling droplets from his brow and pulled up the hood to cover his damp hair. Using long strides, he skimmed over the wet pavement and turned westward, away from the muted rays of the rising sun. Where was he? Oh yeah, about Matt. Fortunately, the kid had inherited his grandfather’s genes, those microscopic gems blessing him with the ability to run faster and jump higher than the average teenage athlete. Of course, for Matt to reach his full potential, it would require unlimited nurturing, creative financing, political savvy, and just plain luck.
Too bad the Thunderbirds went belly up. Ben had coached the select team and Matt had played on it since the age of nine. For Matt—and Ben—it meant having to start over, scrambling for acceptance on one of the few teams that had openings for the spring season. They’d pinned their hopes on numero uno. Pegasi United consistently ranked in the top forty of U.S. Youth Soccer and offered the most advantages, as in winning seasons, financial backing, a demanding schedule thriving on prestigious tournaments, and for the best of the best—athletic scholarships to Division 1 universities. Reaching for the moon an unreasonable goal? Hell no, not with Matt standing on his dad’s shoulders. About the Pegasi coach, Ben wasn’t sure, only because he didn’t really know Rex Meredith, although the solid grip of the cocky bastard’s handshake did seem sincere, too sincere. In fact, it bordered on unctuous, that slippery hand sliding through Ben’s.
As with most mornings, Ben had timed this run to perfection. On Clayton Road the wrought iron security gates leading to Hampton Park swung open, allowing him to enter at the precise moment a familiar green 911 Carrera drove through the exit. In keeping with their usual routine, the female driver and Ben acknowledged each other with a simple wave of the hand. More droplets fell onto his eyelids; he blinked them away. Ahead on the asphalt lane towered the massive sanctuaries of the privileged, a state of upper class grace Ben harbored no illusions of ever achieving, unless he somehow maneuvered a takeover of the sporting goods company that recently promoted him to a divisional manager position. Not bad for a guy who struggled through five years of college before graduating. Along the winding route of homes striving to outdo each other, he stopped but once, to jog in place while admiring his favorite estate, a sprawling gray Tudor that reduced his Windsor Lane knock-off to that of a rich kid’s playhouse.
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