The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

  “He’s divorcing his wife,” Daniele said, always happy to impart news the maresciallo might not know. “It’s making all the women’s magazines.”

  Perillo turned to look at the young man he was quite fond of and loved to tease. “You read women’s magazines?”

  Daniele’s cheeks reddened, as expected. “My mother does. I mentioned I’d met Mantelli at the station when I called her last night. She said he deserves to be locked up for good. She followed the whole story and thinks he’s a cruel monster.”

  Perillo looked down at Mantelli, strapped to the gurney slowly making its way up the ravine. “He got what he deserved, then.” He was being callous, but he couldn’t control the dislike he had for this man, even now that he was dead. Mantelli’s arrogance and sense of entitlement made him sick to his stomach. He was good at spotting people like this just by looking at them. They had a different way of walking, as if the air parted before them. When he’d been a kid living on the streets of Pozzuoli, his fingers would start itching as soon as he spotted them. He’d been an expert at unloading whatever was in their pockets.

  Perillo turned to Nico. “Thanks for coming up here. Go take your shower, and don’t forget to talk to Aldo.”

  “I won’t.” Nico started walking back to his car with OneWag at his heels.

  “I will be at your place for dinner tomorrow night,” Perillo called out.

  Nico turned his head around. “Good. Bring Daniele and your wife.”

  “Thank you,” Daniele said, hoping Nico heard him. As a child, he hadn’t been allowed to be loud, and at twenty, he still found it difficult.

  “My wife won’t give you any of her recipes.”

  “I won’t ask,” Nico answered, laughing. “I just want you to stop hiding her.”

  The Ferriello office was empty. Nico walked next door. Most of the space was a vast open work area where the bottles were labeled and packaged. All the wine was made below ground, left to ripen in steel casks and stored in wooden barrels for however long each wine needed.

  Nico found Arben lifting a pallet of wine cases with a forklift. “Hi, Arben. Where is Aldo?”

  “He’s downstairs with the Chinese wine distributor, checking on the 2017 vintage.”

  The Mantelli news would have to wait. “When you see him, please tell him I need to talk to him. I’ll be home for another hour, or he can call me at Sotto Il Fico after six.” It would be useless to call his cell phone. There was no reception below ground.

  “It will be done,” Arben said with a wave.

  As Nico got in the car, his phone pinged. The text read: it’s mantelli.

  “Wait,” Cinzia called out as Nico was turning the car around. She was coming from her and Aldo’s home, a small apricot-colored building that dated back to the 1850s. Practically new in Italy, Nico had thought when he’d found out the date.

  Nico and OneWag got out of the car. “Ciao, Cinzia.” The dog greeted her with his single wag, then sat, looking up at her expectantly. She was wearing an apron and smelled of sausages and beans and a hint of sage.

  “Oh, Nico, I can’t thank you enough. Aldo told me what happened. You’re a wonderful friend and a lifesaver. Aldo has gone crazy for no reason at all.”

  “Mantelli threatened to ruin him.”

  “Michele didn’t mean it. It was just a nasty joke. He’s an old friend from my university days in Rome and a bit jealous of our marriage. Come back for dinner tonight. Please.”

  If Mantelli was a friend, she had a right to know. “Cinzia, I’m sorry—”

  “I’m offering rigatoni with sausages and mushrooms. You’ll like it.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mantelli is dead.”

  Her face lost all expression, as if an eraser had been rubbed over it. “No, he isn’t,” she said. “It’s not possible.”

  “I’m afraid he is. Perillo just confirmed it.”

  She didn’t even blink. “How?” she asked.

  “He lost control of his car on the road from Montefioralle to Greve and plunged down a ravine.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes. I was at the scene.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “You saw him?”

  “Not enough to recognize him.”

  “Perillo is sure?”

  “Yes.”

  It took her a few seconds to form the next phrase. A soft release of breath, followed by, “An accident, then.”

  “No reason to think it was anything but an accident.”

  Her face came to life. “No reason at all. How awful. He was an excellent driver, but always a speed demon.”

  “Perillo wants me to tell Aldo.”

  She let out a loud sigh. “That means he knows about yesterday’s stupid fight. Of course. The whole town knows. Well, it’s over with now. Don’t worry, I’ll tell Aldo. Your dinner invitation still stands.”

  “I’m on restaurant duty tonight.”

  “Then come afterward for cantucci and our sweet wine. Or a brandy. Please.” Her eyes were brimming with tears. Relief or sadness? Nico wondered.

  “Thank you. I’ll try to come by if it’s not too late. I’ll let you know.”

  Vince was sitting at the front desk when Perillo and Daniele walked into the Greve carabinieri station. “Was your hunch right?” he asked, as he slipped his focaccia sandwich into a drawer.

  “Michele Mantelli is now on his way to the medical examiner in Florence.” Perillo saw a crumb nestled at the corner of Vince’s lips. “What is it this time? Let me guess: boar salame and provolone. Am I correct again?”

  Vince’s shoulders slumped. “Yes. How do you do it?’’

  Perillo gave his nose a couple of taps and proceeded down the corridor to his office.

  Daniele had gone ahead and was already clicking at the keys of his computer. In the corner, a large fan whipped hot air.

  “Good, Dani,” Perillo said, seeing the brigadiere at his favorite post. “You know what I need.” He went to the corner and moved the fan closer to Dani. “Mantelli’s wife’s telephone number and any other relatives he may have, in case she refuses to identify him.”

  “Her name’s Diane Severson,” Daniele said. “It says here she’s American, from Boston. She’s a successful textile designer, much loved by Giorgio Armani, Prada and the other Italian fashion greats. They have a fifteen-year old son, Paolo, whom Mantelli falsely tried to claim isn’t his.” Daniele wiped his forehead with his hand and continued to read. “Signora Severson still lives in the Milan villa she shared with her husband in Via Poma. According to her lawyer, Mantelli does not.”

  “Never mind. Where are you getting this stuff from?”

  “An article in La Voce della Donna, the magazine my mother always reads. It’s full of helpful information.” He turned to look at his boss and saw the disbelief on his face. “Accurate information.”

  Perillo shook his head. He’d often been tempted to buy Daniele a pair of symbolic scissors to help him cut his mother’s apron strings. What always stopped him was that his own mother had preferred men to her son. He wondered if he was just jealous.

  “Does this magazine have Signora Severson’s phone number, then?”

  Daniele jotted something down on a sticky notepad, peeled the sheet off and walked over to Perillo’s desk. “The number is on her website. She works from home.”

  Perillo snapped it from him and reached for the house phone. Daniele’s perplexed expression stopped him. “What?”

  “You might want to know something about Signora Severson before giving her the news.” Daniele straightened his back to give himself courage. “You can be, if you will forgive me, Maresciallo, a bit blunt in conveying delicate information.”

  Daniele was right. Anxiety made Perillo this way. He wanted the bad news quickly over with. “Perhaps I am at times. This is certainly
delicate information, although I suspect this signora will jump for joy. She gets to keep it all.” Perillo lifted the receiver.

  “Except the husband, whom she may still love.”

  “Of course.” Daniele Donato, Venetian brigadiere, was romantic to a fault, but also intelligent and dedicated. Perillo was lucky to have him.

  Perillo dialed the number in Milan Daniele had given him. A woman’s heavily accented voice answered. He slowly explained who he was and asked for Signora Severson.

  “No here. Call cellular.” She rattled off a number Perillo didn’t catch.

  “Signora, one moment please.” He handed the phone over to Daniele, who asked for the phone number in soft Italian. Perillo watched him write it down quickly.

  “Good job, Dani.”

  “Our next door neighbors in Venice are from the Philippines.”

  “What would I do without you?” As he dialed the number, Perillo made sure not to look at his brigadiere’s face to save the young man embarrassment.

  “Hello. Am I speaking to Signora Severson, the wife of Michele Mantelli?”

  “Soon to be ex-wife,” she said lightly, and without a hint of an accent, to Perillo’s great relief. “Who is this?”

  Perillo introduced himself.

  “If this is about Michele and his damn car, it’s no longer my business; he’s made sure of that. If he’s parked it in some impossible place, I suggest you tow it and dump it somewhere he’ll never find.”

  “That is not the reason I called, Signora. I’m afraid I have sad news.” Perillo told her about the accident, then waited for her to say something. When nothing came but the sound of her breath, he added, “He will be autopsied in Florence to ascertain what caused the accident. I’m afraid I don’t know how long that will take. We do need positive identification. Are you in Milan?”

  “No, I’m in Castellina at the Squarcialupi Hotel. Do I have to go to Florence to identify him?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I was hoping a photograph would be enough.”

  “If you come to the Greve station, we can show you a photograph of his face, but it won’t be enough.” Surprisingly, there had been little damage to the handsome face. The rest of Mantelli was a mangled mess.

  “Thank you, Maresciallo. I have no wish to see him in the flesh, even if he’s dead, but I will comply.” Her voice was soft and steady. She could have been talking about rejecting a fabric. “Where do I have to go?”

  “His body is at the Legal-Medical Institute at the University of Florence. If you have time, there are a few questions I need to ask you, relating to the accident. When you feel up to it, of course.”

  “Tomorrow morning. I just need some time to process this.” There was no break in her voice. If she needed to grieve or exult, he couldn’t tell from her voice.

  “Is your son with you?”

  “No, I’m glad to say. He’s in Australia, scuba diving with friends. I won’t ruin his vacation. He would feel duty-bound to come back. What for? We were no longer a family of three. Buonasera, Maresciallo. I’ll be there tomorrow morning at nine.” She clicked off.

  Perillo sat back in his chair. Signora Severson had taken the delicate information very well. He should be relieved, and yet her calm bothered him.

  “What questions are you going to ask her?” Daniele asked.

  “I’ll think of something. Her response to her husband’s death has piqued my curiosity. Now I want to meet her.”

  Behind Perillo’s back, Daniele shook his head in disbelief. Despite his formidable skill set, the maresciallo could have a poor ear for people’s feelings.

  “I think it’s time for an espresso, Dani.” And a cigarette. “Coming?”

  Daniele stood up and reached for his jacket. The café next door was air-conditioned. “Yes, Maresciallo.”

  “Leave the jacket, and it’s Salvatore. On my birth certificate, the name Maresciallo does not appear.”

  “Yes, Salvatore.” Daniele took the jacket with him. He didn’t want to catch a cold.

  Vince at the front desk held up a receiver when Perillo and Daniele came back from their coffee break. “The substitute prosecutor just called. I told him you were out on an emergency call. He wants you to call him back. He says it’s urgent.”

  “Which prosecutor?” Perillo asked, sensing that the good feeling that the espresso and cigarette had given him wasn’t going to last long. All prosecutors enjoyed making his work difficult.

  Vince nodded solemnly. “Him.”

  “Della Langhe!” The worst of them all. An arrogant aristocrat who looked down on anyone born south of Florence. “What in the devil does he want?” Della Langhe had driven him crazy during last year’s murder case.

  “He hung up before I could ask.”

  “Do you want me to call him?” Daniele asked, always wanting to help ward off his boss’s bad moods. “You’re still taking care of that emergency.”

  Perillo’s dark look vanished. “And should he ask what emergency?”

  “You’re chasing a thief.” Although he hated lies, sometimes small ones were necessary for the good of the station.

  “Excellent.” Perillo walked out of the station for a second cigarette.

  “Who am I speaking with?” Della Langhe asked on the other end of the phone.

  Daniele introduced himself.

  “Ah, yes, the Venetian brigadiere. You come from a very beautiful city. I don’t know why you would want to leave it. You are a good man, I hear from my assistant.”

  Daniele was grateful Della Langhe couldn’t see the red glow on his face. “Thank you. Barbara is too kind.” She really was wonderful. Last year, Perillo had tried desperately to deal only with her.

  “I’m pleased to be speaking with you,” Della Langhe said. “Now, to the urgent matters of Michele Mantelli’s tragic death.”

  “Very sad, indeed.” How did he find out so quickly, Daniele wondered?

  “His wife is a very good friend of my wife’s, and she’s concerned how much time will lapse before the results of the autopsy come out. The longer it takes, the more tongues will wag. Mantelli and Diane were going through a bitter divorce. Most people are stupid and will think the unthinkable about Diane. She’s a very successful woman, a star in fashion. People, as I am certain you know even at your young age, are envious. I want the possibility of any ugly rumors squashed immediately.”

  “That she killed him?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But it was an accident.”

  “Of course, but unkind people will raise doubts after all the press their divorce received. I’ve ordered the medical examiner to move Mantelli’s autopsy to the top of the list. We could know the results as quickly as tomorrow. I want Perillo—and you, of course—to handle this accident with efficiency and velvet gloves. And again, you are to end any rumors at once. I will not have my wife’s friend’s reputation sullied.”

  “We will do our best.”

  “I’m certain you will, young man.” Della Langhe clicked off.

  Daniele put down the phone. He had no idea how one stopped rumors from spreading. At least they would have the autopsy results quickly and could move on to other problems.

  A smell of cigarettes preceded his boss. “What did he want?” Perillo asked as he walked in.

  Daniele took a step back. “We might get the autopsy results by tomorrow. Signora Severson is his wife’s friend.”

  Perillo shook his head and sat down at his desk. “What is so urgent about that? The members of that crowd are always kissing each other’s asses.”

  “Even though he knows it was an accident, he wants us to stop any rumors that suggest Signora Severson killed him.”

  Perillo slapped his forehead. “Holy heaven and all the saints! That’s a first.”

  FOUR

  T
hursday morning brought another hot, cloudless day. Because of the relentless sun, Nico had started watering the vegetable garden at night. After his usual breakfast with Gogol, Nico had rushed home and changed into gardening clothes to prepare another row at the far end of the garden for zucchini and eggplants. He hammered a wooden stake at each end and tied a rope from one to the other to form a straight line. The rest of the garden was doing well. The escarole was ready to pick, along with some broccoli and spinach. It was too soon for the tomatoes, although thanks to the heat, they were growing quickly. As Nico worked, OneWag watched from a corner bush covered in red roses. A sputtering noise made him turn toward the dirt road that led to the house. Two seconds later the dog ran toward the noise, barking a greeting.

  Nico looked up.

  The sputtering noise stopped, and Nelli appeared from behind a corner of the house with OneWag in her arms, nuzzling her face. “Ciao, Nico. I hope I’m not disturbing.”

  Nico stood up quickly, embarrassed by his appearance: a torn T-shirt, plus shorts that were overdue for a wash and showed off wrinkled knees. “No. I was just—” He bent down to wipe the dirt from his knees. “Getting ready to plant some more vegetables.”

  His embarrassment made Nelli smile. Maybe she did mean something to him after all. She hoped so. During the winter, she had invited him to dinner at her home. The evening had been awkward, but luckily, OneWag had made up for Nico’s . . . what was it? Embarrassment? Fear that she expected more than he could give? Well, she didn’t expect more. That was too demanding. She did hope for more, though. After that dinner, she had backed off, meeting him casually at the café to exchange daily news. She talked about running the art center, the exhibitions of local talent, her own paintings, her work at a neighboring vineyard, and in turn, Nico would talk about the restaurant, his dog, the crazy state of Italian politics. Sometimes he would mention his life back in America, rarely mentioning Rita, his late wife.

  “You should show off your knees more. They’re cute.” All right, so she was flirting a bit. No harm in it.

  Nico wiped his hands on his shorts and came out of the garden. He had first noticed Nelli last September at Jimmy and Sandro’s café and had been drawn in by her serene face, the long graying blond braid hanging down her back, her paint-splattered clothes. Later she had opened up to him, giving him information that had helped solve the murder case.