“A toy is perfect, thanks. Go ahead. No need to unwrap it.” Nico handed over the glass of water, no ice, the way the Italians liked it. “Just throw it. He loves to tear up paper.”
“Thank you.” Daniele flung the package to the far end of the room. OneWag flew after it.
Nico went back to the kitchen stove to add olive oil to the hot, wide skillet. The risotto would take another thirty minutes. “Where’s Perillo? Didn’t you come together?”
“I’m here!” Perillo announced, walking in, brandishing two bottles of wine.
“How’s your wife feeling?”
“She’s fine and hopes you will forgive her. I’ll explain later.”
His friend was playing games again. “I’m glad she’s fine, but why can’t you explain now?”
“You’re always in a hurry, aren’t you? The American way—run, run, run.”
“Well, it does get things done.”
“You have a point. So, what happened is this. As the three of us were about to leave, I received some interesting information. I told Ivana I now had official business that I needed to share with you. She asked to stay home. It’s a pact we made when we got married. I was to keep the unpleasant details of my work to myself.”
“Rita felt the same way. Makes unloading hard. I ended up talking too much to my beat partner.” Which was what had gotten him into trouble, but he couldn’t blame Rita for that. “Okay, go ahead.”
“We’ll talk about it on a full stomach.”
Nico tossed the chopped onions in the skillet and stirred them with a wooden spoon. There was no use in trying to pressure Perillo to spill the news before he was ready.
Perillo sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. “The wine, I bought from Cinzia. She looked upset and had quite a few questions about Mantelli’s accident. No surprise, of course. They were once lovers.” He placed the bottles on the table. “Shall I open one?”
“No, thank you. I’ve got the ColleVerde already open. Pour yourself some.”
Perillo examined the ColleVerde label. “You’re cheating on your landlord.”
“Mantelli was touting it to Enzo on Tuesday. I had a taste at Mantelli’s recommendation. It’s a strong wine. I was curious to hear what you thought. Try it.” He’d taken advantage of what Rita called the “cook’s privilege,” but had also opened up a white wine as his usual tribute to Rita. It was the only kind she ever drank. He’d enjoyed a glass while waiting for Daniele and Perillo to show up. “How do you know Cinzia and Mantelli were once lovers?”
“Maybe still were. Do you want some, Dani?” Perillo asked.
Daniele watched OneWag tear at the package, then toss the pink pelican toy in the air and leap up to catch it. The dog’s happiness lifted his own mood. After the medical examiner’s phone call, no more calm days.
“Dani?”
“No, thanks.” He lifted the forgotten water glass and took a sip. That poor pelican wasn’t going to last long.
“Come on, Perillo. Tell me,” Nico said. “How do you know? Your famous intuition?” He added the green vegetables and stirred.
Perillo sat down at the table, poured himself a glass and helped himself to an olive. “My eyes this time. I had Dani look up Cinzia’s Facebook photos.”
“Why did you do that?” Nico mixed the tomatoes in with the vegetables.
Perillo poured half a glass of ColleVerde and drank. A pause. “It’s good, nothing special. Aldo’s wines are far better.” Mantelli’s famous palate would have known that, which means he was pushing ColleVerde just to malign Aldo. He took a longer sip and watched Nico stir. “I have to thank you for offering me and Daniele the sight of a New York homicide detective wearing an I love Tuscany apron. You should post a photo of this on your Facebook page. Instagram too.”
“Don’t have either.” Nico looked down at his belly. He’d forgotten to take off the apron. “A gift from Rita. Her way of reminding me to help in the kitchen.”
“And did you?”
“I washed the dishes.” And when the cancer started eating at her strength, he had taken over all of it. “Why did you look up Cinzia’s photos?” he repeated.
“Curiosity. I saw her with Mantelli on Monday night.”
“So did Alba. She thought they were arguing.” He left out Luciana, wanting to shield Cinzia. “They obviously weren’t trying to hide. What did Cinzia’s photos tell you?”
Perillo drank down the rest of the wine. Arguing was not what he had seen. “That they knew each other some time ago. There’s a photo of the two of them at a party. It’s an old photo. Cinzia looks younger, and Mantelli’s hair isn’t all white yet.”
“That doesn’t make them lovers.”
“Maybe not.” It was best to change the subject. “Diane Severson came to the station this morning. An interesting woman. Not at all the type I thought would capture Mantelli’s attention.”
Daniele sat down next to his superior. Pieces of the pelican toy were now strewn across the floor. OneWag had gone to sleep with a leg in his mouth. “I think she’s attractive, graceful, and very intelligent.”
Perillo smiled. “Well said, Dani.” His brigadiere, always the gentleman, was defending Diane Severson’s lack of beauty. “What I found interesting was her ability not to show any emotion. As we talked, nothing came across on her face.” He would now have to find a way to get through that façade.
Nico tossed three fat fistfuls of rice in the skillet, added lots of broth, stirred, lowered the flame and sat down. The rice needed constant stirring, but he was too curious about these new developments. “It’s going to take another twenty minutes, so you might as well tell me about the phone call on an empty stomach.”
“It’s going to ruin your dinner.”
“May I take over?” Daniele stood. “Risotto is a Venetian staple.”
“Please do.” Nico poured himself a glass of ColleVerde’s red wine. “So?”
Perillo inhaled the risotto’s delicious smell, prompting his stomach to protest loudly. “Barbara, Della Langhe’s assistant, called me with the autopsy results. Mantelli was probably dead before the car went off the road.”
“A heart attack?”
Daniele, who knew what was coming, worked the spoon with more vigor.
“No.” Perillo reached into his jean’s pocket and extracted a piece of paper. He held the paper at arm’s length and squinted. “I had her repeat it to me. Mantelli had a cerebral hemorrhage, severe acidosis, and an accumulation of formate.”
“Which translates to what?”
“Methanol poisoning. That’s poisoning by ingesting wood alcohol, deadly and difficult to detect in hard liquor. Whiskey, for example, is the only alcohol Mantelli’s doctor allowed him to drink since he had gout. At least, according to his wife.”
Nico sat back in his chair and remembered reading about several tourist deaths in the Dominican Republic attributed to methanol poisoning. It had happened a few years ago. He’d never heard of it before. “Suicide, then.”
“Unlikely. Takes too long to kill you. Twelve to twenty-four hours.”
“But it gives you time to change your mind and get help.”
“Della Langhe has decreed it murder. That’s also the medical examiner’s opinion. I’m not going to argue with them. A search warrant of the villa has already been issued. His wife said he was broke, which might give someone with his self-importance a reason to do himself in, but she thinks he just stashed his cash somewhere where she can’t get to it. I sent two of my men to his villa to guard it while the forensic team gets there from Florence. I have also informed Signora Severson that her husband’s death is now considered a murder. I will be interrogating her tomorrow morning.”
Nico’s tension eased. Aldo wasn’t the only suspect. “You think he drank the methanol at home?”
“Who knows? I want his laptop, iPad,
his notes, scribblings, anything that will give me information. His cell phone was with him in the Jaguar. It’s already in our possession. Unfortunately, I won’t be in charge of the case for long. Della Langhe is sending Capitano Carlo Tarani of the Nucleo Investigativo from Provincial Headquarters to take over.”
“Why?” Daniele stopped stirring. “We solved last year’s case without any interference.”
“Mantelli has national fame. Della Langhe is following the right procedure this time.” He was probably also eager to protect his wife’s friend from being harassed by a lowly maresciallo from the South, Perillo thought.
A disappointed Daniele tasted the rice. At least this dish was perfect. It was time to add butter, Parmigiano and a last go-round with the spoon.
Nico drank his glass down. He wasn’t happy with Perillo’s news, either the murder or Tarani. “Shouldn’t you be overseeing the search at Mantelli’s villa?”
“I’d just get in their way. Nico, accept reality. We have ourselves a murder case that is going to be taken out of our hands. At least we can already hand Capitano Tarani two people with excellent reasons to be rid of Mantelli.”
With a face reddened by the heat of the stove, Daniele announced, “The risotto is done.”
“This is bad,” Nico said. “Aldo had better have an airtight alibi.” If he didn’t, the capitano could make mincemeat out of him.
Perillo nodded. “I know. That’s why I wanted to wait to tell you.”
Nico took the heavy skillet from Daniele and poured the risotto in a bowl. “We’ll eat outside where it’s cooler. The table is already set up. Please, let’s not talk about this until after dessert. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Daniele and Perillo answered in unison.
After clearing the empty risotto and salad bowls, Nico took a bowl heaped with fragoline di bosco out on the terrace.
“Oh, I wait for these every year,” Daniele exclaimed. The tiny strawberries had just come into season.
“Good,” Nico said curtly.
“Thank you.” Daniele looked at his boss, hoping his enthusiasm wasn’t out of line. No reaction from the maresciallo. It was his second attempt at breaking the tension. After a few bites of the risotto, he had declared, bending the truth a little, that it was even better than his mother’s. While they ate, very little had been said. Nico was obviously worried about his landlord. The maresciallo wasn’t happy he had to solve another murder. Having Capitano Tarani on his back made it worse. Daniele knew the next few days would be hard for all three of them.
Nico waited until everyone’s plate was empty of strawberries to make coffee for Perillo. While they waited for the moka to stop gurgling, Nico lit his second cigarette of the day. Perillo eagerly lit his own. He’d been fighting withdrawal symptoms from the moment he’d walked in. Daniele pushed his chair closer to the railing to avoid the smoke and waited to see if the maresciallo had remembered.
Nico pushed an ashtray in front of Perillo to stop him from flicking ash over the balcony.
“Thanks. I don’t need it.” Perillo took a portable ashtray with a lid from his pocket. “A Christmas present from Daniele. Very thoughtful of him.”
Daniele smiled. As soon as the moka was silent, Daniele stood up. “Allow me.”
“I only have mugs, left cabinet,” Nico said, happy to stay seated. “You said methanol poisoning takes twelve to twenty-four hours to act?”
“At least twelve, but it can take more than twenty-four hours. The medical examiner said it depends on the individual.”
“That’s going to make it impossible to pinpoint when and where the poison was administered.”
“Hard, but not impossible because given Mantelli’s age—he was fifty-four with some health issues he didn’t advertise—Dottor Gianconi thinks the poison acted sooner rather than later.” Daniele came back, placed the barely filled mug in front of the maresciallo and sat back down.
“Thank you, Dani,” Perillo said. “Please, remind me to buy proper cups for our host.” He downed the very hot espresso in his usual single gulp. “Twelve to eighteen hours at the very most, in his opinion.”
“Are you going to call Aldo in first?”
“I’m going to make a list, as you advised last year. A list to clear my head. I will write down all the people I need to interview. Hoping the night brings good counsel, I’ll decide in the morning. I have to proceed with slippered feet, as Della Langhe wants to keep the poisoning from the media as long as we can.”
“Why?”
“His wife is a client and friend of Mantelli’s soon-to-be-ex-wife, Diane Severson. She has promised Della Langhe not to say a word. I wouldn’t be surprised if the real reason is that once the media knows, reporters won’t leave Signora Severson alone, which will prevent her from redecorating Della Langhe’s living room. I’ll keep you informed, although I worry that you are too good a friend of Aldo’s to remain objective.”
“You have a point. I find it impossible to think that Aldo could kill anyone, much less with wood alcohol.”
“A New York homicide detective with too much heart,” Perillo said.
Nico said nothing. Perillo was again referring to his forced retirement. How did he know? Nico’s captain had demanded secrecy to protect his own reputation. That secrecy was what allowed him to retire with a pension instead of doing jail time. “My good heart is something we should discuss another time,” Nico said.
“Agreed,” Perillo said. “Anytime you wish.”
Daniele, who had unveiled the “why” of Nico’s forced retirement, was lost in his own thoughts. Poisoning was considered a woman’s crime, but so far the only woman they knew who had motive was Mantelli’s wife. Daniele thought Diane Severson was too refined to use such a chancy poison. Mantelli might have felt the poison start working, gone to a doctor and been saved. If Signora Severson was about to kill someone, she would have used a revolver. A shot straight to the heart.
“There’s his girlfriend to consider,” Nico said. “A real beauty, and Mantelli, at least in my presence, treated her as an afterthought.”
“I’ll add her to my list of cats.”
“Why cats?” Daniele asked.
“A Neapolitan saying: Frije ‘e pisce e gurda ‘a jatta. Fry the fish, but watch the cat. I want you to watch the cat too, Nico. You’re in this with us if you can balance your friendship with Aldo with whatever facts come out.”
Nico nodded, though not sure he could find that balance. “How about some whiskey before I send you two home?”
“Great idea,” Perillo said with a broad smile on his face. “Hold the wood alcohol.”
Back in his office at the Greve station, Perillo called Vince. “Did forensics find anything?”
“There was no laptop or desktop computer. The kitchen was clean, no garbage. No trash in wastebaskets in any of the rooms. The gardener, who lives at the back of the villa, admitted he’d done the cleaning. He said he didn’t know what happened to Mantelli’s laptop. According to him, Mantelli didn’t like to come home to a dirty kitchen. The team took all the alcohol bottles to check for methanol. The whiskey bottle was unopened. They retrieved what he’d thrown out from the dumpster up the road. They had to take every sack of garbage,” Vince started laughing, “in case the gardener was lying about which sack was his. You should have heard the cursing.”
“Are you still at the villa?”
The gardener had made him and Dino a plate of rigatoni with sautéed onions, but Vince thought it best not to mention it to the maresciallo. “Yes. We didn’t know if you wanted us to seal the place.”
Perillo smiled. Vince would have rushed home if there wasn’t food involved. “No, you can go home after you’ve finished eating. Tell the gardener to be at the station tomorrow morning at nine. Buon appetito.” He clicked off.
Vince looked at his partner, who was sitting next to him at M
antelli’s kitchen table. “Damn it, Dino! How the devil did he know?”
Dino didn’t answer. He was too busy wiping his plate clean with a piece of bread.
FIVE
Friday had started out as another sun-filled day. By the time Nico and OneWag got to Bar All’Angolo that morning, a wind had blown in from the East and was pushing a blanket of pale gray clouds across the sky. Sitting by the open French door eating his second whole-wheat cornetto, Nico watched the sun slip behind the clouds with a sense of relief. The day would be cooler.
A group of local men stood at the far end of the counter, talking among themselves in low voices. Mantelli’s death had made the paper, and Nico caught Aldo’s name bouncing from one to the other. He turned his head sideways to hear better. A column kept him from being seen.
“Ferri’s a lucky man,” a gruff voice said. “He threatens to kill the man in front of a crowd, and the next day the man saves him the trouble by running his car off a cliff.” It sounded like the barber. Nico stayed hidden. If they knew he was listening, they’d immediately shut up.
“He didn’t threaten to kill him, just beat him up. That’s how I heard it.”
“Get yourself a hearing aid.”
“Got one, and it’s obviously better than yours.”
“If you ask me, the coincidence smells funny.”
A trickle of laughter. “Come on, Sergio,” the gruff voice said, “what are you saying? Ferri fixed the car so it would crash?”
“Could be.”
“You’re full of shit. Anyone for grappa? Sergio’s paying.”
Nico turned to face Gogol, only momentarily relieved. Thanks to the confrontation in the piazza, more than one of the townspeople was going to start spreading malicious gossip. Gogol was pointing to La Nazione, the Florentine newspaper the café provided for its customers. It lay on the table between them. He said something, jabbing his finger at the lower half of the paper. The headline read: horrendous accident kills famous wine critic.
The Bitter Taste of Murder Page 6