The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

  Nico walked into the large, welcoming space with its beamed ceiling, terracotta-tiled floor and wide terrace bordered by red geraniums. “Ciao, Nico,” Cinzia said without looking up. Aldo’s wife, a pretty, petite woman just past forty, with short brown hair hugging her scalp like a cap, showed off her figure in tight white slacks and the company’s burgundy T-shirt with the orange Ferriello logo. “No reason not to please the eye as well as the palate,” she had once said after catching a guest ogling her.

  In one swift motion, she pulled out the cork of a Ferriello Riserva wine bottle, top of the line. Behind her, several Chianti Classico bottles were lined up on the counter, already open. Arben, a short, muscular Muslim man from Albania also in jeans and the Ferriello T-shirt—not quite as arresting on him—raised a hand in greeting and continued to place chairs behind two long oak tables. He had worked at the vineyard for over twenty years. As a foreigner, he had once risked his position by challenging a Tuscan fellow worker’s honesty. When he was proven right, he became Aldo’s right-hand man. Thanks to his curiosity, he had also been instrumental in solving a murder last year.

  “Buonasera to you both,” Nico said, giving Cinzia a two-cheeked kiss.

  “Buying a bottle of Riserva tonight will get you dinner with eighteen Americans,” Arben said. Eighteen was a small group; they usually had a busload of thirty or more from Florence or Siena. “There might even be a pretty woman in the lot. If you leave with her, the bottle’s on me.”

  Nico laughed. He liked Arben and his easygoing manner. “Thank you, but I’ve got plenty of Ferriello wines. Tonight I’ve been relieved of restaurant duty, so I’m staying home to test out a new idea. Where’s Aldo?”

  “He’s with our Chinese distributor, who just flew in,” Cinzia said. “He’s taking him to eat at Il Falco outside Castellina.”

  “I don’t know the place.”

  “All I know is, it’s aptly named. Their prices prey on your wallet.”

  “And Aldo is okay?”

  Cinzia looked up with puzzled expression. “Why shouldn’t he be?”

  So Aldo had said nothing to his wife. “He looked a bit tired when I saw him today.”

  “We all are.”

  “Very true. Ciao. I hope you sell lots of cases.”

  “May God hear you,” Cinzia and Arben said in chorus.

  Nico sat on his balcony with a glass of whiskey on the rocks and a late-night cigarette. He should be at peace. He’d just eaten two delicious pancetta and scamorza toasts. His vegetable garden was watered. OneWag, fed and walked, was curled up at his feet. The three swallows that had made his balcony roof a nesting home were asleep. All in all it had been a good day, aside from the Aldo-Mantelli incident in the piazza. Did Mantelli truly have the power to bankrupt Aldo? And why did he want to? What was Cinzia and Mantelli’s relationship? Friends, ex-lovers, current lovers? If Mantelli ruined Aldo’s business, he would ruin Cinzia too. None of it made sense, and it was none of his business, but Nico felt for Aldo.

  It took him a minute to hear the car. The American tourists had come and gone by now. This had to be Aldo. He leaned over the balcony to see better, to wave to him. A silly way of conveying, “Buck up, Aldo.” But the car wasn’t headed home to the vineyard. Its headlights were going up the hill road, which met the main road at the top. For a second, the streetlight shone on a blue Mini Morris, turning toward town. Cinzia’s car.

  Nico looked at his watch, an old work habit: 10:24 p.m. Where was she going? It could only be to pick up a husband too drunk to drive.

  Nico put out his cigarette, finished the few drops left in his drink and stood up. “Come on, time for bed.”

  OneWag beat him to it.

  THREE

  On Wednesday, Maresciallo Perillo walked up to his one-bedroom apartment above the station. He was looking forward to lunch. Ivana, his wife, had announced the menu at breakfast, as she did every morning—a ritual she had picked up from her mother, who had used the menu as a way to lure Ivana’s father home each night. Perillo had no desire to wander from his household, but he did like knowing what Ivana was preparing. It helped boost his spirits when work was chaotic. Today’s menu was arancini—fried rice balls stuffed with ground meat, tomato sauce and mozzarella—accompanied by sautéed escarole with capers, anchovies and olives, a Neapolitan specialty. For dessert, zabaglione with strawberries.

  Perillo went to the kitchen, a large, pleasant room with its one lace-curtained window overlooking a magnolia tree at the back of the barracks. Small framed prints of flowers hung on one white wall. A blue tablecloth covered the square table. Ivana was lifting the arancini from the oil with a slotted spoon and draining them on a paper towel. She was a short, plump, forty-one-year-old woman with a pretty doll-like face that had instantly won over Perillo. He first saw her at the fish market in Naples, selling the catch her father had brought in that morning. He was a brigadiere then, his station not far from the market. He became a daily fish buyer until the morning Ivana accepted his invitation to go on a walk together. Their walks were followed by movies, shared ice cream, then kisses. Meetings kept hidden from her parents, who wanted better than a brigadiere of the carabinieri for their daughter. Nine years later, he became maresciallo, and Ivana’s parents bowed to the inevitable. With marriage came the joy of a shared bed. Nineteen years later, he found his passion had lowered to a comfortable simmer. He still wished they had had children, but Ivana had been adamant, having lost her mother at fourteen. She had already raised five younger siblings, three brothers and two sisters in a household that barely scraped by. What she wanted from marriage was peace.

  “Here I am,” Perillo gave his wife a light kiss on her lips.

  Ivana looked surprised. “You’re in a good mood.”

  “All is quiet downstairs.” He sat down at the kitchen table.

  “No more encounters with the wine critic, then.”

  “None.” He unfolded his napkin on his lap and poured himself half a glass of red wine. “Do you really think he is handsome?”

  “Very.” She dropped two arancini on his plate and placed the bowl of escarole on the table.

  “What about me?”

  Ivana served herself and sat down. “You’re my husband, and I love you. You don’t need to be handsome.”

  “Well, that makes me feel just wonderful.” Sometimes he wished his wife weren’t so honest.

  Ivana leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Stop being silly and eat.”

  Perillo tasted his first arancino, closing his eyes to help him concentrate on the flavors. “Holy heaven, you have the Midas touch in the kitchen.”

  “That’s why you married me.” During their long courtship, she would leave carefully wrapped bundles of food for him at the carabinieri station. She was cooking for the poor, she’d told her father.

  “Your cooking was only one of the reasons.” The food bundles had made him the butt of jokes at the barracks until he began to share her wonderful food.

  He blew her a kiss. As he put the rest of the rice ball in his mouth, the first notes of “O Sole Mio” rang out.

  Ivana didn’t bother to sigh. She was by now used to their meals being interrupted. She only hoped it would be a brief interruption. Rice balls just didn’t taste the same reheated.

  Perillo swiped his finger across his cell phone.

  At Sotto Il Fico, the terrace was full of lunch guests despite the heat. Enzo and Alba had taken over Nico’s waiter duties. Elvira greeted clients with a smile and offered menus as they passed her armchair on the way out to the terrace. Nico was happily busy in the kitchen, despite the heat from the oven. Tilde had approved his scamorza toasts idea only if he made them. Small cubes of pancetta were sizzling in a thin layer of oil beside piles of scamorza slices in a bowl. Nico was cutting bread when Alba popped her head in.

  “Maresciallo Perillo wants to know if you can ta
lk to him.”

  “I can’t now. I’ll call him later.”

  Orders for the toast kept coming in, and Tilde had to jump in and help. “Tomorrow, I’ll get Alba to prepare them in the morning,” she said. “Then we can just toast them as the orders come in.”

  “I’ll be here early, then.”

  “No, Nico. Alba gets paid. You don’t.”

  It was a sore point between them. This year, Tilde said there was enough money to pay him; she insisted he accept. He said no. He didn’t need it, nor did he want it. Not from them. They were family. He explained to Tilde that if she paid him, his work would become a duty. He wanted it to remain fun, and to have the freedom to take the occasional day off. Tilde and Enzo reluctantly accepted. Elvira declared him a “sensible man.” Luckily, he didn’t need their money. He had his NYPD pension and the life insurance money Rita hadn’t told him about until she was dying.

  “Any news from Stella?” he asked. Tilde and Enzo’s daughter was working as a guard at the Duomo Museum in Florence.

  “She’s coming home. They gave her the weekend off. She said she has news.”

  “What news?”

  “She won’t tell me. I suppose we’ll just have to wait.”

  At 3:10, the last toast left the kitchen. Tilde took out a clean dishcloth, wet it under the faucet and wiped Nico’s face. “Thank you and keep the ideas coming. I promise I won’t insist you cook them all.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Nico took off his apron and the cap Tilde had insisted he wear. “I’m off now. See you tonight.”

  “You don’t have to come.”

  “Of course I do. The place would fall apart without me.”

  Tilde laughed.

  After a quick espresso at the bar with Enzo, Nico walked out of the restaurant. The street was empty. Shutters were closed to protect against the heat. It was also nap time. He looked forward to a long shower. Nico whistled for OneWag, who came running down the church steps. The dog planted his front paws on Nico’s knees, reaching his maximum height.

  “Good to see you’re still in one piece.” OneWag was still a street dog at heart. He had instantly let Nico know how he felt about being left alone at home by shredding both bed pillows and chewing a large hole in one of Nico’s newest running shoes. Nico ceded defeat, and now whenever he was working, he let the dog wander the streets of the town. OneWag had also refused the leash. However, in a bout of generosity toward the man who’d taken him in, he had accepted a collar with an ID medallion.

  Nico picked the dog up and reached for his cell phone.

  “Sorry. I was stuck making toast until now.”

  “Have you got time to look at something?”

  “Now? I was thinking of taking a nice long shower.”

  “I think you will find this interesting.” Perillo sounded almost smug.

  Something was up. His shower would have to wait. “Are you at the station?”

  “No. Drive to the north end of Greve and take the road up to Montefioralle. It’ll be on your left. It’s a medieval hamlet above Greve.”

  “I’ve been there. It’s very pretty, and supposedly the birthplace of Amerigo Vespucci.”

  “I’d emphasize ‘supposedly.’ You’ll find me about five kilometers before the hamlet.”

  Nico’s Fiat 500 struggled up the steep, narrow road with its many S curves. Almost all Chianti roads swerved either uphill or downhill. As Nico entered yet another turn, a small opening in the wall of trees that edged the road revealed what looked like a boom hovering in the air. Was he headed to a construction site?

  After another curve, the left edge of the road opened up, the trees gone. Fifty meters in, a barrier shut off that side of the road. A carabiniere waved him down. “It’s only one way for the next two kilometers, Signore. You can go, but take it slowly. No stopping.”

  Nico stuck his head out. “Nico Doyle.” He knew Vince, one of Perillo’s best men. He never stopped eating, saying he needed to keep his blood pressure up. “Maresciallo Perillo is expecting me.”

  Vince moved in closer. “Ah, excuse me, Signor Doyle. I didn’t recognize you. Your windshield could use a little cleaning.”

  “Very true.” Though the dirty windshield hadn’t prevented him from seeing the crane truck with its boom lowered, the tow truck next to it and the ambulance with its back doors wide open. “Where should I park?”

  “Just ahead, next to the Alfa. Close to the edge, though. You’ll find the maresciallo further up. Terrible accident.”

  Nico parked the car and peered at the sheer drop just inches from the edge of the road. He slid over to the passenger seat to get out, a knot forming in his stomach. Someone had met a bad end down there. Someone he knew. Why else would Perillo call him here?

  “Don’t go far,” Nico said to OneWag and hurried to where Perillo was standing near the crane. He was in his usual jeans, suede boots, and a gray shirt.

  “Ah, Nico, there you are.” Behind him, Daniele Donato, Perillo’s brigadiere, acknowledged Nico with a nod. He looked upset, either because of the heat or because, after only two years on the job, he hadn’t developed the thick skin necessary to deal with death.

  Nico nodded back. “Who is it?”

  “We don’t know for sure yet. We’re having great difficulties getting the passenger out in one piece. The top of the car has smashed him in.”

  Nico looked down the slope. The overturned car had plunged at least sixty feet down a slope covered in big sharp rocks, thin trees, bushes. Its descent was marked by broken branches, overturned rocks. It must have been going at an incredible speed. The drop was so steep, four men and two stretchers had needed the help of ropes latched onto the crane to lower them down.

  “How many in the car?” Nico asked.

  “Only one, we think.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Two men were hooking the back fender of the car to the crane’s boom. A man shouted up to the crane driver, and slowly the rear of the car rose. A big car, bigger than any his friends drove. Nico felt the knot in his stomach loosen. He looked back to check on his dog. OneWag was close, sniffing the spot where the car had gone over.

  “Why did you want me here?”

  “There’s a very strong probability it’s someone you know,” Perillo said. “I thought you’d be interested.”

  “Stop playing games, Perillo,” Nico said. Though his friend, the man could be annoyingly cagey at times.

  “You’re right, I am playing games. In my defense, I’ll say that everyone has their own way of dealing with gruesome incidents. I also forget that you’re used to American directness. I will comply. Dino, who has been down there for two hours with the emergency service and was wise enough to take his cell phone with him, informed me he found the car’s hood ornament on his way down. A sleek metal Jaguar. Now that they’ve lifted the car, you can see its color.”

  Nico saw a strip of white metal. “Mantelli?”

  “He didn’t strike me as having the generosity of spirit to lend his car to someone else, so yes, I would say the person in the car is Mantelli. Unless another white Jaguar happened to be racing by and lost control. I would also say the man is dead. But until we’ve extracted him, I cannot be certain.”

  “Whoever it is, he must have been drunk,” Daniele said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. There was no shade where they stood.

  Perillo gave his brigadiere a disapproving look. Daniele quickly stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket and pulled at his shirt. Perillo’s shirt was perfectly dry. He seemed not to suffer in the heat.

  “What makes you say so?” Nico asked to give Daniele back his moment. He’d already noticed the swerving tire tracks.

  Daniele pointed to the road leading up to where the car flew off the edge. “Those tracks. I took photographs.”

  “Daniele is indispensable. A
n expert in computers and photography,” Perillo said.

  Daniele blushed, unsure if he was being complimented or made fun of. The Daniele Bloom, as Perillo called it, happened often.

  “I meant it, Dani.” Perillo said.

  The bloom intensified.

  Perillo winked at Nico. “Anyway, whether alcohol, aneurism, stroke or heart attack, the autopsy will tell us.”

  OneWag barked. Below, someone had begun shouting. The dog and the three men leaned over to look. Dino raised his arm, index finger up.

  “Just one victim,” Perillo said. “May the sky be praised.” Daniele crossed himself.

  The body was slowly being lifted out of the car. Nico saw legs dressed in white trousers. What came next was covered in blood. He turned away. “I still don’t understand why you wanted me here.”

  “Because yesterday, from what I heard, you were a good friend to Aldo. You can be the first one to give him the good news.”

  “So you were sure it was Mantelli when you called me?”

  “Yes, but as a man who upholds the law, I’m supposed to wait for concrete evidence. I have always preferred intuition and a quick assessment of the scene, which luckily has not made my superiors demand my immediate retirement.”

  Nico forced himself not to show surprise. Perillo had just made an unsubtle reference to how Nico had lost his job as a homicide detective back in New York, but this wasn’t the time to ask him how he knew. “I saw Mantelli yesterday at Sotto Il Fico. He had a young woman with him.” Her sad, beautiful face came back to Nico. Would Mantelli’s death bring more sadness or relief for her?

  “Her name?”

  “Loredana. I don’t know the last name. She’s much younger than Mantelli.”