The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

  OneWag changed feet. “All done, kiddo. Sorry. Wait, I forgot to feed him.” Nico stood up. OneWag barked and ran to the kitchen. “If you must, light a cigarette. You’re going gray from withdrawal. Use your ashtray.” He followed his dog.

  Daniele wet his finger and raised it in the air. Good. The breeze was moving away from him. He moved his chair, just in case the air switched.

  “I’ll raise my voice so you can hear, Nico.” Perillo quickly lit a cigarette and continued. “Ah, here’s one call to Luca Verdini last Sunday. Verdini called back the same day. Called on Tuesday too. You were right to put him on the suspect list. And the housekeeper called Mantelli twice—once on Monday, once on Tuesday. So Ida goes on our list.”

  “She’s already on it.” Nico took cooked rice and raw hamburger meat out of the refrigerator, mixed in an egg yolk and warmed the bowl for thirty seconds in the microwave.

  Daniele shifted in his chair. He had an idea he wanted to share. “Signorina Loredana told us the reason they went to dinner at Il Falco that night was because Mantelli was going to meet someone. Maybe it was Verdini.”

  “Could be,” Perillo said. “Or it was just an excuse to eat where he wanted to eat and not where she did.”

  “He was going to meet someone?” Nico asked. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “I forgot to. I’m not sure I believe much of what she said that day. She was a little crazy,” Perillo sensed Daniele’s back straighten. “I’ve misspoken. She’s a fragile woman, and I’d just let her know her boyfriend was murdered.”

  “She also told us someone knocked into her from behind and made her spill wine on her dress,” Daniele added. “She had to leave the table to clean it up. Maybe someone did it on purpose so Mantelli would be alone.”

  “That’s a possibility.” Nico took OneWag’s food out of the microwave and spooned it into his bowl. The dog did a happy wiggle. “I think I’d like to have a conversation with Signorina Loredana. Thanks for telling me, Daniele. I won’t hold it against you, Perillo.”

  Perillo mumbled, “Good,” his attention absorbed by the phone records. “There are several calls to a Diego Serretti.”

  “Serretti is the Banca Commerciale manager Mantelli dealt with,” Daniele said. “The information is on a different piece of paper. Capitano Tarani said Serretti was going to let him know what withdrawals Mantelli made in the past year. If you want, I can call him tomorrow and ask if he has the information. Tarani told him it was urgent. I’m sure the manager worked on it this weekend.”

  “It’s risky to reach out,” Perillo said. “Officially, the investigation is no longer in our hands.”

  Across the table, Daniele leaned closer to his boss. “Forgive me, Maresciallo, if I don’t agree. Capitano Tarani was conducting the investigation from the Greve station, and we are the Greve station. I will call the manager from the station phone. Whatever information the manager gives me, I will of course share with Capitano Tarani. I will say I called of my own accord. I am a young brigadiere with little experience in murder investigations. At most, he will yell at me. Or he may be happy I saved him a phone call.”

  Perillo looked over his shoulder. Nico was walking back. “What do you think?”

  “We don’t know if the missing money is what motivated the murder, but since we don’t know, let’s find out as much as we can. Thank you, Daniele. You’re shining today.”

  Yes, Daniele thought. Shining. That’s exactly how he felt.

  Nico sat back down. “What time is it in China?”

  “Six hours ahead of us.” Daniele looked at his phone. “Four-forty in the afternoon. The buyer’s number is in the folder. On the second page.”

  Perillo put the page on the table in front of Nico. “The call is on you.”

  Nico took out his cell phone. “You’re covering your ass, but I’ll happily do your job for you.”

  “He will certainly speak English, not Italian.”

  “Let’s hope he can understand me.” Nico clicked the numbers. A voice answered in Chinese after the third ring.

  Nico walked inside to hear better. “May I please speak to Mister Hua Chen?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am Mister Hua. Who are you?”

  Nico introduced himself. “I need to ask you a few questions about your dinner Tuesday night with Aldo Ferriello. I’m doing this at his request.”

  Nico explained as briefly as he could about Mantelli’s accident, leaving murder out. The carabinieri needed to corroborate what Aldo had told them about their meeting with Mantelli.

  “Why did carabinieri not call me?”

  “They tried, but got no answer. They also don’t speak English.”

  “I speak a little Italian also. Italy is in my heart.”

  “When you approached, Mr. Mantelli was drinking something. Were the two of you near the drink? Did Aldo touch the glass?”

  “We touched nothing.”

  Nico felt his stomach muscles release. “Thank you, Mister Hua.”

  “No problem. If carabinieri need me, I am here now.”

  “I will tell them, but as a favor to Aldo, please don’t mention I called you. They don’t like people who are not police to interfere. They might not trust what you say.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand. Our police are difficult also. No trust at all. Tell Aldo now I will open a bottle of his Riserva to wish him a good vintage this year.”

  “I will, and thank you again. Goodbye.” Relief prompted him to bend down and give his dog a hug. OneWag, who had his priorities straight, went back to licking the now-empty bowl.

  “Good news,” Nico announced, walking back to the balcony. “Hua says Aldo wasn’t near Mantelli’s drink. Now you have to tell Tarani to call him. Hua won’t mention my call.”

  “I’ll tell him, but we’ll have to see if Tarani believes him.”

  “Tell him not to mention Mantelli was murdered. I didn’t. Hua doesn’t know, or he would have said something. Tarani should claim he’s calling to try to understand what led to the accident.”

  “I don’t believe Capitano Tarani is willing to take advice from me. I will suggest that calling Hua Chen for corroboration might be a good idea.”

  “He’ll need a translator,” Daniele said.

  Nico sat back down. “Hua Chen speaks some Italian. What’s the waiter’s name? He’s next on my list.”

  “Yunas Mengistou,” Perillo answered. “He’s from Ethiopia. Tarani was surprised a restaurant as fancy as Il Falco would hire a Black waiter. Before Yunas left, Tarani explained to him that he’d meant no disrespect, but that it was unusual. Yunas answered that thankfully, things in Italy were changing for the better, and Tarani agreed.”

  “Then he’s not all bad. I met a Yunas last year during the Chianti Wine Expo. He was a waiter at Bar della Piazza.”

  “The same man. He brought in his résumé.”

  “Then I know where I’m having dinner tonight.”

  “It’ll cost you,” Perillo warned.

  “I’ll eat a big lunch. I want to see the layout of the place.”

  “And Ida Crivelli, the housekeeper?” Daniele looked at Perillo, who was having the last drag of his cigarette.

  “Call her in. Tomorrow morning at nine.”

  “Perhaps best to visit her?” Daniele suggested. “I have her phone number and address.”

  Perillo slapped his knee. “Bravo, Dani. Always keeping those young brain cells working. We’ll pay Ida an unofficial visit.”

  “Good.” Nico stood. Perillo and Daniele understood and got up too. “I’ll go to Verdini’s vineyard in the morning. We’ll keep in touch. Now it’s time I switch to my real job, waiting tables.”

  “Too bad,” Perillo said. “Ivana has prepared a fantastic Sunday lunch for me and Daniele. Homemade cannelloni. I’m sure there’s enough for four.”

  “T
hanks for letting me know what I’m missing.”

  Perillo gave Nico’s shoulder a friendly slap. “We missed those bacon and eggs.”

  The three of them walked to the door. OneWag opened one eye to see them go from his place on the sofa. A full stomach made him sleepy.

  “How about your cooking?” Perillo asked. “No new recipes?”

  “Too much on my mind.”

  “Of course, the murder.”

  That wasn’t all, Nico knew. He opened the door.

  A “ciao” came from Perillo with a wave of a hand.

  Daniele said, “Arrivederci. Thanks for breakfast.”

  “Eggs and pancetta next time. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Nico sat back down on the balcony and propped his feet up on the low wall that acted as a railing. He was going to get Aldo out of this mess, with or without Perillo’s help. And once that was over?

  Back to his Tuscan family, to the work he enjoyed, to his Gravigna friends. Why did he feel it wasn’t enough?

  Nico took out his cell phone and called Il Falco. He had Sunday night off.

  Daniele had just gotten back to his room from Ivana’s big Sunday lunch when he heard the first notes of Vivaldi’s “Spring.” He picked up his cell phone and swiped.

  “Why did you arrest Aldo Ferri?” Stella’s voice was icy. Nonna had just told her Aldo had been taken to a jail in Florence. She knew Aldo was innocent, a good man. When the restaurant was having a hard time a few years ago, he had lent them money interest-free. The money was paid back, but the kindness remained.

  “I didn’t arrest him,” Daniele said. “The investigation is no longer in our hands. The Special Investigative Office stepped in. Capitano Tarani arrested Aldo Ferri.”

  “Your boss was with him.”

  “Maresciallo Perillo had no choice.”

  “Do you believe he’s guilty?”

  “Stella, I’m a carabiniere. I can’t discuss the case.”

  “You just said it’s not in your hands anymore. You can discuss it. I want to know if you think he’s guilty.”

  “Why does it matter what I think?”

  “Because it says something about you. If we’re going to be friends, I want to trust you and your judgment.”

  How he would love to be friends with Stella, but he knew he needed to say this. “My idea of friendship is respecting your opinion, even if it differs from mine.”

  “That’s not what we’re discussing. Just answer yes or no. Do you believe Aldo killed Michele Mantelli?”

  Daniele sighed. He couldn’t lie. “No.”

  Stella felt a warmth in her stomach. If Daniele had said yes, she would have to erase him from her life, even though he was only a very little part of it for now. A nice part.

  “I can’t remember the last time I wore a dress,” Nelli said as Nico opened the door to Il Falco. She didn’t think Nico would care when she last had worn a dress, but she was flustered and a little anxious.

  “You look nice.” He meant it. When he picked her up in the main piazza, it had taken him a minute to recognize her. He had only seen her in paint-spotted jeans and oversized shirts.

  “Thank you.” She’d taken a great deal of time trying to look as nice as she could manage. A little makeup on her eyes and cheeks. A five-year-old white cotton shirtwaist dress she hadn’t worn more than two or three times, colorful espadrilles on her feet, her long graying hair gathered in the usual braid hanging down her back.

  “You look good too,” Nelli said, her shoulder brushing against his chest as she walked past him. Nico looked exactly as he always did, slightly disheveled, dressed in a blue shirt and tan slacks that needed another go-through with a hot iron.

  When Nico had called earlier to invite her to dinner, she’d felt a wonderful, welcome wave of happiness. Nico went on to warn her that all he was offering was dinner, very little company. Her wave of happiness receded when she had realized he would have to concentrate on talking to the waiter who had served Mantelli the night before his death.

  “Because Aldo was arrested?” she had asked.

  “Yes. I need to help him.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but can’t you go alone?”

  “I could, but it would be more pleasant to have you sitting with me.”

  That had felt nice. Not a wave, just a lap. As Nelli rinsed paint off herself in the shower, she wondered if he’d been telling the truth. It was true that a man sitting alone and questioning the waiter might raise eyebrows. Bringing a woman along was a much better cover-up. But he’d chosen to invite her.

  They followed the maitre d’ through a medium-sized room with a beamed ceiling, oxen yokes turned into lamps, floors covered in dark leather-looking tiles and rows of wine bottles on three walls. The far wall was all glass panels, now open, overlooking a small olive grove. The sun was still fairly high, but trees were starting to inch their shadows across the lawn.

  The artist in Nelli took in all this and more: the ochre-yellow tablecloths, the few elegantly dressed foreigners who liked to eat this early, the flowering rosemary branches on each table, the candles in round glass bowls, waiting to be lighted when it turned dark. An expensive restaurant, she thought. She’d have to be careful ordering.

  A skinny young Black man dressed in black trousers and a burgundy jacket with a falcon head embroidered on the breast pocket strode toward Nico and Nelli. He was smiling. “Signor Doyle, Signora, I am Yunas, your waiter.”

  “Buonasera, Yunas. We met last year at the Chianti Wine Expo. It’s nice to see you again.” Nico held out his hand.

  Yunas’s eyes went from Nico’s hand to the maitre d’. After a moment’s pause, the maitre d’ nodded. Yunas’s smile widened, and he shook Nico’s hand. “Your dog was thirsty. You too. Water, no gas.”

  “That’s right. Good memory.”

  Nelli kept her eyes on the waiter’s angular face, his deep rich brown skin, his friendly eyes, the wide cheekbones. She would love to paint him.

  “A good memory is a must for a waiter. I will take you to your table.” They walked into a smaller replica of the room they had just left. This room’s open glass panels revealed a walled-in garden filled with roses.

  “I apologize. I guess I wasn’t supposed to shake your hand,” Nico said, his eyes on Yunas instead of the roses.

  “It is uncommon, but the respect is most appreciated.” Yunas indicated the corner table. “Signor Mantelli sat there.” Seeing Nico’s questioning look, he explained in a low voice, “Some diners have curiosity and wish to see; others stay far from this room, fearing it might bring bad luck. You asked to be seated in this room, so I made a presumption.”

  “You presumed well. Your instincts are correct. I am a friend of Signor Ferri. I’d like to ask you—”

  Yunas stopped Nico from going any further by lifting his hand. “I serve this room, and the next reservation is for eight o’clock. For thirty minutes, I am yours alone.” He pushed back the corner chair and looked at Nelli. She hesitated, preferring the chair with the view of the roses.

  “It’s best this way,” Nico said, though he was sorry for it.

  She understood and sat looking out at the other tables. This way, Nico would have his back to whoever sat down or looked in. Yunas started to unfurl her napkin. She took it from him before he was finished and opened it on her lap. “Thank you,” she said. She didn’t want to offend him, but she was perfectly capable of opening her own napkin.

  Yunas bent over Nico as he unfolded his napkin. “I am sorry for Signor Ferri. I’ll go and retrieve your menus.”

  Nelli waited until Yunas was out of the room to ask, “Questioning him here is a bit awkward, isn’t it?”

  “It is, but if anyone is looking, I’m hoping to pass it off as just me being curious about the murder. I also wanted to see the place.”

  “Who wou
ld be looking for you here?”

  “Capitano Tarani doesn’t want me to be involved in any way. He knows about my ties to Perillo. I don’t want to get him in trouble. So it’s just me taking a friend to dinner and asking a few questions.” It wasn’t the whole truth. The need to talk to Yunas had given him the courage to ask Nelli to dinner. This way there would be no long, awkward gaps in the conversation, but she would still be dining with him.

  So there it is, thought Nelli. She was a prop.

  Yunas came back with the menus. He gave an open one to Nelli first. She chuckled. Obviously, rich people were incapable of doing anything but making money. Her eyes widened when she saw there were no prices. She held out the menu. “It’s all free?”

  Yunas tilted his head at her. “Signora?”

  “The prices aren’t marked.”

  Nico leaned toward her. “The guest shouldn’t see the prices so she feels free to order anything she likes without worrying about the cost.” The one time he had taken Rita to a restaurant with guest menus, she had protested too, though not as aggressively.

  Nelli handed her menu back to Yunas. “This guest would like to see the prices. Thank you.”

  “Of course.” Yunas said.

  “I know the restaurant is trying to be fancy to justify the prices,” Nico said.

  “I find it demeaning.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She was ruining the evening. “I’m not used to fancy.”

  “Neither am I.” Her smile told him she wasn’t angry.

  Yunas slipped her the regular menu without opening it. This lady clearly wanted to be in charge. He moved next to Nico with the pretense of adjusting a fork. “I did not see Signor Ferri put anything in Signor Mantelli’s drink.” Yunas spoke softly. “They were at least two meters away from where the signora now sits.”

  “You said that to Capitano Tarani?”

  “I did.” Yunas straightened his spine. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Water, no gas,” Nelli said, with a smile. “And a martini, please.” She was going to be an expensive prop. Besides she’d always wanted to taste one.

  Nico looked surprised. “I was going to order a bottle of wine.”