“This past winter, Aldo had to buy new harvesting machines, and suddenly there wasn’t enough money to keep paying Mantelli. That’s when he wrote the review, but he never sent it in. He knew that ruining Aldo also meant ruining you. You were his great love, and so he offered you an out. Leave Aldo, and Aldo would become rich from his praise.”
“I would never do that.”
“Did you make a counteroffer?” Not her heart, but her body? “Tuesday night, I saw you drive off at around ten o’clock. You don’t have to tell me where you were going. I’m asking you to tell Perillo.”
Cinzia was on the verge of tears. “And what? Tell him I was willing to sell myself to save our business? That would only give Aldo even greater reason to kill Michele.”
“Why would Aldo have to know what you were planning? You can tell Perillo you wanted one more chance to change Mantelli’s mind.”
“By talking?”
“Yes. Let Perillo think what he wants.”
“He’ll think I killed him.”
“I doubt he will. For one thing, he knows you, and from what the girlfriend told Perillo, it looks like Mantelli was already sick by the time he got home after dinner. What about Tuesday afternoon? Can someone vouch for your whereabouts?”
“I took Hua Chen to Florence in the morning. He wanted to buy his wife a present. After shopping, we had lunch. We got home around four o’clock. Aldo wasn’t there, but Arben saw me. I worked with Arben the rest of the afternoon.”
“That’s good news. Now tell me about Tuesday night.”
Cinzia finished her glass and pushed the cork back into the bottle. “Aldo wasn’t going to come home anytime soon, so I decided to go to Michele’s house to make him an offer he might accept. If he wasn’t in, I was going to leave a note. I stopped halfway up the front steps when I heard a woman’s angry voice. The windows were wide open. I got closer to get a peek and saw his girlfriend standing in the middle of the kitchen. She had her back to me, but I recognized the long hair. She was yelling at Michele for being drunk, for spoiling her evening, for making promises he wasn’t going to keep. I couldn’t see him until I moved closer. He must have been sitting. I only saw his head. He was holding it up with his hands.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“No. I parked the car on the street and found the gate open. I just walked through the front garden, heard the voice and moved to the window.”
“Good, let Tarani put you on the suspect list but not find fingerprints to place you at the scene. You’ll tell Perillo everything?”
She nodded slowly. “You won’t say anything to Aldo, will you?”
“There’s nothing to say. I know you can count on Perillo and Daniele too.”
“I guess I’ve no choice but to believe you.” Cinzia walked slowly to the wine counter, picked up her handbag and took out her car keys. “I’m going there now. Ciao, Nico.”
Nico stood up and linked his arm in hers. “Let me drive you to the station.”
“That’s the wisest thing you’ve said today.”
When Nico walked into Perillo’s office for their one o’clock meeting, he was greeted by a colorful spread of food laid out on a low filing cabinet: thinly sliced grilled vegetables brushed with garlic and pepperoncino-infused olive oil next to a platter of different salamis, prosciutto and mortadella, surrounded by olives and slices of unsalted country bread. A large bowl of apricots, peaches and pears completed the picture. To one side were three cloth napkins and silverware.
Nico nodded his greeting to Perillo and Daniele, his eyes on the food. It looked like a modern art painting. “What a bonanza.”
“Thank my wife,” Perillo said, filling his plate with the meats. “I was going to order from the bar, but she said I would be insulting my guest.” He pointed a fork at Nico. “You’re a guest now. Help yourself, but leave some vegetables for the vegetarian.”
Daniele, with fork and plate in hand, said, “Take all you want, please.”
“I’m already full. I had a big breakfast with the family to celebrate Stella.” Nico made a point of not looking at Daniele, who was right behind him. “She’s here for the weekend.”
“That must make you happy,” Daniele said.
“It does. Stella makes everyone happy.” Nico took a few slices of each offering and sprinkled salt on the unsalted bread that Tuscans favored. “She’s a lovely woman.”
Yes, she is, Daniele thought, feeling the heat rise from neck to cheeks. Thankfully, Perillo was behind him and Nico’s back in front of him. Would he have a chance to see her while she was here?
“Give her my regards.” Perillo sat at his desk and started eating.
“Mine too,” Daniele added, hastily filling his plate.
Perillo forked a slice of salame and pointed it at Nico. “Cinzia left half an hour ago. Interesting what she had to say.”
“I hope you believed her.”
“There’s no reason not to believe her, although . . .” Perillo left the rest unsaid.
“I know. She has a good motive, but the timing is wrong.”
“You think Mantelli had already been poisoned by then?”
“I do.”
“I’m afraid the timing is not that clear-cut, but I am inclined to rule Cinzia out. Tarani might have a different opinion. You had something to do with her candor, she says.”
“She needed some encouragement.” Nico sat in the chair facing Perillo’s desk.
“I’ve asked for Mantelli’s phone records,” Perillo said, “but they haven’t come in yet. According to his girlfriend, Mantelli was going to meet someone at Il Falco that night. We don’t know who or whether they showed up. The waiter may tell us.”
“A mystery appointment?” Nico asked before spearing a couple of slices of grilled sun-bright yellow peppers. “Definitely worth pursuing.” The phone records or the laptop should tell them more, unless the appointment was made in person, he thought as a slice went into his mouth. It was soft and sweet, coated in an olive oil with a peppery bite. Why did they have to discuss murder over food like this?
“I’ve decided to add Loredana to the suspect list,” Perillo said after swallowing his salame. “Although Daniele thinks she’s too beautiful to kill anyone.”
Daniele pulled up a chair and rested his vegetable plate on a corner of Perillo’s desk. “That’s not what I said.”
“I know you didn’t. I meant it as an affectionate tease, Dani.”
“If you say so, Maresciallo.” He thought it was an odd way to show affection, but he did know his boss meant well. What he had told the maresciallo was that Loredana seemed too fragile to have carried out the murder.
Perillo asked Nico, “What did you learn from Signora Severson last night?”
In the back of the room, the fan whirred, cooling off nothing.
“Not much. She’s having a hard time with Mantelli’s death, either out of love or because of the missing money. Maybe both. She admitted to taking the laptop. Mantelli apparently kept detailed notes on it. The only two Tuscan vintners paying him off were Aldo and Luca Verdini.”
“Yes, we know. She dropped the laptop off this morning,” Daniele said. “Including the password, which made things much easier. She left a note, wishing us good luck in finding the missing money.”
“No mention of the murderer,” Perillo added and bit off half a rolled mortadella slice.
“Interesting that she knew his password. What is it?”
Daniele dug into his pocket, took out his small notebook and flipped through a few pages. “Here it is. It’s in English and I think German. Greenhill&Grünhügel. She explained that Mantelli kept all his passwords in an agenda locked up in his desk drawer. She found the key taped behind a picture on the wall.”
“Forget the password,” Perillo said with a wave of his hand. “What do we have?”
“You tell me,” Nico said. Perillo may not be interested in passwords, but he found it intriguing that the password translated into Italian was ColleVerde.
“Four suspects: the wife, the girlfriend, Aldo and Cinzia.” Perillo counted them off by picking up olives and lining them up around the rim of his plate. “The son is still in Australia. We checked. Aldo is the most solid suspect. He has a motive, means and opportunity, since he was at the restaurant at the same time as Mantelli.”
“So was Mantelli’s wife and whoever her date was.”
“Luca Verdini.”
“How did you find out?”
“She told me. I’ve got it in writing.”
Nico was annoyed. Perillo didn’t trust him. “You didn’t tell me that. What else is in writing?”
“She tried to talk to Mantelli, but he told her to leave. She says she didn’t get close enough to the table to put anything in his drink. Verdini confirms that.”
“I’m glad I asked. They could both be lying.”
Perillo threw himself back on his chair with a defeated look on his face. “You’re right. We’re in this together and I should have told you. I apologize. I’m upset, nervous. I hate the idea of this capitano taking over. Just hate it.”
“It’s okay. I understand. Everyone likes to be their own boss. Did anyone see Aldo and Mantelli together at the restaurant?”
“Not so far. The waiter who served Mantelli wasn’t on duty last night. He’s coming to the station this afternoon on his way to Il Falco to give a statement. He’s not on duty for the lunch shift. And may I remind you that Aldo didn’t have to be anywhere near Mantelli? All he needed was to be near the bar when the waiter was preparing Mantelli’s whiskey.”
“You’re assuming the poisoning took place at the restaurant. It could have happened earlier.”
“We have a statement from the gardener,” Daniele said, eager to interrupt the ill feeling that had crept into the conversation. “Peppino Risso. A nice man. Mantelli also had a housekeeper, Ida. We haven’t talked to her yet.”
Daniele had put a slight emphasis on “yet” as a way of nudging his boss. Nico suspected Perillo hadn’t seen the need to call her in.
“She could have interesting information,” Nico said.
Perillo shook his head. “She’s only part-time help.” He was perfectly aware that he had done a lousy job with this murder investigation from the beginning. He was letting his intense dislike of the victim get in the way. Michele Mantelli reminded him too much of Substitute Prosecutor Riccardo Della Langhe. And knowing Capitano Tarani was taking over certainly didn’t help.
“She works three days a week, according to Peppino.” Daniele swept his bread across his plate to soak up the last of the pepperoncino-infused olive oil. “Always according to Peppino, Signor Mantelli didn’t trust her. Maybe we should find out why.”
Perillo raised his arms in exasperation. “All right, I heard you. Call her in!”
“Call who in?”
The three men turned to look at the door. Capitano Tarani, in full uniform, saluted.
Perillo scrambled to his feet. He was wearing cotton slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. Daniele shot up from his chair and saluted back. Not knowing exactly when Capitano Tarani would arrive and being cautious by nature, he was in uniform. Unfortunately, a dark spot of oil now marred his crisp blue short-sleeved shirt. He placed his hand over the spot. Since Perillo seemed dumbstruck, Daniele answered for him. “The housekeeper, Capitano.”
Tarani took off his hat. He was a very tall, trim man with slicked-back dust-colored hair, a pointed face and small eyes that reminded Nico of the school hamster he’d played with as a child.
Tarani aimed his eyes at Daniele. “You are?”
“Brigadiere Daniele Donato.”
Tarani shifted his gaze at Perillo and Nico. “Which of you is Maresciallo Salvatore Perillo?”
Perillo stepped forward. Tarani held out his hand. Perillo shook it, hoping his fingers were clean.
“You were aware I was coming?”
“I thought it was tomorrow, Capitano.”
Nico stepped forward. “Domenico Doyle. I’m a friend.” He caught Perillo about to open his mouth and stopped him with an icy stare. Tarani did not come across as someone who would welcome the interference of an American ex-homicide detective.
“I see.” Tarani walked back to the filing cabinet and picked up an apricot. “You were celebrating something?”
“No,” Perillo said. “My wife wanted to return the favor of Nico’s hospitality the other night. As our kitchen is only large enough for two, she suggested I invite him here.”
Daniele tried not to blush. The maresciallo’s kitchen table could easily seat four, even six.
Clever, Nico thought, but again, blaming the woman.
“By the looks of what’s left,” Tarani juggled the apricot from one hand to the other, “you have had enough to eat. Now it’s time to do some work. We have a murder to solve.” The capitano gave Nico a pointed look.
“And I have work to do,” Nico said. “Buon pomeriggio, Capitano. A pleasure to meet you.” The man hasn’t even bothered to introduce himself, Nico thought as he turned to Perillo. “Please thank Ivana for the wonderful meal.” As he passed the filing cabinet, he picked up a pear and bit into it loudly.
As Nico opened the front door of the station, he was greeted by a little yelp. He looked down, thinking he had hit an animal. He was met by a pair of red high-heeled sandals.
“You hurt me.”
Nico looked up to see Mantelli’s very beautiful girlfriend, dressed in a long lacey white dress. “I’m sorry.”
Loredana remembered to smile. “You didn’t really. I’m just a little nervous. I know you, don’t I?”
“I was at Sotto Il Fico on Tuesday, when Signor Mantelli was going over the restaurant’s wine list.”
“Yes, my Mica was still alive then. It seems so long ago.”
Nico noticed her comment did not erase her smile. He also noticed that her pupils were reduced to pinpoints. She was high on something.
Loredana tossed her hair to one side. “I’m here to make a statement. Why are you here? You’re not a suspect, are you? You look too nice to have killed anyone.”
“Thank you. I’m a friend of the maresciallo’s.”
“That awful man? How could you be his friend? I’m sure he thinks I killed Mica.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t. He’s a good man just trying to do his job.”
“Well, it’s a horrible job. Ciao, ciao.”
Nico watched as she entered the station and stopped at the front office. Vince appeared in a nanosecond, palming his hair, his stomach sucked in. By some innate Italian male instinct, Dino and another carabiniere came out of another office. “Signorina,” all three said, almost in unison.
Nico grinned and shut the front door.
“Come on, let’s go.” Nico had driven home to pick up OneWag before going to Verdini’s vineyard. “Enzo needs his wine.”
The dog didn’t even lift his head. He was comfortably lying in the vegetable garden beneath the bean plants. The earth was still cool from the morning’s watering.
“OneWag!”
The dog didn’t move. Nico knew this was payback for having left him at home while he met with Perillo. “Okay. I’ll go without you. I’ll come back smelling of manure, then you’ll be sorry.”
One ear perked up. “Ah, you remember your roll in manure with Contessa.”
OneWag’s head lifted. Nico started laughing—at the dog, at himself. During the winter, a bleak one with bad weather that had kept the restaurant almost empty, he’d started one-way conversations with OneWag. Maybe it was only his imagination, but the dog seemed to listen. He had unloaded years’ worth of feelings and memories, both sad and happy. He found it comfortin
g.
A whiff of cologne reached Nico’s nose. He turned around. Gogol was slowly walking toward him, holding a crostino.
“Buongiorno, Gogol. What brings you here?” The only other time Gogol had been to his house was last September, when Nico had thrown a lawn party to celebrate the closing of the murder case with his new friends.
Gogol looked up at the sun. “The sun says it is now buon pomeriggio. I wish that for you.”
“Thank you. The same to you.”
“I was in the woods, looking for mushrooms.”
“It hasn’t rained in weeks.”
“Where there is a heart, there is hope.” He looked at Nico with gray rheumy eyes. “It is believed that only a lonely or a crazy man speaks to animals. Saint Francis found it a necessity. Crazy, he was not. Lonely, perhaps yes. I was alone this morning.”
“Oh, shit! I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. I thought I was going to see Stella last night. I saw her this morning for breakfast instead. Please forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I was not alone for long.” He shook a finger at Nico. “The poet says, ‘I am one who, when love breathes in me, takes note.’”
“Whether Inferno, Purgatorio or Paradiso, I have no idea. But I think you’re trying to tell me it was Nelli who kept you company this morning.” Lately, when love came up, it always had to do with Nelli.
Gogol pointed to his boots. OneWag was sitting next to them, looking up at the two men and listening.
“A gift from Nelli.” Nico guessed. “She loves you.” He’d been told she had always been generous with Gogol. For years, she had offered to buy him a new coat, but he always refused. He claimed his coat had his soul in its pockets.
“And you?” Gogol asked.
“I am your friend.”
Gogol shook his head with impatience. “‘You think like a child, your foot does not yet trust to step on the truth.’”
“What truth?”
“Love is in your heart. You do not hear for you are steeped in the whys of that man’s death. Keep your gaze on his fair-haired beauty.”
The Bitter Taste of Murder Page 13