The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

  “Is there anything else you can tell us, Signor Terzini?”

  “This morning, I told her I was sorry for her loss. She answered that I could shove it up my ass. I am very glad to be rid of Signorina Loredana Cardi.” Terzini leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at the young brigadiere. A man who saved birds did not lie easily. “I’ve told you the truth, now you tell me the truth. Accident or murder?”

  “Accident or murder, you ask,” Daniele said to gain time while he fingered the crease of his slacks and prayed he wasn’t blushing. He looked up at Terzini. “Which is yet to be determined.”

  Perillo shot up from his chair, unable to keep a smile from his face. He held out his hand. “Buongiorno, Signor Terzini. Thank you for your time. Come, Daniele, we have much to do.”

  As they walked to the entrance, Perillo squeezed Daniele’s arm. “You’ll make maresciallo one day with a clap of your hands.”

  This time, Daniele blushed.

  SEVEN

  Nico was in his car, consulting a map of the Chianti vineyards. The possibility that Mantelli wanted money in exchange for a good review of wines made him wonder about the excellent reviews Luca Verdini’s wines had received in Vino Veritas. It took him a minute to find it. ColleVerde was at the end of a road southwest of Panzano. It would take him at the most twenty minutes to get there.

  Nico folded the map and tossed it in the back seat, then started the car and opened the passenger door. OneWag, who had gone off to do his business, leaped in and curled up in the space under the dashboard.

  The ride was bumpy once Nico left Panzano and the short stretch of road that led to Mercatale. The road marked white on the map was a one-lane stretch of white dust that challenged what few shock absorbers the small car had. Thankfully, no car came from the opposite way. As Nico turned a curve, a narrow wooden plank hammered to a tree announced Vigneto ColleVerde. A painted arrow pointed right. A row of young cypresses led him to a small graveled space and an open gate.

  Nico parked. OneWag jumped up on the passenger seat, his tongue panting with anticipation. A man in worn jeans and a frayed red T-shirt appeared from behind a shed next to the gate. Large shears dangled from one hand. The caution Nico had learned as a young man patrolling the streets of New York made him stay put. “Buongiorno,” he called out. OneWag stared, ears perked up. The man came closer. His T-shirt was stained with sweat, and dirt covered his jeans and one side of his face. “If you’re here to buy wine, we’re closed. If you’re here to see the place, you’re welcome. I could use the break.” He wiped sweat from his face with his arm, leaving more dirt. “Which is it?”

  Nico relaxed. OneWag stayed alert. How many times had he been kicked after a pat on the head? “I wanted both. I’ll happily accept a visit. Do you mind my dog?”

  “Not if he doesn’t mind my Contessa. She’s very friendly.”

  “So is OneWag.” The dog followed Nico out of the car.

  “Feel free to take a look around while I clean myself up a bit. I’ve been at it since five this morning, cleaning up the old vines. I’m Luca Verdini, by the way. I’d shake your hand, but,” he opened his hands, covered in dirt.

  “Nico Doyle. I thought this was a fairly new vineyard.”

  Verdini’s face broke out into a big smile. “You’re American!” Nico’s accent in Italian always gave him away. “I love the United States. It’s my best market. Welcome to my vineyard.” Verdini began walking with Nico and OneWag down a geranium-edged path toward a square three-story stone house. “I bought it from an old man ten years ago. His family had owned it for two generations. He was the only one left, and he’d had enough of the business. He did warn me that it was a tough one and was generous enough to hang around for another six months to teach me. I’ve been lucky enough to be able to add new vines. Where are you from?”

  “New York City.”

  “Exciting and exhausting.” He pointed opposite the house to a partially enclosed area next to a shed. “That’s where we do our tastings and selling in good weather. We keep the wines in the shack. Make yourself comfortable. I apologize for the chairs. I’ve got to replace them. I’ll be right back.”

  Nico watched Verdini hurry into a side entrance of his house. The man was simpatico. For some reason, he hadn’t expected that. Maybe he could ask Verdini point-blank. On the far side of the shed, Nico discovered an old table surrounded by several chairs. Grape vines wove in and out of a trellised roof and gave a lacy shade. Nico sat down on a hard, stiff-backed chair and looked at the shallow valley dissected by countless neat rows of vines, the grass in between spattered with red poppies. In the distance, a quilt of vine patches went in different directions. It was the standard Chianti vista that brought so many tourists to this part of Italy. The wines, they could buy in stores all over the world—it was the view that delighted people. It had certainly delighted him the first time Rita had brought him to her hometown. It still did. And above all, it made him feel at peace.

  Nico noticed OneWag sitting next to his feet. The dog usually took every opportunity to explore new territory. “Go.” The dog looked up. “Find Contessa. You’re not scared of her, are you?”

  OneWag didn’t budge.

  “I’m glad to see you talk to your dog too.” Verdini walked quickly toward Nico. “My ex-wife thought I was being ridiculous. I apologize for taking so long. I was covered in grime.” He stopped next to Nico. Verdini had changed into clean jeans and a yellow cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His tanned face, a plain, friendly looking one, was now clean. What had looked like graying hair was wet, dark and neatly combed back. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five. “Hello, little one.” He bent down and offered his hand to OneWag, who barely gave it a sniff, apparently unconvinced. “See, no shears. You’re both safe here.” Verdini straightened up and whistled. A flash of red at the far end of the garden attached to the house turned into a beautiful Irish setter bounding toward them. “Contessa, come greet our guests.”

  OneWag ran out to meet her. They sniffed each other for a bit. “She’s very beautiful,” Nico said.

  “You should have seen her mother. She was the best. Having to put her down was extremely painful.” The sadness showed on his face. “Contessa doesn’t quite fill her shoes.”

  “Was it old age?” Nico knew that losing OneWag when the time came would leave a hole in his life too. The dogs were now leaping at each other, twisting and turning.

  “Regina was riddled with cancer. She was only six.”

  OneWag started running down the lawn in front of the house. Contessa outpaced him with a few leaps. OneWag followed as fast as he could on his short legs. A minute later they were out of sight.

  “While they’re having fun, what’s your preference?” Verdini asked, unlocking the shed door. “Red or white? My white is good. I grow Vermentino, but my reds are what ColleVerde is known for.”

  “Red, then. Michele Mantelli thought very highly of your reds.”

  “Ah, you read Mantelli’s blog?” Verdini disappeared inside the shed, leaving the door wide open. “Do you subscribe to his magazine, Vino Veritas?”

  “I just did.” He’d subscribed right after Aldo’s visit. He’d wanted to read a few recent issues to ferret out who else had received stellar reviews. If Mantelli demanded money regularly, someone may have gotten tired of paying. Verdini for one, but he wasn’t the only vintner Mantelli had praised. “But Mantelli praised your wines in person on Tuesday at a restaurant in Gravigna where I work.”

  Verdini came out of the shed holding two stem glasses and an open wine bottle. “He just died, you know. Horrible accident.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  Verdini sat down and poured a generous amount of wine in each glass. “He deserves a toast. I owe my start to him.” He raised his glass. “Thanks, Michele.”

  Nico raised his glass and drank with his host. He’d just been offered
an opening. “There are rumors going around that Mantelli wanted to be paid for his reviews. I’m not suggesting you were involved, as your wine merits all the praise it gets, but I’m curious.” God, he was turning into a devious liar, but he was worried for Aldo. “Was there any truth in that?”

  Verdini took another sip of his wine, his eyes fixed on his guest’s face. Nico felt he was being assessed.

  After what felt like a full minute, his host put his wine glass down on the table. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”

  “No. An ex-policeman, now a waiter and helper at a restaurant owned by my late wife’s cousin.”

  “I understand that it’s the policeman in you who wants to know, but why?”

  “I’d like it not to be true.” Another lie.

  “You wish to see Italy as an uncorrupt country. So do I, but all countries are corrupt, including yours. Italy is just worse at hiding it. And I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Mantelli did ask for payment, at least from me. I was happy to pay. He had the power to put me on the map.”

  Nico was surprised but tried to keep the expression on his face neutral. He hadn’t expected Verdini to be so open.

  “You may scorn me, but necessity is a powerful motivator,” Verdini said. “Should I feel guilty? Yes, but I have no regrets. I needed him. Once my wines were praised on his blog and in his magazine, other wine critics, important ones in the States, discovered me. Anthony Galloni in Vinous, James Suckling, the Robert Parker people, started giving me high marks. You cannot imagine how wonderful and gratifying that was. I had always thought my wines were good, but paying for praise chipped away at my confidence. I was right from the start. My vines produce excellent wines.”

  “Did you stop paying him?”

  “No, and he deserved every euro. Last year he even came by and joked about it, admitting that my wines deserved praise for free.” Verdini looked at his watch and finished the wine in his glass. “I’m afraid I must go. I have clients to call, paperwork to deal with. But stay, finish your glass, even the bottle if you want. The sunsets here lift the spirit.” Verdini stood and held out his hand.

  Nico got up and shook it. “Thank you for the wine and letting me enjoy the view. And answering my doubts about the rumors. It will stay between us.” A smaller lie this time.

  “If you want to buy, come back in the mornings. Ginevra is here from nine to one.” He turned to leave, then turned back around. “You may want help getting your dog back. Contessa can be very possessive.” Verdini put his two forefingers in his mouth and whistled. The sound was ear-shattering.

  It didn’t take long for Contessa to come loping up the path, ears flying, feathered tail held high. Half a minute later, OneWag appeared, his short legs running like a frenetic hamster’s on a wheel. Contessa jumped on Verdini. He ruffled her fur. “Bad girl. Where did you take our guest?” She smelled strongly of manure.

  Nico turned to look at OneWag. The dog was filthy.

  “I can give you a towel to wrap him up in,” Verdini offered. “It will cut the smell.”

  “No need for that. I’ll keep all the windows open. Thanks again. I’ll come by next week and buy a case of your Riserva.” He’d give half to Tilde and Enzo.

  “Good. It’s been a pleasure chatting with you. Ah, we’re usually closed on Sundays.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Nico walked along the red geranium path to his car. OneWag followed with his tail between his legs, now conscious of how dirty he was. In the car, Nico cranked down all the windows and opened the door. The dog jumped over the front seat to the back and curled up on the floor into the smallest ball he could manage.

  By the time Perillo and Daniele got back to the station, Loredana Cardi had announced her boyfriend’s murder on Facebook and Instagram. The news was speeding across the airwaves and whatever other waves the media used to glean information.

  “Good,” Perillo said when Vince gave him the news. “Now we can fully begin the investigation. If Della Langhe calls, I’m still up in Montefioralle, and you haven’t been able to reach me. And get rid of that gum. My carabinieri don’t chew gum.”

  Vince rubbed his stomach. “Please, be reasonable, Maresciallo. It helps with my hunger.”

  “Take up smoking. You’d lose ten pounds in a month.”

  “And my life.”

  “That would take longer.”

  Vince walked away with his bear gait, shoulders hunched in protest.

  Perillo noticed Daniele looking down at his feet. The foot gaze meant he disapproved. “I was joking, Dani. Understood? Just joking.”

  Daniele looked up, his face tight with determination. “I am very proud to be working with you, Maresciallo, but I need to say something at the risk of getting transferred.”

  Perillo raised his hand. “You don’t need to go any further. I know I’m always after Vince for eating on the job, but chewing gum is just as bad. We need to be strong and dignified. How else are people going to respect us?”

  Out of respect, Daniele lowered his eyes and said nothing.

  Perillo looked at his brigadiere for a long moment, then reached over and patted Daniele’s shoulder. “Understood, Dani. Strong, dignified and kind. Tell Vince he can go on chewing, but only at the station.”

  Daniele’s face lit up. “Right away, Maresciallo.”

  Perillo raised a finger. “Wait. I’m going out for a smoke and another espresso. While I’m burning a hole in my stomach and slowly killing myself, I want you to call Aldo Ferri and tell him I’m coming to talk to him. You go to Il Falco and find out who was dining there Tuesday night. We need to find out who Mantelli was meeting with.”

  “You think he drank the poison that night?”

  “When he went home with Loredana, he was having trouble with his eyes. The first symptom, according to the medical examiner, is visual disturbance. And he didn’t make love to his gorgeous girlfriend that night, something they always did. I think yes.”

  Perillo turned and strode out of the station, slamming the front door.

  “What’s with him?” Dino asked, walking by.

  “Della Langhe is going to put his head on a plate and have it for dinner. He didn’t want the media to know about the murder.” Daniele also suspected Perillo was annoyed he’d given in about the chewing gum.

  Dino spread out his arms dramatically. “How else were we supposed to investigate?”

  Dino had never even investigated the disappearance of a cat. All Daniele said was, “With God’s help,” before he went to find Vince and give him the good news.

  “Where’s Stella?” Nico asked Tilde. They were in the kitchen of Sotto Il Fico, preparing for dinner. A kitchen barely big enough for three, with pots and cooking implements covering one full wall. A marble counter for rolling dough was at one end next to the stove, with a small window giving a partial view of the terrace. Another wall held two ovens and, after Nico’s insistence, the new addition of a microwave. “I thought she’d be here.”

  Out on the terrace, Alba and Enzo were setting tables. Elvira was ensconced in her armchair, lightly snoring. OneWag was out, wandering the town. Nico had been tempted to keep him home as punishment for rolling in manure, but the dog had given him such a pleading look that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  “Wasn’t she coming home tonight?”

  “She’s taking the last bus.” Tilde bent over and put the large pan of carciofi gratinati in the oven. Artichoke hearts covered in bread crumbs, parsley and Parmigiano was the special of the night, along with rollatini di melanzane.

  “I can’t wait to give her a hug.” Nico rolled the last thin slice of baked eggplant around a fat tablespoon of ricotta and fit the rollatino in with the rest. He ladled the tomato sauce Tilde had made that morning over them and slipped the pan in the second oven to heat them. Two other pans were already in there. “The last time she emailed me
, she seemed happy.”

  “She’s excited about something and being very mysterious about it.”

  “It would be nice,” Nico sucked the ricotta off his finger, “if she’s found a boyfriend.”

  “Just like a man to think like that,” Tilde said, giving Nico a sharp look. At forty-three, her once-beautiful face had hardened. Her adult life hadn’t been easy. “Having a man doesn’t solve anything. Stella is just fine without one.”

  Nico walked to the sink to wash his hands. “I’m sure she is.” He knew he had touched on a delicate subject. Stella’s last experience with a boyfriend had been very bad. “What do you want me to do next?”

  “You out on the terrace and Alba in here.” She leaned over and gave his cheek a peck. “Don’t mind me. I’m nervous.”

  “I’m sure Stella’s news will be wonderful.”

  Tilde smiled and gave him a push.

  Nico raised his hands and walked to the door. “I’m done. Gone. Never to come back. Then you’ll regret it.”

  Behind him, Tilde laughed.

  The terrace filled up quickly. Nico, Alba and Enzo wove tirelessly between tables, keeping the customers happy with wine and Tilde’s good food. It was tiring work, but Nico liked the cheerful atmosphere. Liked being out in the open in the company of a hundred-year-old fig tree and an endless vista beyond the terrace. Most of all, he was happy to be helping Tilde and Enzo.

  As Nico hurried by a table with two plates of the restaurant’s signature mushroom, apple and walnut salad, a hand reached out and stopped him. He almost dropped the plates.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  He turned to look at the table Alba had been serving.

  Diane Severson was smiling at him. “I wanted to say hello. I was rather rude with you this morning.”

  “Not at all. Excuse me, people are waiting for these.” Nico hurried off to a table at the edge of the terrace. He hadn’t expected to see her. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to talk. He would like to hear her side of things straight from her mouth instead of Perillo’s. He knew his friend didn’t quite trust him with this case. He had told Perillo he’d been forced to retire because he’d broken the law. Now it seemed the maresciallo also knew the reason he had broken the law was to protect someone. Perillo probably thought he would do the same for Aldo.