The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

  Nico walked by Diane’s table on the way back to the kitchen and acknowledged her with a nod. She responded by raising her full wine glass in a toast.

  When Nico reached the kitchen, Alba was leaving the kitchen with three plates on her forearm and two in her hands, a talent Nico had tried to master and failed. “Alba, I need a favor. Can you take table seven and let me serve three? There’s four of them at seven. I’ve just given them wine. They haven’t ordered food yet.”

  Alba laughed. The plates didn’t move. “You want the lonely lady, eh?” She winked. “Done. Ciao.” Off she went, back straight, elbows tight against her waist, hips swaying. He’d thank her later. In the States, four diners instead of one meant a larger tip. Not in Italy. Tipping wasn’t expected here, as service was added to the bill. At the most after excellent service, a waitperson was left a two-euro coin.

  “What can I get you?” Nico asked Diane.

  “Just that delicious toasted bread slathered in olive oil and rubbed with garlic. A double order. I have to absorb my wine.” She had a bottle of Panzanello Riserva on the table. “You look like a calm, sensible man. Am I right?”

  “I suppose I am,” Nico said. What was she getting at?

  “When the place quiets down, I’d love to talk to you. I would enjoy the company of an American for a change.” She raised her dark, perfectly arched eyebrows. “Possible?”

  “I’m not sure. I have to help clean up too.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve got nowhere to go.”

  “Is this just a chat, or am I being interrogated?” Aldo asked as Perillo walked into the Ferriello welcome center a few minutes after 7 p.m.

  “Buonasera,” Cinzia said behind the counter, forcing herself to be polite. She was shifting wine bottles from one shelf to another to steady her nerves. She was scared.

  “Buonasera. So you both know.”

  “Yes,” Aldo answered. “According to the last news bulletin, Mantelli was ‘seemingly brutally murdered, although there has been no official statement from the carabinieri in Greve-in-Chianti.’ Since you’re here, I assume it’s true.”

  “It is.” The news had spread quickly. Perillo found himself inundated by calls from RAI, the Berlusconi news channels and various papers. The only call he’d answered was from Della Langhe’s assistant, expecting to hear that he was in real trouble for having insisted that Loredana be told about Mantelli’s murder. Barbara had instead reassured him that he was in the clear of any blame, since Diane Severson had also posted about her husband’s murder. The timing suggested they had let out the news together over lunch.

  “Come on out, Aldo. The air is cooling down.” Perillo picked up a chair from the long table and carried it out to the open side of the large terrace. Outside there were benches he could sit on, but he liked back support. “Nothing like open air.”

  “Well, which is it?” Aldo asked again. “A chat or an interrogation?”

  “I came alone, which means it’s a chat to start with.” He had sent Daniele to question the Il Falco restaurant staff. “Cinzia, you too.”

  “A chat, I can handle.” Aldo came out on the terrace with three wine glasses and a bottle of his regular red. Cinzia followed with a platter of cheese and focaccia.

  Aldo poured wine into the three glasses, sat down on one of the benches facing the table closest to Perillo’s chair. “Now that he’s dead, I wish him no ill will. I did hate him, but I didn’t kill him.”

  Cinzia offered Perillo the platter, her way of underlining that this was a friendly chat. “The pecorino is from Piacenza, and I made the focaccia.” It was what they offered to their wine tasting guests.

  “Thank you.” Perillo turned his attention to Aldo. “You punched Mantelli in public the day before he died. Why?”

  “He wouldn’t leave my wife alone.”

  Perillo looked at Cinzia. He wanted to hear the “why” from her too.

  Cinzia took a long drink of her wine before answering. She had to be careful with her words.

  Perillo studied Cinzia’s face. He hoped, for both their sakes, that she would tell him the truth.

  Cinzia put her glass down and looked up at Perillo. “Michele thought he had the right to anything and anyone he wanted. At first, he couldn’t get over the fact that I’d left him for Aldo, but then he forgot about me for years. Unfortunately, I ran into him last year in Montefioralle. He told me he was divorcing his wife and suggested we get back together. I laughed in his face. That was my mistake.”

  “You told Aldo?”

  “Yes. Mistake number two.”

  “Why a mistake?”

  Cinzia popped a cheese square into her mouth. Shit. Why had she said that? She needed to protect Aldo, not make things look worse for him.

  “Because my wonderful husband accused me of ruining his chances of getting a good review from Mantelli.”

  Perillo noted Aldo’s look of surprise, quickly squelched. “He had never given me a good review, but after that, he threatened to ruin me.”

  “He wasn’t going to ruin Aldo,” Cinzia said. “It was just a bad joke.”

  “How do you know that?” Perillo asked.

  “Because I called him and told him to stop being a bastard. He told me he was only joking, that all he wanted to do was get me upset.”

  Perillo looked at the cheese and homemade focaccia. Pecorino from Piacenza was the very best. His stomach grumbled. It was almost dinnertime. How could he eat their food when he might end up arresting Aldo? He couldn’t. A cigarette would help. He took one out of the pack and fingered it. “This was over the phone?”

  “Yes, and in person,” Cinzia said. “I ran into him Monday night in the piazza in Greve. He assured me it was just a joke. Too many other wine critics consistently gave Ferriello wines high marks. He wasn’t going to ruin his reputation by going against them.”

  Perillo pulled the ashtray closer and lit his cigarette. She was lying. What he had witnessed Monday night was much more than a conversation. He turned to Aldo. “Did you believe it was a joke?”

  Aldo nodded. “A very bad one.”

  “Then why did you hit him?”

  Aldo propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Because he deserved it, because I can’t control my temper, because, because—” he dropped his head in his hands.

  Cinzia put her arms around Aldo and waited.

  Perillo took a deep drag of his cigarette and waited too. There was something about this picture of upset husband and consoling wife that bothered him. Too emotional. Dramatic. Maybe Loredana had been enough for one day. “You are trying to tell me something, Aldo. Go on. What’s the third ‘because’?”

  Aldo looked up and rubbed his eyes. “I was afraid Cinzia would leave me.”

  Well, that made sense, Perillo decided. Mantelli was rich. Cinzia could finally stop working herself to the bone. It explained what he had seen Monday night; Mantelli and Cinzia in a tight embrace.

  Cinzia held her husband’s face in her hands. “I would never leave you. I love you.” She kissed him on the lips, then the nose. They hugged.

  Very endearing, Perillo thought, but why didn’t he believe them? Too bad Daniele wasn’t here to read the scene. He stood up. “Just one more question and I’ll go. The question applies to both of you.”

  Both untangled themselves and looked up at Perillo with wide eyes.

  “Where were you Tuesday night?”

  “I was at home,” Cinzia said. “I was alone.”

  “And I took a client out to dinner. After dinner, I dropped him off at his hotel and came home.”

  “Where did you and your client have dinner?”

  “Il Falco.”

  “At what time?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “Your client is still here?”

  “He flew back to China this m
orning. I have his email if you need confirmation.”

  “Mantelli was also dining at the same restaurant. Did you see him?”

  Aldo’s face froze. Cinzia clenched her fist.

  “Tuesday night, did you see Michele Mantelli?” Perillo asked again, his face and voice neutral, as though nothing was riding on the answer. “Maybe you even spoke to him.”

  Aldo shook his head. “No. No, the last time I saw him was that afternoon in the town piazza.”

  Cinzia released her fist. “Il Falco has three dining rooms.”

  “I hope you are telling me the truth. This case is now being taken out of my hands. Capitano Carlo Tarani will be in charge. Before he comes, I need separate statements from each of you. I’ll be at the station tomorrow morning at nine. You decide which one wants to come in first.” He reached down and took a square of pecorino from Piacenza and stood up. “Thank you. See you in the morning.”

  In the car, he called Daniele. “Any luck at Il Falco?”

  “Yes. The maitre d’ told me Aldo Ferri was there at the same time as Mantelli, but in another dining room. Mantelli’s wife was in the third dining room.”

  He’d called Luca Verdini, who confirmed he’d accompanied Diane to the restaurant and also confirmed that she hadn’t gotten close enough to Mantelli’s table to pour anything in his drink. For the moment, he accepted that Verdini was telling the truth.

  “Anything else?”

  “No one saw either Ferri or the wife with Mantelli,” Daniele reported. “Yunas, the waiter who served Mantelli, isn’t working tonight, but the maitre d’ gave me his phone number. Should I call him now? I’m still here going over the night’s guest list.”

  “Wait until the morning. Good work, Dani.”

  “Just doing my duty the way you taught me, Maresciallo.”

  Perillo clicked off, feeling satisfied both with the compliment and with what he’d learned this evening.

  The splash of red and orange that the sun had left in its wake was now gone. Only pinholes of light punctured the black sky. Alba was in the kitchen cleaning up with Tilde and Nico, at the same time keeping an eye on the terrace from the small window above the sink. Only a few diners were still there, nursing the last of their wine, the light of the table candles flickering on their faces. Diane Severson, sitting alone, was dipping Alba’s cantuccini in a glass of sweet wine.

  Alba nudged Nico with her elbow. “Go out there. She’s waiting; I’ll finish cleaning.”

  “Alba’s right,” Tilde said, as she hung the cleaned pots back on the wall. “This is your chance to find out if she killed her husband.”

  Alba gasped. “She didn’t!”

  Tilde shrugged. “Maybe not. The spouse is always the first suspect. Go, Nico. Stay as long as you like. Think of it as a favor to your friend Salvatore. You’ve got the key to lock up. You’ll see Stella at breakfast tomorrow. Eight o’clock at our apartment.”

  Most of the people in the town referred to Perillo by his first name. For Nico, the maresciallo, although a friend, would always be Perillo. He’d gotten used to using only last names while working in Homicide.

  Nico removed his apron and dropped his dish towel in the dirty laundry bag. He had no idea why Mantelli’s wife wanted to talk to him. He didn’t believe his being a fellow American had anything to do with it. But whatever her reasons, he might be able to learn something interesting for Perillo.

  “I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting,” he said as he approached her table. She had moved to an empty table at the edge of the terrace that gave her a dark view of the hills in the distance, now sprinkled with lights.

  “Don’t be. It’s so beautiful and peaceful out here. I’ve been looking at the lights of Montefioralle, trying to spot my villa. No success, but I’ve enjoyed every minute. Please, sit with me.”

  Her invitation was delivered in a low seductive voice that made Nico hesitate.

  She pulled out the chair next to hers. “I don’t bite men I don’t know.”

  Nico sat. “Maybe we should remain strangers, then.” God, why had he said that? She was going to think it was flirting. He looked out at the view. “Peaceful is good for me too.”

  “At least your wife wasn’t murdered.” She saw the sudden flinch of Nico’s arm. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’m both furious and devastated, which makes me say terrible things.” She was sure a hole had grown in her heart. “I’m not trying to find an excuse for being insensitive. I’ve always liked to state things plainly. And right now, I am self-involved and unpleasant. Please do forgive me.”

  “I understand.” He had watched too many fall apart or lash out in fury at the news a loved one had been murdered.

  Diane rested her chin on her hand and set her large eyes on Nico’s. “But didn’t losing your wife to cancer feel as if she’d been murdered?”

  She’d just said a horrible thing, but he wasn’t angry. “No, murder involves another person. An ugly, hateful, or greedy person. Cancer is neutral—something out of our individual control. How did you know about my wife?”

  Before she could answer, Nico’s cell phone rang. He looked at the screen. Perillo. “Please excuse me for a moment. I have to take this.” He walked to the other side of the terrace. “I can’t talk now. I just sat down with Diane Severson. She wants to talk to me.”

  “Maybe now that she’s a widow—”

  “I’m not laughing, so stop it. I don’t know how long this will take. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Wait, I’m the one who called. We need to get together before Tarani arrives. I’m getting statements from Aldo and Cinzia in the morning. If you’re not working, my office at one in the afternoon. Agreed?”

  No lunch duty tomorrow. He was free. “Okay.”

  “Tell her I know she’s got Mantelli’s laptop and I want it. Ciao.” Perillo clicked off. Nico put the phone back in his pocket and walked back to Diane’s table. “Sorry for the interruption.”

  “It’s part of modern life. You were asking me how I knew about your wife.”

  “I was.”

  “Small towns only hide secrets, and you’re no secret.” Diane dipped her last cantuccino in the wine. Should she go on or hold back? Would he believe her? Find it embarrassing? She liked the man. He could help her. What the hell? Why not open up? She lifted the cantuccino, bit off the soft part and dropped what was left in the glass. What this man thought of her was up to him.

  She leaned away from the candlelight, even though she knew her face would show no emotion. She had mastered that ability years ago. It used to make Michele furious. He’d slapped her once to see a reaction. She’d faked one to calm him down. “Right now, I feel the protective armor that helped me grow up, that made me withstand Michele’s infidelities, the strength that made me successful in my field, is gone. I feel stripped naked.”

  “Wouldn’t your son’s presence help?”

  “I called him to tell him he’d lost his father. His response was, ‘I never had one.’ He wanted to come home for me, but I said no. That I didn’t need him.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “No. He would fuss, and I can’t stand being fussed over. I know you won’t fuss over me. You are very popular, I’ve discovered, which says a lot about you. It made me curious. Small towns don’t easily embrace foreigners, especially so quickly.”

  “My wife was from here.”

  “Yes, but you are not your wife.”

  Two glasses and an open bottle of Ferriello Riserva appeared at his elbow with a fresh plate of cantuccini. He looked up to see Alba’s swinging hips as she quietly retreated.

  “You seem the opposite of me at this moment,” Diane said. “Steady and calm. I felt I could use an hour of that. As I mentioned, I’m self-involved. I hope you’re not finding it unpleasant.”

  “Not unpleasant. Just a bit . . . strange.
Want to switch wines?”

  “No, thank you. I like the sweetness of this Dolce Amore. And its name. Sweet love.”

  He half filled a glass with the wine Alba had brought. It was his first glass of the night. “I should warn you that Maresciallo Perillo and I are good friends.”

  Diane leaned into the table. The light from the candle at the center of the table lit up her face, and her eyes seemed to be smiling. “And I’m probably suspect number one and should watch my words?” She raised her glass. “Thanks. I appreciate you telling me, although I knew already. I’ve heard you were instrumental in solving last year’s Gravigna murder.”

  “A great exaggeration.” He hadn’t done much more than make suggestions, but Perillo, overjoyed the case was solved, had insisted on giving him additional credit.

  “I probably won’t watch what I say. I find you easier to talk to than the maresciallo.”

  “Because I’m American?”

  “No, because I don’t think you’ll jump to conclusions as easily.”

  Nico put his glass down and stood up. “I think you’re the one jumping to conclusions. Maresciallo Perillo does not. You’ll excuse me, but I need to go and help in the kitchen.”

  Diane grabbed his hand. “Please, stay.” She didn’t want to be alone. She’d hoped that the presence of Michele’s girlfriend at the villa would make her feel better, but Loredana was wrapped up in her own anger and grief. She had no warmth to offer, whereas this man did. “Just for a few more minutes.”

  The emotion in her voice caught Nico by surprise. He stood still.

  “I’ll tell you things that could help your friend.”

  He sat back down and took a sip of his wine.

  “I’ll start by saying I did not kill my husband, although lately I’ve often dreamed of doing so.” She stirred the wine-soaked cantuccino in her glass and watched it fall apart. What more to tell him that would cause no harm? “I took Michele’s laptop before the carabinieri arrived. I’m still looking for his money—that’s why I took it. To my great disappointment, there was no trace of where it is.”