The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

  Also by the author

  Murder in Chianti

  Copyright © 2021 by Camilla Trinchieri

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue, and incidents depicted are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  227 W 17th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Trinchieri, Camilla, author.

  The bitter taste of murder / Camilla Trinchieri.

  Series: The Tuscan mysteries; 2

  ISBN 978-1-64129-283-2

  eISBN 978-1-64129-284-9

  PS3553.R435 B58 2021 | DDC 813’.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020052761

  Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ONE

  Gravigna, a small town in the Chianti hills of Tuscany

  A Tuesday in June, 7:50 a.m.

  Ex-homicide detective Nico Doyle parked his red Fiat 500 under a cloudless sky that promised another hot day and followed his dog across the deserted main piazza. It was too early in the day for tourists. The tables and chairs outside Trattoria da Gino wouldn’t be set up for another two hours. The benches where the four pensioners sat daily to exchange their news were empty. In the far corner, Bar All’Angolo, open since 6 a.m., would offer him breakfast.

  OneWag rushed into the café through the open door, nose immediately canvassing the floor. Nico followed, scanning the tables. There were only a few customers. Last week at this hour, he had found the place full of students chattering with mouths full of cornetti, their colorful backpacks getting in everyone’s way. School had since ended, and they were now having breakfast at home. The few locals who didn’t have to travel far for work were standing at the bar counter with espresso cups in their hands, talking among themselves.

  Sandro, one of the café’s two owners, was manning the cash register as always. He looked up.

  “Ciao, Nico.”

  Some locals turned to nod their hellos.

  “Salve,” Nico replied to all. He walked to the cash register. “How goes it?”

  “So far the morning is good,” Sandro replied with a smile. He was a good-looking, lanky man somewhere in his mid-forties with a small gold stud shining in one ear. “It’s still cool enough, but get your fan out. We’re going to fry today.”

  “I’ve been trying to convince him to air-condition the place,” his husband Jimmy said. Jimmy’s job was to work the huge, very hot stainless-steel espresso machine at the far end of the bar and the oven that baked the most delicious cornetti this side of Florence.

  Sandro shook his head. “Costs too much. Besides, it’s bad for you. Freezes your guts like that ice water Americans like.”

  Jimmy shrugged and turned to start Nico’s Americano. There was no need to order, as Nico always had the same thing. While Nico paid Sandro, OneWag’s nails clicked back and forth over the tiles, his snout a periscope sweeping left and right. The café floor was usually scattered with sugar-laced crumbs. After two rounds across the room, the dog sat and barked a protest.

  “Sorry, Rocco,” Sandro said. “I swept. I didn’t want those floppy ears of yours to get dirty.” The Italians called Nico’s dog Rocco. They claimed OneWag was too hard to pronounce and that an Italian dog should have an Italian name. The dog wisely answered to both with his signature one wag, which usually brought good things. In this case, a day-old cornetto tossed by Sandro and caught on the fly.

  “Bravo!” Sandro clapped.

  “No more, please,” Nico said. The morning the small stray had led him to a murdered man, he’d been a skinny, dirty runt. Nine months later, his long white and orange coat was clean and fluffy, and his stomach looked as if it held a full litter.

  Nico walked over to his usual table by the open French doors and sat down, as he had nearly every day since he’d moved to his late wife Rita’s hometown of Gravigna a year ago. In that time, he had slowly made new friends. Gogol was the first, a man who lived in a reality all his own. A good man with an incredible memory. Gogol’s ability to quote every stanza of Dante’s Divine Comedy was what had first attracted Nico to him. Having breakfast with him became another part of this morning routine.

  The old man stood by the door, wrapped in his strong cologne and the overcoat he wore in winter and summer. It had first earned him the nickname of Gogol, after the Russian writer whose most famous story was titled “The Overcoat.” His face was a maze of wrinkles, his long hair clean and brushed. The old-age home where he lived took good care of him. His coat had been recently mended. “Another day to live through, amico,” he said to Nico.

  “Let’s live it well, Gogol.” Nico stood up and held out a chair. “I’m glad to see you.”

  Gogol shuffled to the table and took the chair closest to the open door, minimizing the effect of his cologne. He held up the two crostini he’d gotten from the butcher around the corner. “Our friend made them for me especially. A man with a noble heart.” Gogol placed the two squares of bread carefully at the center of the table. “‘It pleases me, whatever pleases you.’”

  “Paradiso.”

  Gogol coughed a laugh. “Inferno, amico.”

  Trying to guess which section of the Divina Commedia the quotes came from was a new game Gogol had suggested, hoping Nico would study the poetry. Back in the Bronx, Nico had once had his ears filled with Dante by his wife, who also loved quoting the Tuscan poet. He found old Italian too difficult; it reminded him of struggling through Chaucer in high school. Modern Italian he could handle pretty well, thanks to Rita’s lessons and Berlitz.

  Nico took the salame crostino, knowing Gogol liked the lard best. He rarely guessed the quote. “It sounded too nice for Inferno.”

  Gogol bit into his lard crostino, swallowed quickly and said, “I begin to abandon hope of you ever climbing the slope. Also from Inferno. My adaptation for this occasion.”

  “Why abandon hope on such a beautiful day?” asked a voice with a Neapolitan accent.

  Nico turned around. Maresciallo Salvatore Perillo stood outside the open French doors, chatting with a group of cyclists about to take off for the steep hills of Chianti. Perillo had been one of them until last year, having even won a few races. He was a short, stocky man with shiny black hair beginning to gray at the temples, a chiseled handsome face with large, dark liquid eyes, thick lips and an aquiline nose. He was out of uniform as usual, wearing jeans, a perfectly pressed blue linen shirt and, despite the heat, his beloved leather jacket flung over his shoulder.

  Nico smiled, glad to see the man who had become a good friend since involving Nico in a murder investigation last September. They hadn’t seen each other or talked in the last week. The maresciallo’s carabinieri station was in Greve, nineteen kilometers away.

  Nico pushed back a chair. “Join us.”

  Perillo stepped into the café, looked at Gogol hunched over the table and hesitated. “Gogol, am I welcome?”

  Gogol grinned, showing his brown teeth. “You were Nico’s Virgil through last year’s journey into hell, or perhaps he was yours. Whichever it is, friends of Nico are welcome today. Tomorrow perhaps not.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Perillo sat down next to Nico. Gogol made him uncomfortable. His overpowering cologne didn’t help. The man was crazy, mentally disabled or putting on an act to get at
tention. Perillo eased his discomfort by bending down to pet Rocco, who was sniffing his suede ankle boots.

  Sandro brought over two Americani and two whole wheat cornetti straight out of the oven, a Bar All’Angolo specialty. “Espresso for you, Salvatore?”

  Perillo raised two fingers, then a thumb for his double espresso to be corrected with grappa. The inclusion of grappa meant things weren’t going well with the maresciallo.

  “That bad?” Nico asked before biting into his cornetto. The salame crostino, he pushed Gogol’s way. The old man always ended up eating both.

  “I will happily tell you.” Perillo looked in Jimmy’s direction, eager for his espresso. “No murders, may God be praised.”

  Sandro hurried over with the double espresso. Perillo thanked him and emptied the cup with one swallow. “Yesterday, Signor Michele Mantelli drove into Greve, found that the parking spots in Piazza Matteoti were occupied, parked his Jaguar in the middle of piazza, locked it and went off to lunch. In the center of the town! Can you believe it? There’s perfectly good parking nearby. Of course, one of my men called the car removal service. What followed was Mantelli stomping into the station preceded by a hailstorm of insults directed at me. It was clear I had no brains, I didn’t know who he was, headquarters in Florence would hear about this, I would be demoted and so on. You would not believe the fury of the man.”

  “Who is he?” Nico asked.

  “A ball breaker. Michele Mantelli is considered a famous critic of Italian wines, said to have the power to make or ruin a new vintage. He runs a very successful biannual magazine called Vino Veritas, written in Italian and English and distributed globally. Also a blog, which he posts to monthly for thousands of readers. The pied piper and his rats, I say. If they only knew he was the head rat.”

  “I’m sorry he’s gotten to you. Where’s he from?”

  “Milan, but he has an old villa in Montefioralle.”

  “Words aren’t necessary,” Gogol said. “The face shows the color of the heart.”

  “Well said, Gogol. My wife considers him very handsome.” Perillo sniffed. “I suspect he’s also a smooth talker when not shouting insults.”

  “I haven’t seen Ivana since last year’s barbecue. How is she?” Nico asked.

  “She’s fine. She was in the piazza getting bread.”

  Gogol chuckled to himself. “‘The eyes of Ivana were all intent on him.’ A very bad adaptation of Paradiso, canto one. Amusing nonetheless.”

  Perillo didn’t look amused. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  “Refreshed?” Nico asked after a minute of silence had gone by.

  “It’s a drug,” said Perillo.

  “The grappa or the coffee?”

  “Love is a drug,” Gogol announced. Clasping his hands on the rim of the table, he slowly stood. “The only woman I love is my mother. ‘Watching her, I changed inside.’ No point in guessing. Tomorrow, if I live.” Gogol’s mother had died when he was just a boy.

  Nico stood up. “Tomorrow. I’m counting on it.”

  Gogol stepped through the open French doors, his powerful scent leaving with him.

  “That was abrupt,” Perillo said.

  “I think Gogol knows he annoyed you with that quote about your wife.”

  “He didn’t, though.” Perillo had mostly been annoyed at his wife’s comment about Mantelli. “That man is very pleasant to look at, don’t you think?” she’d asked with a smile on her face. He’d answered her with a long kiss. Ah, yes, that reminded him of why he’d come to the café.

  “How are Aldo and Cinzia?” Perillo asked.

  Aldo Ferri, who owned the Ferriello vineyard, rented the small run-down stone farmhouse at the edge of his olive grove to Nico. “Fine. They invited me over for dinner last week. Spaghetti all’arrabbiata. Just as good as Cinzia’s carbonara.” Nico bunched his fingers to his lips and released them with a kiss. “I convinced her to give me the recipe.”

  “You can get a recipe for that from any cookbook.”

  “Maybe, but I’d use hers.”

  “Has there been any tension between Cinzia and Aldo?” Gogol’s comment—“Love is a drug”—brought back the scene he had witnessed last night. Luckily, he hadn’t been seen. Perillo felt a sudden pang of remorse. Should he tell Nico? But maybe there was an explanation for what had happened. It would only be spreading malicious gossip.

  “Not that I’ve seen.” Nico watched Perillo’s expression carefully. “Why are you asking about them?”

  A couple walked in and ordered from Sandro in French-tinted Italian. Perillo heard laughter and turned to look at them. They were hugging, mussing up each other’s hair.

  “No reason. Just that I haven’t seen them around in some time.” He stood up. “I’d better get back to the station. Say hello to Tilde and Enzo for me. Tell them not to work you too hard at the restaurant. Be well.”

  Nico stood too. “I’m not working Thursday night. Any chance of dinner?” It was clear his friend was holding something back. Maybe he was having problems with his wife? Getting out of the house for an evening might help. Besides, he missed Perillo’s company.

  “Maybe. If no one does anything stupid or cruel. I’ll let you know.” Perillo walked over to the counter and paid Sandro for his corrected double espresso.

  Nico waved goodbye to Sandro and Jimmy and, with OneWag running ahead, went to his car. Tuesday was laundry day, part of the routine he had set up for himself when he first moved to Gravigna. Back in the Bronx, he had made fun of Rita’s need to follow a routine that wavered only when she fell sick. At the beginning of his new Italian life, he’d found that maintaining a routine helped him find his footing. Now that he was fully settled, it was possible he kept it up out of laziness.

  There was no need for OneWag to join Nico in the car. The dog had his routine down pat. Nico would find him waiting in the heart of the medieval part of town, at the aptly named laundromat Sta A Te, which meant, “It’s up to you.”

  Two hours later, his freshly cleaned clothes neatly folded in the back seat of his car, Nico started his work for Tilde and Enzo. His first duty was to pick up the restaurant’s daily supply of bread from the grocer, Enrico. With the bread, Enrico gave him one of his coveted olive loaves and a ham bone. “The loaf is for you, the bone is for the little one. It’s too hot to use it for soup. Where is he?”

  “Thanks. He’s gone to visit Nelli at her studio. She spoils him.” Nico reached for his wallet.

  Enrico raised his hand in protest. He was a small man with a pale face and thinning hair. “Friends pay for two loaves—one, no. Bring Rocco the next time. He’s a good dog.”

  “He loves you.”

  Enrico chuckled. “He loves my prosciutto. The best in the area, if I do say so myself.”

  “Agreed. See you later.” Nico lifted the large paper sack and turned to go.

  “Watch out on the street. Some maniac zoomed past here a few minutes ago in his fancy car. Almost ran down one of my customers.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Nico looked down the slope. Only a few people and a struggling cyclist were working their way up the steep hill.

  Hugging the bag of bread, Nico climbed the rest of the way. At the top, diagonal to the Santa Agnese church, stood Sotto Il Fico. A white Jaguar was parked in front, fully blocking the entrance.

  Nico squeezed through the narrow space the car had left and called out, “Buongiorno.”

  “Nothing good about it,” the restaurant’s owner grumbled. Elvira fanned herself with a large black lace fan she claimed was a gift from a Spanish admirer. The truth, according to Tilde, was that she’d bought it at the monthly flea market in Panzano.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Nico dropped the bread bag on one of the five indoor tables. He was used to her bad moods by now. “Is your arthritis acting up?”

  She
answered with a snort. A sixty-three-year-old widow with pitch-black dyed hair, a wrinkled face, a small pointed nose and pale blue eyes as sharp as a hawk’s, Elvira oversaw the goings-on of her restaurant from an old gilded armchair in the front room. Today she was wearing a blue and green housedress, which meant it was Tuesday. She had seven, one for each day of the week.

  “Where’s Enzo?” Her son was in charge of managing the bar and the cash register and cutting the bread. Tilde, Enzo’s wife and Rita’s cousin, cooked the meals.

  “He’s on the terrace with that fraud who calls himself the world’s best wine critic!”

  “Michele Mantelli is here?”

  “Yes, he marched in not ten minutes ago. If he doesn’t remove his car in the next ten, I’m calling the carabinieri.”

  “He’s already had a run-in with them.”

  “Good. He can have another.”

  Nico leaned toward the open door that led to the terrace. Mantelli was sitting in the shade of the huge fig tree that gave the restaurant its name and fame. All he could see was a crumpled white linen suit that matched a full head of long white hair. The man’s face was hidden by Enzo, who was hovering over him.

  “That man insisted on seeing our full wine list,” Elvira said. “Enzo was just making me another espresso.”

  “I can make that for you, if you want,” Nico offered. Enzo had taught him how to use the espresso machine behind the bar.

  “No, I’ll wait. Americans don’t have the touch. That fraud claims he can teach us which wines to sell. ‘I offer my expertise for free. I will mention you in my blog.’ Enzo was beaming like a child being offered a yo-yo, showering him with thanks. Even offered him a free lunch!”

  Tilde popped her head out of the kitchen. “A yo-yo won’t get you anywhere with a kid these days. You need an iPhone.” Tilde liked to correct her mother-in-law whenever she could. Elvira, possessive of her son, was often unkind to her. “Mantelli is a revered wine critic and will give Enzo some good suggestions,” Tilde went on.

  “Pfui. Enzo knows perfectly well what wines to offer. We taste each new vintage together and decide according to the price our clients can afford.”