The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

  This meant, Nico knew, that Elvira decided. He pulled out a chair and sat next to her. “There’s nothing wrong with hearing him out, is there?” She was at times unpleasant, but he couldn’t help admiring her toughness. “And being mentioned in his blog has to be good for business, don’t you think?”

  Another snort in response. Elvira picked up the magazine on her lap and slipped on the glasses that hung from a chain on her neck. “I read from Vino Veritas: ‘The 2015 ColleVerde Riserva offers hints of fruit, spices, scorched earth, espresso beans and herbs.’” She threw the magazine on the floor. “Scorched earth indeed! Who wants to taste spices or rosemary in their wine? Nonsense is what it is.”

  Nico picked up the magazine.

  “Nico,” Tilde called out. “You’re needed in the kitchen.”

  “Throw that in the trash,” Elvira commanded as he made his way to the kitchen.

  “Coming.” Nico took the magazine with him and, once out of sight, slipped it into his pocket.

  Tilde was bent over the scarred marble counter, quickly shaping golf-ball-sized ground pork, egg, Parmigiano and ricotta meatballs in her hands. A long white apron covered her flowered dress. Her usual red cotton scarf enveloped thick chestnut brown hair.

  Nico kissed one cheek. In Italy, it was usually both cheeks, but her other one was out of reach. “What can I do?”

  “Take over for Enzo. Mantelli has him in his grips, and I need Alba back here.”

  Nico turned. Alba was wiping mushrooms clean at the other end of the counter. A sliced mushroom salad with apples and walnuts was one of the restaurants signature dishes. “Ciao, I didn’t see you there.”

  “I’ll kiss you later.” Alba laughed. A pretty, round-faced woman in her early forties, she had never told Tilde her real name. She was Albanian, and so she said Alba was a logical choice. She also liked that the word meant ‘dawn’ in Italian. Coming here was for her the start of a new life. She’d fled the violence in Kosovo against ethnic Albanians and found her way to Gravigna. Her story was now a happy one. A good Italian man fell in love with her, and she with him. They married, and now she worked full-time at the restaurant, taking Stella, Tilde and Enzo’s daughter’s, place. She told everyone she met how blessed she felt.

  Alba peered out the small window that looked out onto the terrace. “He’s very handsome.”

  “And arrogant.” Tilde rolled the meatballs with light fingers on a plate filled with flour, then dropped them gently in a hot sauté pan coated with oil. Once they achieved a nice brown crust, they would end up cooking in tomato sauce for thirty minutes. Eaten on their own or surrounded by buttered farro, they were heavenly. “Please, Nico, go out there and set the tables. Listen to what Mantelli is saying. I don’t trust that man.”

  “You know him?”

  “Just met him. Let’s just say he gives me an odd feeling.”

  “Makes your nose itch?”

  “Something like that.”

  Nico went back to the front room and filled a tray with plates, silverware and the clean cloth napkins Elvira folded every morning. She was now absorbed in a crossword puzzle in the Settimana Enigmistica. “Don’t let Enzo make that man any promises,” she muttered as he passed by.

  “Of course,” Nico said.

  Mantelli was now sitting with Enzo at a corner table. Behind him under an overcast sky was the beautiful view of rows of vines spreading toward the horizon. In front of him was a half-empty glass of red wine and an open bottle. Enzo’s own glass was empty.

  Nico started setting the first table when he noticed a woman at the far end of the terrace fanning herself with a menu. He was struck by her beauty. She was dressed in tight white slacks and a spaghetti strap white top that hugged her torso. Long blond hair in a thick ponytail hung over one tanned shoulder. Huge sunglasses crowned her head. She looked very young, twenty at most.

  Mantelli noticed Nico staring and waved him over. “Never mind Loredana.” His voice was surprisingly high and thin. “Come taste this excellent wine. Luca Verdini started his vineyard only ten years ago. Makes him a novice, but his 2015 and 2016 Riservas are jewels, and his regular wines are excellent. Verdini is getting a lot of attention these days, thanks to me. I spotted him first two years ago and wrote him up in my blog and Vino Veritas. You know it?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Nico said.

  “Ah, you’re American. Well, the Robert Parker people rated him a ninety-three. I give him a ninety-five. You must help me convince Enzo to stock it.”

  Mantelli poured two fingers’ worth of the Riserva into Enzo’s empty glass.

  Enzo took a sip, swished the wine in his mouth and swallowed. “It is excellent,” Enzo said, “but his wines are too expensive. We’re not a three-Michelin-star restaurant. We serve simple food.”

  “Great wines will turn simple food into manna,” Mantelli said. “Drinking great wines helps to better understand the land and its people. Besides, Verdini is eager to spread the word about his wines. I’m sure he’d be willing to give you a discount.” The wine critic added a splash of wine to another glass on the table and held it out to Nico. “Please, try.”

  Nico took the glass and slowly rolled a sip around his tongue as he’d seen Enzo do. He felt like an idiot, but he didn’t want to look like a country bumpkin in front of this man. He swallowed. The wine burned the back of his throat. Scorched earth indeed, not that he knew what that tasted like. “Excellent, thank you.” He put the glass back down on the table. “I have to get back to work.” Enzo shot him a glance. “I’ll need your help too,” Nico said, guessing Enzo had had enough of being lectured to.

  Mantelli stood up, shook down his trousers and readjusted his jacket. Underneath, he wore a blue and white striped T-shirt, the kind Venetian gondoliers favored. A tanned hand brushed back thick wavy white hair that fell below his ears. He was tall, with wide shoulders and slender hips. A swimmer’s body. A face soaked by sun. A strong broad jaw, the straight nose Roman statues were known for, full lips, heavy black eyebrows that looked dyed, and black eyes to match. He was somewhere in his fifties, Nico thought. And yes, noticeably handsome.

  “I have work to do too,” Mantelli said. “I think I’ve given you enough guidance for now. Thank you for your offer of lunch. I’ll take a rain check and leave the bottle, so you can enjoy the rest of the wine. You’ll get hooked and buy, I know you will. And I’ll see what I can do about a discount. Verdini owes me.” He shook hands with Enzo. “Come, Loredana,” Mantelli ordered without so much as a glance at her. He offered his hand to Nico, who shook it reluctantly.

  “Not a nice man,” Nico said as Mantelli and Loredana disappeared into the front room.

  “Nice or not,” Enzo said, “I’ll have to order at least two cases.” He filled his glass with the expensive wine and took a long sip.

  “Because of his blog?”

  “He can give our restaurant a big boost.”

  “Doesn’t that feel a little like going along with blackmail?”

  Enzo shrugged. “It’s business. He probably gets a cut from Verdini and some of the others he praises in his magazine. I’ll tell you one—”

  Elvira’s voice interrupted Enzo. She was giving Mantelli a piece of her mind about the car.

  “You are correct, Signora,” Mantelli answered in his high-pitched voice. “I am incorrigible, but please consider me a friend. Arrivederci.”

  If Elvira replied, Nico and Enzo didn’t hear it.

  Nico walked over to another table and set down the sheets of butcher paper the restaurant used for mats. “You were telling me something.”

  Enzo finished his glass and slapped the cork back in the bottle. “Your landlord, Aldo, I guess he doesn’t play the game. Mantelli had some nasty things to say about Ferriello wines. ‘Totally overrated.’ ‘Should be selling at half the price, if at all.’ He said I should take Aldo’s wines off my list.�
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  “What did you say?”

  “I said I trusted his judgment.”

  Nico looked up in surprise. “Ferriello wines are very good.”

  “I agree. Don’t worry; I have no intention of dropping a single one of Aldo’s wines from my list.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Give me the tray, Nico. I’ll finish setting the tables. I’m sure Tilde can use your help.”

  Nico handed over the tray and the mats. “Thanks. I have a food idea she might like.”

  “As long as it doesn’t cost too much.”

  “Bread covered with scamorza and pancetta, then broiled. Sound good?”

  “Yes, but Tilde’s the judge.”

  “It will keep people drinking.”

  TWO

  OneWag was busy smelling each of the flower pots Luciana displayed in front of her shop in the main piazza. Nico let him be, no longer worried that the dog would raise a leg.

  A damp Luciana stood behind her work table and fanned her chest with the top of her dress. A small fan on the table blew hot air in her face. “We’ve reached thirty-seven degrees today. What is it in your temperature?”

  “Ninety-eight, according to my cell phone.”

  “My flowers are wilting. If this keeps up, my fat will melt.” Luciana laughed. A large woman with smiling hazel eyes, she pushed back thick hennaed curls that reminded Nico of chrysanthemums.

  “What darlings of mine will you take from me today? The truck brought in some lovelies this morning. Most of them are in the refrigerator.” She moved aside to let him see. “You always pick the ones I love best, but for Rita, they are yours.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “She was a wonderful woman.” Luciana had befriended Rita during their visits back to Gravigna, visits they had made whenever they could afford them.

  Nico scanned the offerings. So many flowers: roses, daisies, poppies. Most he couldn’t name. He found it difficult to choose flowers for Rita’s grave. He felt ashamed that when she was alive, he’d only bought her flowers on her birthday and their wedding anniversary. She had bought her own almost weekly, inexpensive ones from the nearby deli. He had taken little notice of them then. He wanted to please her now.

  “What do you think, Luciana? Roses or daisies?”

  She pointed at a bright bunch of round-petaled flowers. “Anemones for Rita. She always dressed in lots of color.” Luciana favored black.

  “A big bouquet of anemones, then.” As Nico reached for his wallet, OneWag lifted his head. Two seconds later, he took off. A car sped by. Nico rushed out the door, a yelp of pain already sounding in his imagination. His eyes caught the tail end of the car. His dog was on the other side of the road, safe in the middle of the piazza at Aldo’s feet. He waited to be acknowledged, but Aldo took no notice. He was busy talking to Michele Mantelli.

  On a bench behind the two men, the usual four old men—the “Bench Boys,” as Perillo called them—chatted with each other. On the left side of the piazza, Carletta, the lavender-haired waitress, was setting up tables outside Da Gino in denim shorts and a sleeveless top.

  Nico stayed, watching from the shop door. Aldo with his burgundy Ferriello T-shirt holding in his big stomach, stood in front of Michele Mantelli, who was wearing a now very wrinkled white linen suit. He could see that his friend’s body was tense as it leaned in toward the wine critic, the back of his T-shirt dark with sweat. Mantelli seemed relaxed and cool, his hands stuffed in his pant pockets, head tilted to one side. Aldo was speaking in a tight, low voice. Nico couldn’t catch the words, but understood they were angry ones. He noticed the Bench Boys had stopped chatting and were watching the two men. Carletta stood still, holding a plate against her chest like a shield, a hand over her mouth.

  Should he go and say hello to Aldo to try to break the tension? But maybe what Aldo was saying needed to be said. An interruption might make things worse.

  Nico stayed where he was and paid Luciana. She picked up two sheets of tissue paper to start wrapping the flowers.

  “No need. I’m going directly to the cemetery.”

  Luciana gave her hennaed curls a vigorous shake and continued wrapping. “My clients walk out of my shop with properly wrapped bouquets.” She tied a red bow around the tissue paper, handed the package to Nico and opened her arms to give him a hug, despite the heat.

  OneWag’s bark saved him. Luciana’s giant bosom against his chest always made Nico uncomfortable. In this heat, it would have been terrible. He turned to look out on the piazza. The dog was pulling at Aldo’s pant leg. Aldo had raised his arm, his hand clenched in a fist.

  “I’ll be right back.” Nico handed the flowers to Luciana and ran over to where Aldo was standing. “Hey, Aldo.”

  His friend was shouting. “Leave my wife alone or I’ll pulp that arrogant face of yours!”

  “Cinzia is an old friend,” Mantelli said calmly, “and I do what I want with my friends and with idiots like you. Read my next blog post. You’ll see. No one will buy Ferriello wines again.”

  Aldo’s fist landed on Mantelli’s jaw, throwing him back against an empty bench. Aldo lunged toward him, fist ready to hit again. Nico grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “That’s enough. You’ve made your point.”

  OneWag was barking himself hoarse.

  Aldo struggled against Nico’s hold, his eyes focused on Mantelli. “You can’t ruin me, you charlatan. You can’t tell a good wine from shit.”

  “Tell that to my thirty thousand followers.”

  “I’m warning you. Stay away from my wife!” Aldo’s words came out wet with spit.

  Mantelli leaned back on the bench as if he had always meant to sit there and slowly stroked his chin. “That’s up to Cinzia, not you.”

  Aldo’s hands curled into fists again. “Stay away or—”

  “Or what? You’ll kill me?”

  “YES!” Aldo screamed.

  Mantelli just laughed.

  Nico caught hold of Aldo’s shoulders before he could react and steered him away. “Where’s your car? I’m taking you home.”

  “No!” Aldo tried to wrestle away from his grasp. “I want to see blood on that fucking bastard.”

  Nico held on tighter. “You’ve got to calm down, Aldo. I don’t care what’s going on between the two of you. You need to get ahold of yourself.” He pushed Aldo toward his own Fiat. If he had to, he’d lock him in until he saw reason return to his friend’s eyes. “Come on now, take some deep breaths. Just a few.”

  OneWag scampered behind them, tail held high. His owner had saved the day.

  “Jesus, Nico, let go. I can walk away on my own. I’m not a child.”

  Nico held on. “That’s news to me.”

  “Mr. Ferri,” Carlotta called out. “Come inside. Have a glass of wine on the house.”

  “Thanks, Carlotta. Another time,” Aldo yelled back. He raised his arms in the air. “Peace, Nico. See, I’m fine now.” His face was no longer flushed.

  “Good.” Nico released his hold. “I’m still going to drive you home. I think the heat has gotten to you.”

  Aldo kept walking. Nico stayed beside him, aware that a small group of people, including Sandro and Jimmy, were standing outside the café, having witnessed the scene.

  “My car is in front of the newspaper shop. I’ll drive myself home.” Aldo stopped to give Nico a pat on the shoulder. “Thank you. I appreciate what you did. If you hadn’t stopped me, I think I really would’ve sent that bastard to the hospital.”

  “Always happy to help.”

  “The whole town will know about this by the evening.”

  “Not from me,” Luciana said, leaning against her doorjamb and cradling Nico’s anemones in her arms.

  Aldo ignored her and walked to his Audi a hundred feet down the road, Nico trailing behind.

&nb
sp; “If you ever need to talk,” Nico offered as Aldo unlocked the car door, “I can be silent as a tomb, as you Italians say.”

  “It’s an old story, not worth revisiting. That man may indeed have the power to ruin me. But again, thanks. See you around.”

  “Be careful, Aldo.”

  Nico watched the car drive away. If Mantelli had the power Enzo thought he did, Aldo might soon face an uphill battle to keep his vineyard open. Whatever it was, Cinzia was caught up in it. It was depressing, even terrifying, when power was in the wrong hands. Nico picked up OneWag and kissed the top of his head. “Thanks buddy. You’re a good cop.”

  The dog gave him a lick on the chin.

  Nico turned back to find Luciana walking toward him with the flowers. He took them from her. “Thank you.”

  “I worried you would forget after what Aldo did. Don’t be upset with him. Being American, you probably don’t understand Italian men’s jealousy. It eats away at their brains. I saw Cinzia with that man the other night in Radda. I’m not saying they’re more than friends, but Aldo wasn’t with them.”

  Nico frowned. He didn’t like what he was hearing. “What are you implying, Luciana?”

  “Don’t look at me that way. I’m not a gossip, and I’m not implying anything. I’m trying to explain how an Italian husband catching his wife chatting with another man could make him lose his reason for a few minutes.”

  “I see,” Nico said, not totally convinced. He had worked enough cases in New York to know that jealousy could eat at the brains of American men and women too. Murders were commonplace. “I’d better get these to Rita.”

  “Yes, it’s late. The cemetery closes at six.” Luciana reached out to hug him. This time, Nico didn’t mind. He had both OneWag and the flowers against his chest.

  On his way home from the cemetery, Nico stopped by the Ferriello office to check on Aldo. He parked the car and let out OneWag, who immediately ran in the opposite direction, to the welcome center. The double doors were wide open, all the lights on. That meant a tour group was coming for a simple Tuscan meal and Ferriello’s excellent wines, followed by a talk from Aldo about winemaking. It was an idea Cinzia had come up with after a year of poor sales. It turned out to be very successful. Tonight, Nico hoped, explaining the process of winemaking to a roomful of wide-eyed tourists would distract Aldo from the afternoon’s events.