The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

  “What did you say? I didn’t understand you,” Nico said.

  Gogol swallowed the last of his lard crostino. “Not now. Never.”

  Nico laughed. Gogol was right. Dante’s Italian was beyond him. “Will you accept almost never? What were you saying?”

  “‘Think how the sun’s warmth mingles with the moist sap of the vine and turns to wine.’” Gogol quoted. “Death can come from the vine.”

  “You think he was drunk?”

  Gogol shook his head. “The salame is mine.” There was a hint of a question mark at the end of Gogol’s declaration. He could be forceful and hesitant at the same time.

  Nico pushed the crostino across the table. “All yours. What are you telling me?”

  Gogol bit into it quickly, reminding Nico of the way OneWag grabbed a treat as if still not confident he deserved it. He glanced behind him to see his dog sitting in front of the cash register, staring at Sandro. Sandro was counting change for an elegant tall woman. She was wearing tight white slacks and a striking dark-blue silk shirt covered with a design of large yellow palm leaves. Nico watched her lean down and stroke OneWag’s head. The dog continued to stare at Sandro as if he knew that the one who blinks first loses.

  Gogol jabbed Nico’s hand to get his attention. Once he had it, he showed him a crooked grin. “‘Never has my ignorance made me thirst to know with such torment.’”

  Nico grinned back. “I’m not even going to try to guess what canto that’s from, but I’m not tormented to know what you said. Go ahead and quote away.”

  Gogol leaned in and slowly enunciated, “‘For such pride, here one pays the fine.’”

  “That, I understood.”

  “Both Purgatorio.”

  “I hope you’re not referring to me.”

  “Michele Mantelli.”

  “You knew him?”

  “My eyes did, not my heart.”

  “That’s unfair,” Nico said. “‘The habit does not make the monk,’ to quote an unknown. And why the thirst to know?”

  Gogol gazed at Nico’s face with penetrating eyes and whispered, “The reason for his death.”

  “In this case,” the tall woman said, as her long legs brought her to the table, “Gogol is being totally fair. My husband was indeed proud, although I won’t go as far as to say he deserved to pay the fine.” She nestled an espresso cup in her thin, perfectly manicured fingers. “May I join you?”

  Gogol took off an imaginary hat and bowed his head. Nico stood up and pushed back a chair.

  “Thank you.” The woman sat down and smiled at Gogol. “I’ve always wanted to meet the town poet.” The smile did not reach her eyes.

  Gogol shook his head, releasing wisps of cologne into the air around them. “They are not my words, Signora. They belong to Dante Alighieri.”

  “They become yours because you put such heart into them.” It was hard to tell if she meant it, but Gogol beamed.

  Looking at her, Nico thought Daniele was right. She was not beautiful in the usual way, but she had an intelligent, striking face bare of makeup that demanded attention.

  The woman turned to look at Nico sitting beside her. “And it’s nice to meet another American.” She kept her cup in one hand and extended the other to Nico. “Diane Severson, originally from Elizabeth, New Jersey, now Milan and Montefioralle.”

  Nico shook her hand and introduced himself. Diane then squeezed Gogol’s hand. She was doing and saying all the right things, but her words lacked warmth. It roused his curiosity. “I’m sorry for your loss, Signora Severson.”

  “God, don’t be. My husband was a mean bastard. Not from the start. The first few years we were devoted to each other, but then his penis got bored and started wandering. I shut down, which I guess didn’t help. You can call me Diane, by the way.” She drank her espresso in two sips and slowly blotted her mouth with a napkin. Her gaze looked out onto the piazza. Her thoughts were clearly somewhere else.

  After a few moments, she said, “I apologize to both of you. I’ve given you much too much unasked-for information. I’m beginning to think my husband’s death is actually getting to me. I’m usually very good at holding things in.” She turned to Nico. “You live in this town?”

  “Yes. I’ve been here just over a year.”

  “I was going to ask the cashier—”

  “Sandro.” Gogol interrupted. “Cashier and owner.”

  “I see. I was going to ask him how to get to the Ferriello vineyard.”

  “Your answer rests before you,” Gogol said.

  “You can help?” Diane asked.

  Gogol tilted his head toward Nico. “My friend Nico.” Gogol stood, his fist beating his chest several times. More wisps of cologne. “You take her, friend.” He lowered his head. “Tomorrow, if I live.”

  “You’re leaving?” Diane asked. “You won’t let me hear the poet?”

  Gogol shuffled his feet, his eyes down. “‘A lady called me, so blessed and beautiful I asked her to command me. Her eyes shined brighter than the stars and she began to speak, gentle and low, with an angelic voice.’” Gogol bowed down, sweeping his imaginary hat over his head, and walked away.

  “Thank you,” Diane called after him. “Why did he leave? I wanted to pay him for that lovely quote.”

  “I don’t think he would have accepted money.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. His overcoat explains why he’s called Gogol, but why does he wear such a strong scent?”

  “It’s the cologne his mother wore. It keeps her near him. She died when he was just a boy, and the old villagers think it was her death that sent him off to a world of his own. He never knew his father.”

  “It’s probably a much nicer world than ours.” Diane looked at her Apple Watch. “I need to get going. How do I get to Aldo Ferri’s vineyard?”

  Nico stood up. He had planned to visit Rita, but this woman’s need to see Aldo had increased his curiosity tenfold. “I’m going right by there. You can follow my car.”

  “Thank you.” Diane walked out with him.

  Nico looked back. OneWag was still sitting below the cash register. “Come on, OneWag.”

  The dog gave Sandro one last hopeful look. Sandro shook his head. OneWag picked himself up and, with as much dignity as he could muster, padded out with his plume of a tail held high.

  Perillo looked at the man sitting in front of his desk for a moment. He liked to study the people he questioned before speaking, give them time to study him back, gather their thoughts, calm down if they needed to. Daniele thought it had the opposite effect. Maybe. But taking that moment helped Perillo to concentrate.

  Mantelli’s gardener was a small man with a tanned, weathered face from working outdoors. He wore patched gray pants and a plaid short-sleeved cotton shirt. His hands, large and wrinkled, held a wide-brimmed felt hat between his legs.

  “Your full name, please, and date of birth,” Perillo said in a soft voice he hoped would undo whatever discomfort his stare might have given the man. Behind him, Daniele sat upright at his computer, fingers poised on the keyboard, ready to type every word, proud of his ability to type a hundred words a minute. The maresciallo did not believe in the use of tape recorders.

  “Giuseppe Risso. Everyone calls me Peppino. Born in Montefioralle, March 7, 1939.”

  “You are Michele Mantelli’s gardener, is that correct?”

  “A bit of everything, I did for him. Fifteen years, from the very day he bought the villa. Well, the truth is, I came with the villa. Worked for the previous owner since I was a boy.” He spoke with a raucous voice and a strong Tuscan accent, exhaling his h’s. “I mean, he didn’t have to take me on, but he did. Nice man, Signor Mantelli. Stubborn, had a bit of a temper on him. Liked things his way even if they were dead wrong, like pruning roses in October. Roses get pruned after the final frost, e
veryone knows that. I gave up trying to teach him anything.”

  “What’s the bit of everything you did for him besides gardening?”

  “Fetch things for him. Run errands. Cooked for him too. He loved my potato soup. He used to come down without his wife for a couple of weeks in the middle of winter. She didn’t come down even when they were getting along. Too busy, he said. When he was here alone, he’d not go anywhere. He called it getting away from life.” Peppino looked at his open hand, as if surprised it was empty. “The padrone could always count on me to take care of him.”

  “He didn’t have a cleaning woman?”

  Peppino’s hand went back to holding the brim of his hat. The action seemed to reassure him, Perillo thought.

  “Ida comes to clean the house three times a week when he’s here. I take care of it when he’s not around. He didn’t trust her, said women never get things right. That was even before his marriage rotted.”

  “He had a girlfriend, didn’t he? Loredana? Did he trust her?”

  “Signorina Cardi? He liked to surround himself with beauty. I don’t know if he loved her or trusted her. That’s none of my business. He didn’t want her to stay at the villa, though. He liked his privacy, even when his wife was around. He’d put her in a B&B.”

  “Not a hotel?”

  “I think he was going through a bad time with money. Six months ago, he said he had to cut my pay. When things got better again, he promised I’d go back to my old wages. Soon, he said. Very soon. I told him not to worry about me. I have a bed at the villa, and I don’t need much.”

  “Did anyone visit him on Tuesday?”

  “He left after breakfast to visit vineyards. That’s what he does first thing when he comes here.”

  Perillo picked up his pen and rolled it around his finger. Mantelli had also been at Sotto Il Fico to dictate what should be on the wine list. He would send Daniele around to the better restaurants in the area to see if he had created any feelings bad enough to get him murdered.

  “When did you see him again?”

  “Lunch was at home with the signorina. I made spaghetti with anchovies and capers. That’s what he asked for, so that’s what I made. Signorina Loredana ate only a salad. I picked apricots for them. We have two trees’ full. He loved his apricots.” Tears started to drop down his cheeks.

  “And after lunch?”

  He sniffed loudly and wiped his cheeks dry with the back of his hands. “Maresciallo, when his signorina is here, the padrone goes with her to Il Glicine after lunch. I take a nap at that time. The sun is too hot to work then. If the padrone came home and had visitors, I can’t tell you. My room is at the far end of the villa, overlooking the pool. I take care of the pool too. Factotum Peppino, he liked to call me. I had to look up the word. It’s Latin. ‘Doer of everything.’ That’s what I was.” He started twirling the hat with his fingers, his head lowered. “Doer of everything.”

  “What about later that afternoon?”

  “He sent me down with a long list of things to buy. Coop, then hardware store, then to the mattress-maker. He wanted only wool. No springs, nothing but sheep’s wool packed tight.” Peppino looked up at Perillo with more tears in his eyes. “I warned him that kind of mattress was very expensive. He laughed and said money was coming in.”

  “Did he say anything else about this money?”

  “I didn’t ask.” His fingers worked his hat again, scrunching the rim. “It’s not for me to know. The padrone wasn’t home when I got back.”

  Perillo waited to ask his next question. The man was grieving for his boss, perhaps for a lost job. For both, probably. After a minute, the hat-twirling stopped. Peppino lifted his head.

  “You saw him leave the house Wednesday morning.” Perillo kept his voice soft.

  “Yes, I was right by the entrance, cleaning out the mandevilla that runs along the wall. He wasn’t six feet away from me when he stumbled on the stairs. I ran over and asked him if he needed help.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Five or ten minutes past ten.”

  Perillo looked at Peppino’s bare wrists. “You don’t wear a watch.”

  “Don’t need to. I’ve got the sun, and if it’s cloudy, the church bells.”

  “What did he say when you asked if he needed help?”

  “‘Three whiskies is one too many for my gout,’ is what he said. I wish I’d tried to stop him. He didn’t look good at all, but even if I’d said something, he wouldn’t have listened. The padrone never did listen to anyone. Our faults can kill us if we don’t watch out.”

  “Last night, I sent two of my men to the villa and our forensic team. I have to praise how well you keep order in the house.”

  “The padrone hated disorder. Lucky for him, me too.”

  “Does disliking disorder explain the disappearance of your padrone’s laptop?”

  “He must have taken it with him. A gray laptop. Pro something. The very latest model, he said. He was going to teach me to use it. ‘Peppino, it’s time you walk out of the Middle Ages and join the twenty-first century.’ That’s what he said to me just last Saturday.”

  Perillo wanted to interrupt, but sometimes it was best to listen. The hat was twirling again.

  “He had just finished writing his wine newsletter. He was very proud of his work. Wine for the rich. I get my wine loose and refill the bottle when it’s empty. It’s just as good as what he drinks—used to drink. Then he got gout. I guess I can tell you that now that he’s dead. He was afraid it would be bad for his reputation if people knew. He said getting gout was ironic. The laptop, he must have taken with him.”

  “Did you see him take it?”

  “No. It must have already been in the car.”

  “It wasn’t. When did you last see it?”

  “Monday night. The padrone was out to dinner, and I turned it on and off a few times, just to see what it was like. I didn’t take it.” Peppino shifted his hat to his left hand and crossed himself. “Never even taken a coin off the street.” He looked up at Perillo with his large blue sagging eyes. “God knows.”

  Perillo believed him. He stood up and held out his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  Peppino got up from his chair and shook the maresciallo’s hand. “My duty. The padrone always treated me with kindness and respect, which you can’t say for most rich people.”

  “I’ll probably need to speak to you again. Where can I find you?”

  “Signora Mantelli wants me to stay on. She’s going to keep the villa, or that’s what she told me. With no disrespect to the signora, I pray she doesn’t sell. Seventy years I’ve taken care of the villa.” He widened those old blue eyes in bewilderment. “What will I do?”

  “Relax, rest.”

  Peppino jammed his hat on top of his head. “Relax and rest is for when I’m underground. Arrivederci to the young man in the back there, and to you, Maresciallo. You know where to find me.”

  “Arrivederci,” Daniele said, standing up.

  Perillo nodded.

  Once the door closed, Daniele said, “A good man. Someone else stole the laptop.”

  “I agree. Probably while he was napping.”

  “The killer?”

  “Probably.”

  “Who’s next?”

  “The bartender next door. I need a coffee and a cigarette. When we get back let’s make sure Mantelli’s disowned son is where his mother says he is. Now come with me, I’m paying.”

  Nico could have honked and pointed to the Ferriello parking lot, then driven on to his own home. Instead he turned and led Mantelli’s wife directly to Aldo’s office. Why did Diane Severson want to talk to him? To accuse him of killing her husband? To thank him? She had been clear about not being on good terms with Mantelli. Was it an attempt to divert suspicion away from herself? After all she had the mos
t to gain. Was Aldo still worried Mantelli’s blog post would come out despite his death? Nico had been surprised by Aldo’s anger that day in the piazza. More than surprised. Unnerved by the unexpected display of raw emotion. It had uncomfortably reminded him of the anger he had allowed to surface when he saw his father hit his mother for the last time. Nico had grabbed the half-empty whiskey bottle on the table and aimed it at his father’s head. His father walked out of the house with blood pouring down his face. That was the last they saw of him.

  His mother never reprimanded or thanked him for that day. He was fourteen at the time, and for years he had wondered if she thought what he had done was right or wrong. When his mother was dying, he had asked her. When she didn’t answer, he asked her to forgive him and finally stopped wondering.

  Nico got out of the car and walked to the office. He wanted to give his friend a heads-up. The door was open. Aldo was sitting behind the desk. “Ciao, Aldo. Signora Mantelli wants to talk to you.”

  Diane brushed past Nico. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.” Her arm reached out toward Aldo. “Signor Ferri, I’m sorry we are meeting under such unpleasant circumstances.”

  Aldo stood up and took her hand, confusion clear on his face.

  Diane turned to look at Nico with an icy smile. “I did say thank you.”

  Nico bowed and closed the door.

  Nico was on his knees, planting zucchini in the row he had prepared yesterday. The sky was covered in clouds, but it was still too hot to plant anything. Tilde didn’t want him for the lunch shift, but he needed to keep busy. Mantelli’s murder and Aldo’s possible involvement had his blood racing. At least Capitano Tarani hadn’t appeared yet. The case was still in Perillo’s hands.

  OneWag barked. Nico scrambled to his feet with a quick look at his watch. Just over an hour and a half had passed since he’d left Aldo’s office. Aldo was now standing in front of the fence, looking bewildered. Scared, even. “Hey, are you okay?” Nico asked.