“I didn’t know you were such a good liar.”
Nelli put down OneWag, who stayed by her feet. “It got you out of the garden, didn’t it?”
He looked at her pale-blue teasing eyes and felt the usual flutter in his stomach. “It’s good to see you. You haven’t been at Bar All’Angolo lately.”
“You only go there in the morning. I usually go after lunch.” Seeing less of Nico had allowed her to make peace with only friendship between them. “How’s Gogol?”
“Still in his overcoat, still cologned to the maximum, but he seems happy.”
“Tourist season is starting. He’ll soon have an audience for his Dante quotes. I really owe him a visit. I’ve been busy painting for another exhibit.” Nelli was one of two people Gogol accepted as a good friend. Nico was the other. “Go back to your garden. We can talk while you work.”
“Sure.” He walked back and picked up a spade. Nelli watched from outside the wooden fence he had finally put up in the winter. “Anything specific on your mind?” He was being rude, but he was bad at small talk and worse at anything personal.
“I heard you were at the site where Mantelli died.”
“I was. Who told you that?”
“Zio Peppino. He works for Mantelli at his villa, mostly takes care of the garden. He’s not really my uncle, just a good friend of my father’s, but I grew up calling him Zio. He’s the one who called it in to the Greve station.”
“He saw it happen?”
“No. He saw Mantelli leave home around nine in the morning. He wasn’t walking a straight line. Maybe Mantelli was an alcoholic. Anyway, Zio Peppino didn’t see the smashed-up Jaguar until just after one. He was on his way to the Coop in Greve.”
“How did he know I was at the site of the accident?”
“You were involved in a murder case last year. It put you on the map for all of Gravigna’s wagging tongues. Someone saw you. Zio Peppino found out and knows we’re friends, so he told me.”
Nico continued digging up earth, following the rope’s straight line. He was picking up a comfortable rhythm. Either the ground was surprisingly soft, or he was getting stronger in his old age. Working made Nelli’s presence easier. Nico would be fifty-nine in October. Nelli looked like she was somewhere in her early forties. Almost two decades younger.
“The car was pretty far down,” he said. “The only way you could see it was if you stood at the edge of the road.”
“Zio Peppino only saw it because he needed to pee. Maybe if someone had seen the car earlier, Mantelli would still be alive.”
“I doubt it, Nelli.” Nico straightened up. The row was tilled. He’d wait to put the plants in tomorrow. His back was beginning to ache. Nico wiped his hands on his shorts again. “How about a coffee?”
Nelli put on a smile. She would love to sit with him on the balcony, which she could see from where she stood. To sit and share something, even just a glass of water, but it would only feed the dreams she was trying hard to set aside. Nico was still very much married to Rita. “Thank you, but I have to get back to the studio.”
To his surprise, Nico found himself disappointed. “Well, I guess I’d better get cleaned up. I’m due at the restaurant in an hour. You should come eat there one night. As my guest.”
Nelli’s smile was real this time. “Yes, I’d like that.” She raised her hand. “See you.”
“Yes, soon.”
OneWag followed Nelli to her Vespa and watched her sputter away. These two-legged animals made no sense.
Both Perillo and Daniele stood up when Diane Severson walked into the office. “Buongiorno,” they said in unison. Diane smiled in response.
Perillo studied her as she approached. She had a model’s height and thinness and wore wide slacks, the navy fabric covered in bold strokes of red, with a boat-necked white knit top. She took long, graceful steps toward his desk.
If she was a friend of Prosecutor Della Langhe’s wife, he needed to tread softly, as Daniele had reminded him earlier. To his surprise, Diane Severson had a plain, wide face, with a strong jaw and equally strong cheekbones. Full lips and big, light-brown eyes that didn’t look as if they had shed a tear. No makeup. Pale-blond straight hair cut at a sloping angle just above her shoulder. Long bangs covered half her high forehead. Her only jewelry was a thick silver coil on her left thumb. He’d thought Mantelli would have only married a beauty.
They shook hands. Hers was cool despite the heat.
She turned to Daniele, her hand still outstretched. “And you are?”
He stood to attention with instantly red cheeks. “Brigadiere Daniele Donato, Signora.”
“Diane, please.” She shook his hand and folded herself into the chair in front of Perillo’s desk. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, although the reason is not a pleasure. I’ve done as you asked and identified my husband. They only showed me his face. He’d be pleased to know he still looks good.” She sat very straight, her long hands folded in her lap. “Perhaps you expect me to be, if not happy, at least relieved that Michele is dead. I admit it will make my life simpler.” From the back end of the room, the large fan oscillated, making her hair sway to its rhythm.
“I can move that,” Perillo offered.
She smiled. “No need.”
“I have to thank you for letting Prosecutor Della Langhe and his wife know about your husband’s fatal accident.”
“I actually called Signora Della Langhe to explain why I couldn’t bring the fabric samples she wanted. Our appointment with her decorator was this morning in Florence. She’s redoing her living room. Why are you thanking me?”
“We will get the results of the autopsy much more quickly now. Perhaps even this afternoon.”
“I see. Can I see the photograph of my husband?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course. Daniele?”
Daniele handed over the five-by-six he had printed out last night. He had Photoshopped it to remove the blood that had flowed from the back of Mantelli’s head.
Diane placed the photo on her lap and looked down, as if she didn’t want them to see which feelings appeared in her eyes. “They did a good job of fixing his face. He wouldn’t have liked this photo.”
Daniele noticed the slash of red fabric on her slacks jutting out from behind the photo and closed his eyes. Yesterday, at the sight of the mangled body, he had lost his lunch. “I took it at the scene of the accident.”
Several minutes of silence passed before Diane looked up, her face expressionless. “I’m sorry. I was replaying the reel of our life together, both the good and bad.”
“I hope there was much good in it,” Perillo said, admiring her strength. He was used to tears, wails, anger.
“My son is the only good.” Diane placed the photo facedown on Perillo’s desk. “What pushed him off the road? Michele was an excellent driver.”
“It wasn’t another car. The only tracks are his. The swerves started twenty meters before he drove off the edge. It’s possible he still had too much alcohol in his system or—”
“What time did it happen?”
“The gardener saw him drive off at nine yesterday morning. He said your husband didn’t look steady on his feet.” Nico had called last night to relay Nelli’s information.
“Even if Peppino had seen him drive off at night,” Diane said, “Michele wouldn’t have been drunk. He was diagnosed with gout last year. No more drinking wine. Luckily, he could still do tastings—all they do is swirl the wine around in their mouths and spit it out. The only alcohol he could drink was one glass of whiskey a day. You can’t get drunk on that.”
Perillo raised his hands in the air. “A stroke. A heart attack.”
“His cardiologist—Michele was a hypochondriac and went to all the specialists—his cardiologist gave him a clean bill of health just last month. Michele sweetly sent me the report with
a note saying, ‘Just in case you’re hoping I’ll drop dead.’”
Daniele sucked in his breath.
“I know, it sounds cruel,” Diane said to Daniele. “Michele was like a child, always trying to get attention. Since he had given up trying to get it by loving me, he tried cruelty. Was he alone?”
“Yes,” Perillo said. “May heaven be praised.”
“I agree. He has a young girlfriend. Had. She’s far too young to die.”
“We will have to give her the sad news. Do you know her name?”
Daniele, now seated at his desk behind the maresciallo, picked up his pen.
“She already knows. I called her after your phone call yesterday. Michele’s gardener had already told her.”
“Her name is?”
“Loredana Cardi. You can find her at Il Glicine, a B&B in Montefioralle. Poor thing, she was under the delusion he was going to marry her.” Diane leaned forward. “I mean it. I feel for her.” She had tried to warn Loredana that Michele made it a habit of picking up pretty young things—that he collected them as he collected wine. “What money she has is what Michele gave her. He loved to feel magnanimous by giving monetary gifts to his girlfriends. Sometimes even me. Thank God I have my own career.” But as it turned out, he couldn’t have given her much. “Michele is practically broke. My lawyer says it’s a common ploy when a man wants a divorce. He planned ahead and started using my money to woo her. When I found out what he was up to, I put my foot down and started a fight that unfortunately made all those dumb magazines.”
“They’re not all dumb,” Daniele said, feeling his mother had just been insulted.
Diane saw she had upset this nice young man. “You’re right. It’s just that I wished they’d left us some privacy, at least for my son’s sake.” She turned to Perillo. “Did you ask me to come here just so I could give Loredana’s name? That could have been done by phone.”
She was right. “I apologize, Signora Severson. You are correct. I should have just called. My curiosity to meet you got the better of me.”
Diane got up from her chair. Perillo and Daniele also stood. “Well, I hope I’ve met your expectations.”
Perillo smiled. What could he say? She’d surprised him. “You’ve surpassed them, Signora.”
“Italian gallantry,” Diane said, laughing, and walked out.
At Sotto Il Fico, lunch service had ended. The kitchen was clean, the dishwasher was on its fourth run and the tables had been cleared and wiped. Enzo had taken his mother home for her siesta. Alba had gone to her husband. Tilde and Nico sat at their usual corner table at the very edge of the terrace, enjoying a small glass of vinsanto and the cantuccini that Alba had made. It was a ritual they tried to repeat as often as possible, usually at the end of the work day, but tonight Nico had dinner guests. Today it was after lunch, just the two of them with the memory of Rita sitting between them.
“Why did Salvatore call you to the scene of the accident?” Tilde asked, dipping her cantuccino in the sweet wine.
“He wanted me to let Aldo know.”
“I heard about him punching Mantelli. Elvira clapped when one of the diners told her. Mantelli wasn’t a pleasant man. So full of himself. Not that I should be speaking ill of the dead. He really put down Aldo’s wines. That has something to do with Cinzia, doesn’t it? Alba said she recently saw Cinzia arguing with Mantelli in that fancy car of his.”
This news made Nico uncomfortable. Luciana had seen the two of them together earlier, and now Alba. Arguing this time. The florist had implied something different. “When was that?”
“Monday night. The white Jaguar caught Alba’s eye. She’d never seen one. Then she heard a woman’s voice and recognized Cinzia.” She bit into the wine-soaked cantuccio, filled with almonds. “These are delicious. We should package them for sale.”
Nico followed her example. “The best I’ve had so far.”
“Cantucci di Alba. Wonderful idea, but we’d have to find another kitchen to make them and with Stella in Florence, I can’t spare Alba or you.”
“I don’t see myself as a biscotti maker.”
“We call them cantuccini, Nico. Biscotti is equivalent to your biscuit.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the corrections.”
“You rarely need them. Rita did a good job teaching you Italian.”
“I’ll raise a glass to that.”
“And to her.”
They clinked glasses and drank.
Nico leaned back in his chair and watched the play of light on the distant vineyards. Thick pillows of clouds had appeared, dropping shifting splashes of shade on the vineyards. “How does Alba know Cinzia?”
“Everyone knows everyone in this town. It isn’t New York. There are only seven hundred of us, tourists excluded. We’re a big family, and mostly a happy one. Of course an argument in the piazza between well-known men gets noticed and quickly relayed. No one is saying anything nasty about Aldo. He’s very well-liked.”
“You know everything that was said?”
“Yes. Mantelli told Aldo his next blog post was going to ruin Ferriello Wines. That’s when Aldo rightfully punched him. Did Mantelli really think he could destroy a man’s livelihood? He wasn’t very well-liked here in Chianti. He went to all the restaurants, telling the owners what wines they should offer, what wines weren’t up to his standards. You saw that yourself here yesterday. Don’t tell her this, but for once I agree with Elvira.”
“She certainly didn’t take to him,” Nico said, breaking the last cantuccino in half and spilling crumbs all over the table. “I was curious and looked up Mantelli. He had quite a social media following and was considered an excellent wine critic. I found an article in ChiantiSette talking about a vineyard Mantelli praised in one of his blogs, ColleVerde. That’s the wine he wanted Enzo to buy. According to the article, ColleVerde sales went up almost 50 percent. That means he had real power.”
“Now that he’s dead, then, Aldo will have a good night’s sleep.”
“Yes, I think he will.” And Cinzia—would she sleep well too?
Nico had spotted the old stone farmhouse on one of his runs a few weeks after he had moved to Gravigna and fallen in love with the crumbling place. It hadn’t taken him too long to convince Aldo to rent the place to him at a price he could afford. The ground floor, where the animals had once slept, was now filled with Aldo’s old wine barrels. The second floor, which the Italians considered the first floor, was made up of a bedroom, a small bathroom, and a wide front room with a wood stove, a small corner kitchen and windows on each side. Best of all was the balcony overlooking Aldo’s olive grove. During the house’s empty years, the balcony’s ceiling beams had become a nesting and sleeping place for swallows. To Nico’s great satisfaction, after a great deal of fluttering back and forth, three swallows had accepted his intrusion. They had made him feel less lonely.
At eight in the evening, the sky was still light, but the heat had let up a little. All the windows and the balcony door were open to let the air circulate. The three of them could eat on the small table outside tonight, since Perillo’s wife wasn’t feeling well. Nico, in khakis, a short-sleeved polo and an I Love Tuscany apron Rita had bought him as a joke, checked the ingredients for dinner, which were neatly laid out in small bowls on the kitchen counter. Everything already measured, chopped and cut, made cooking Rita’s Summer Tuscan Risotto easier. It was his first time trying out her recipe. He’d taped the wrinkled piece of paper on the cabinet door where he could easily see it. Tilde had advised him on what shortcuts he could take. He’d substituted a jar of pureed tomatoes for skinned and chopped tomatoes. The broth slowly simmering on the back burner was not homemade. He’d substituted vegetable broth for chicken broth for Daniele’s sake. The rest—chopped onion, sliced zucchini, asparagus points and peas he’d bought fresh this morning at the Greve Coop, along with the carnaroli r
ice.
OneWag rushed to the door and barked. “It’s open,” Nico called out.
“Buonasera,” Daniele said at the door, holding a small package in his hand.
Nico smiled. He was very fond of Daniele, who was a gentle young man. “Punctual as always. Glad you’re here.” Daniele’s good looks, pale skin, blue eyes and blond hair reminded Nico of Midwestern farm boys and sometimes of the portraits he’d seen in the Uffizi. Tonight, wearing pressed jeans and a white shirt instead of his police uniform, Daniele looked even younger than his twenty years.
“Come in.”
Daniele stepped inside, happy to be joining Nico and the maresciallo for dinner. Eating alone wasn’t much fun, but he felt awkward knowing the maresciallo liked meat. He was always worried that being a vegetarian was an imposition. “Thank you for having me.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
OneWag jumped up at Daniele’s knees. A greeting, but also a chance to smell the package the young man was holding. A quick sniff revealed no food was involved. The dog sat back down.
“I’ve missed our get-togethers,” Nico said. The last time the three of them had been together was in March to try to cheer up Daniele after Rosalba, the woman he had fallen in love with during last year’s murder investigation, broke things off. All Nico and Perillo had managed to do that night was get Daniele drunk, a first for him. “How are things?”
Daniele shrugged, his cheeks reddening.
“It will get better, Daniele, I promise. What can I get you? I’ve got white and red.”
Daniele didn’t want to be ungracious, but he couldn’t drink on an empty stomach. “Just water for now, please.” OneWag nudged his leg. He looked down at the dog and dangled the package. “How did you know this was for you?” OneWag acknowledged the question with another nudge. “Can I give it to him, Nico?” He’d always wanted a puppy, but his mother thought dogs were dirty. “It’s a toy. I didn’t know what else to bring. I didn’t have time to make a tiramisù.” Daniele always liked to show off Venetian specialties. The first time he’d come to dinner, he made Nico and Perillo a sgroppino, a drink usually made with lemon sorbet, prosecco and vodka. Daniele’s version left out the vodka.
The Bitter Taste of Murder Page 5