The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

  “Of course,” Nelli said. “I’ll have some after my martini. I like red.” She wasn’t rich or sophisticated and didn’t know the rules of high society, but three things she did well were painting, drinking and sticking to her opinions.

  Nico ordered a bottle of Ferriello Riserva, the 2015 vintage—a very good year, according to Aldo. Yunas took the order and left.

  “I’d like to raise a glass to Aldo,” Nico said. “Will you join me?”

  Nelli’s head was buried in the large menu. “Maybe more than one.” Filet mignon was expensive enough. Maybe that was what she should order.

  “I didn’t picture you as a big drinker,” Nico said, surprised.

  Nelli lowered the menu. “How do you picture me, Nico?”

  “I don’t really know. You’re a wonderful painter. I like being with you. Seeing your face. It’s open and friendly and curious. And if you’re overly fond of alcohol, that’s your business, but I hope you aren’t. I don’t want to worry about you.”

  Nelli laughed. She did so like this big loyal man. Prop or not, she forgave him. “I’m not overly fond of alcohol. I drink on special occasions. And this is very special. Ah, just in time.”

  Yunas entered carrying a silver tray with the martini and the bottle of wine. But Nico was still staring at her. He’d never seen her laugh. She simply glowed.

  Yunas started opening the bottle. “Go on, Nico,” Nelli said. “Ask your questions.”

  Nico shook his head as if just waking up. He turned to Yunas, who was standing by his shoulder. “The signorina who was sitting with him in the seat where I am now. She said someone bumped into her back and made her spill wine on her dress. Did you see that happen?”

  “I did.” Yunas popped the cork out and offered it to Nico.

  “I presume there is more to that,” Nico said. Yunas poured a couple of centimeters of the wine into Nico’s glass. Nico took a long sip. “Wonderful.”

  Yunas filled his glass. He wiped the wine bottle and set it on the table. “The signore offered me twenty euros to bump into the signorina at the correct moment. I took the money and did as he asked. Her eyes went to the stain on her dress, so she did not see me. I regret it now.”

  Nelli looked up at Yunas’s face. There was real dismay there. She hoped he wasn’t ashamed. Despite having a steady job, twenty euros could still seem like a great deal of money for a man who must have struggled to get to Italy, to find a job as a Black immigrant. A beautiful one, but still so foreign to some people.

  “Did he give a reason?” Nico asked.

  “He wished to be alone.”

  Because he was expecting to see someone here, Nico thought. At least, that was the reason he had given Loredana for changing restaurants. But who? Not his wife or Aldo. And why send Loredana away? “Did anyone talk to Mantelli besides his wife and Signor Ferri with his Chinese buyer? Anyone at all.”

  “I did not see anyone. If I was not in this room, it was only for two, three minutes, no more. Once the signorina left, he looked at his cell phone a few times.”

  “No staff besides yourself?”

  “I took care of the signore myself. I am sorry I cannot help you. I have told you my truth. What I saw. No more.”

  “The truth is exactly what I’m after,” Nico said. “Thank you for giving me yours.”

  Yunas acknowledged Nico with a nod. “Have you decided what you would like to eat?”

  Instead of the filet mignon she had planned to order, Nelli chose a much more affordable dish. “I’ll have the stuffed paccheri.”

  Nico found the names of different pastas very confusing. They changed by region. Same pasta, different name. “What are paccheri?”

  Nelli answered before Yunas could. “Big rigatoni. They’re typical in Campania, Maresciallo Perillo’s region.”

  “We stuff them,” Yunas added, “with a ragu of beef, mushrooms, kale, finely chopped, with a pink béchamel sauce.”

  “Sounds delicious. Two orders of paccheri, then.”

  “Will that be your first course?”

  Nico glanced at Nelli. “My first and second,” she said.

  “For me too.” Nico said. He waited for Yunas to take the menus and leave before saying, “I hope the prices aren’t stopping you from ordering more.”

  “The prices are ridiculous, but no,” she lied. She raised her martini glass. “Let’s toast to Aldo coming home soon.”

  Nico raised his glass and clinked it with hers. To Aldo, to being here with her.

  “Is what Yunas is telling you helping?”

  “Yes. He’s cleared Aldo.”

  “But he told Tarani what he told you, and Aldo got arrested anyway.”

  “A stupid, hasty arrest to please the prosecutor. Now they have to prove he did it, and there’s no proof. They’re assuming the poison was administered here, but maybe it wasn’t. Yes, methanol gives a bad taste to the drink it’s in, but it could also alter the taste of food and drinks consumed later.”

  “His wife was here that night too, wasn’t she?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The online grapevine of Gravigna. There’s no need to gather in the piazza to gossip anymore, which is a shame. It was a much better way of connecting.”

  “Face to face is always better, like tonight.”

  Nelli set her martini aside. As it turned out, she much preferred wine. “With Yunas.”

  “Yes. I already knew what Yunas had told Tarani, and Perillo had already relayed that to me, but I wanted to ask my own questions.”

  His answer wasn’t quite what she’d hoped. Nelli raised her empty glass. “I’d love some wine now.”

  Nico raised the wine bottle. Yunas took it from him and poured into Nelli’s glass. “The eight o’clock reservation is now in the front room. More answers will be difficult.”

  “One last one before they come in. When my friend was here, the signore complained that his second whiskey tasted bad.”

  “He did. I offered to have Signor Falchetti open another bottle or change whiskies. He said no. I reminded him his first dish was a raw artichoke salad. I do know wine and artichokes are bad partners. Maybe also whiskey and artichokes.”

  “The owner poured the whiskies himself, is that right?”

  Yunas looked over his shoulder. Signor Falchetti had stopped to talk to the four people he would soon be serving. “Yes. He trusts no one else with the alcohol. He was not happy the carabiniere came to ask questions wearing his uniform. The murder is much talked about. He does not want clients to be upset.”

  “Thank you,” Nico said. “No more questions from me. You have been very helpful.”

  Yunas’s face shined with pleasure. “Your paccheri will be here shortly.” He left them to greet the new diners.

  “Do I have you all to myself now?” Nelli asked.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” Was she upset? She didn’t look it. Her face was radiant, as always. “I did let you know.”

  “Yes, you did, which didn’t stop me from being annoyed at first. But it passed fairly quickly.”

  “You made the evening much easier for me. Thank you. I really appreciate you and your patience.”

  “I believe in looking ahead, not backwards.” She was looking beyond Nico’s shoulder. “Now, that is a masterpiece.”

  A different waiter wearing a waist-length burgundy jacket instead of the more distinguished blazer approached their table with their paccheri. Instead of being served in a loose mound, the paccheri, eight of them, stood tall on each plate, like roman columns.

  “A specialty of the house.” The waiter lowered the tray and handed out the dishes. “Buon appetito.”

  “Thank you,” they both said. Without another word, they cut into the first pacchero.

  With her mouth still full, Nelli started fluttering her hand in front of her c
hest, her way of saying the pacchero was incredibly delicious.

  Nico swallowed before agreeing with her. “I have to tell Tilde about this dish. Do you remember what’s in it?”

  “I do. I’ll be happy to write it down for you, but stuffing the cooked pasta without breaking it is time consuming. This place probably has at least ten or more in the kitchen putting food together for the chef.”

  “I have to tell her.”

  They went back to eating, while Yunas took care of the two German couples sitting at the table behind Nico. The two German men had strong voices they seemed happy to show off. Nico wasn’t good at small talk, and if he was hoping to know more about Nelli, tonight was not the night. They would have had to speak too loudly.

  “How is your Zio Peppino doing?” Nico asked after there was nothing left on his plate. “Is he still mourning his boss?”

  “He’s both furious and devastated.”

  “He’s double-mourning. The loss of the house and Mantelli’s violent death.” He’d witnessed many different reactions as the past bearer of bad news. Dumbfounded disbelief. Quiet tears. Screams and wails. One father, whose gay son had been murdered by a gang, had reacted by attacking him and breaking four of his ribs. “Any luck on finding Peppino another job?”

  “Signora Severson found him one, but he’d have to start right away, and he doesn’t want to leave until the new owners come. It’s sad. He’s such a good man.”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “I’m sure he told Salvatore everything, but you don’t need me to see him. Ask Mantelli’s wife. He works for her now.” At the mention of her name, Nelli felt a pang of jealousy. According to the grapevine, Signora Severson and Nico were spending a lot of time together at Sotto Il Fico. She had no right to feel jealous. She had no claim to Nico. She knew she was being ridiculous, spoiling a perfectly nice evening, but jealousy was what she felt. “I think I need to go home. I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” Bringing up Peppino had upset her. He was sorry for that. He paid the bill with cash, leaving Yunas a large tip.

  Nelli was silent on the drive to her house. She looked sad, and Nico didn’t know what to say to comfort her. In front of the gate of her small home in the newer part of Gravigna, she thanked him and kissed his cheeks. “I hope you find the real murderer.”

  “We will, and Zio Peppino is going to be okay. Grief just takes time.”

  “Yes, it does. I know.” She stepped out of the car. Feeling awkward, Nico stayed put.

  Reaching into her bag for her keys, Nelli walked up the short path to her door.

  “Nelli,” Nico called out as he scrambled out of the car. “I’d love to take you out to dinner again. I promise the only questions I ask will only be about you.”

  She turned around and felt a smile rise from her chest. “I’d love that too. Sleep well.”

  “How about Thursday night? I don’t work on Thursdays.”

  “Thursday it is. Now go home. Rocco misses you.”

  “Buonanotte, Nelli.”

  “Buonanotte.”

  As soon as Stella walked into Bar All’Angolo with Daniele, Sandro stepped out from behind the counter to give her and her backpack a hug. “Bella Stella, we miss you. You’re leaving again?”

  “Yes. Work calls!”

  “When are you dumping the big city and coming home for good?”

  “When you offer me a job with decent pay. Do you know Daniele?”

  “By eyesight only. You’re Salvatore’s right-hand man.” Sandro raised his hand in salute. “Ciao, I’m Sandro, married to Jimmy, who’s in the back stocking supplies when he isn’t napping.”

  Daniele raised his hand in return. “Ciao.”

  “What can I get the two of you? It’s on the house.”

  “No,” Stella protested. “We’ll each pay for our orders.”

  “I’ll pay for both of us,” Daniele said. He’d made sure to bring enough money in case she wanted more than ice cream.

  Sandro shook his head, his one gold earring picking up the light. “It’s no use, Daniele. Stella doesn’t like to be indebted to anyone.”

  “That’s right,” Stella said. “Sorry, Dani. Only the Roman way for me.”

  He gave in. “Okay.” Whatever she wanted was fine with him. It was nice just being with her. She was so full of life, he felt as if some of it rubbed off on him.

  “My bar, my rules,” Sandro said. “Without taxing my brain too much, I say you,” he pointed at Stella, “want two scoops, one salted caramel and one coffee on a cone.”

  Stella laughed. “Brilliant deduction.”

  Sandro turned to Daniele. “And you?”

  “Dark chocolate and stracciatella, please. In a cup.”

  Sandro prepared the ice creams and handed them over. They thanked him and walked with the overly full cup and the cone to one of the benches in the piazza.

  “You’re good friends with Sandro?” He missed having friends.

  “I’m friends with more or less everyone,” Stella caught a descending bit of caramel with her tongue. “Gravigna is a small town. Sandro gave me my first real job. I’ve helped at the restaurant in the summers since I was twelve, but since it belongs to my family, that doesn’t count. When I was sixteen, Sandro offered me my first real job at the café for the summer. I blew all my salary on ice cream cones. Salted caramel and coffee. It’s a great mix. Want to taste?” She held up the unlicked part of her cone.

  Daniele hesitated. He’d already used his spoon.

  “Hurry up, Dani. Lick away. It’s melting. Your germs won’t kill me.”

  Daniele allowed himself one lick, then quickly backed off.

  “Now I’ll use your spoon to taste yours so our germs get to know each other.”

  Daniele offered her his cup. “That would be nice.”

  “I think so.” Stella dug the spoon in deeply and quickly scooped a small mound of stracciatella into her mouth. “Mmm. That’s good.” She handed his spoon back.

  “Why only the Roman way for you? What’s wrong with a man treating you to ice cream?”

  “If we both pay, we’re equal. It’s better that way.”

  “I know it’s the way now, but I think it’s too bad. Trust has gone missing.”

  “Yes, it has. For good reason, though.”

  “I’m not like that.”

  “I know. That’s why we’re having ice cream together.”

  “You didn’t trust me earlier.”

  “Aldo is a good friend of my family.”

  “They don’t have enough evidence to hold him. He’ll come home soon.”

  “I hope you’re right. When I’m upset, I lash out. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. What time is the bus to Florence?”

  She glanced at her phone. “In twenty-eight minutes. I hope you’ll come visit me again.”

  “I want to. I don’t have any friends around my age yet.”

  “Sure you do. Me.”

  Daniele was grateful they were sitting in the dark side of the piazza so she wouldn’t see his red face.

  “We’re friends, right?” Stella asked.

  “Yes, we are.” He was happy.

  “Good.”

  They finished their ice cream in comfortable silence. The only noise came from the chatter and laughter from Da Gino’s crowded outside tables and the occasional car driving by.

  ELEVEN

  Monday morning, Nico and Gogol were finishing their usual breakfast at Bar All’Angolo. OneWag, having scoured the floor for crumbs, had left, sniffing out what goodies and smells the piazza might offer. Beppe, the newspaper seller’s chubby nineteen-year-old son, shuffled into the café to deliver two copies of the Florentine daily.

  “You’re late,” Sandro said from behind the cash register
. “What’s your excuse this time?” In the past half-hour, a steady stream of customers, regulars and tourists had been coming in.

  “Come on, Sandro,” Beppe spread out his arms. The papers fell to the floor. “What’s time when you’re young and happy?”

  Gogol nudged Nico with his lard crostino. “‘Oh, you who have a healthy intellect.’”

  “I heard that.” Beppe picked up the papers and flung them down on the nearest table. “Well, dear Signor Gogol, my intellect is just fine. My class grades were posted on the school bulletin board. I passed. You can go see for yourself if you don’t believe me. I’m finished with school.”

  A few regulars clapped. Last year, Beppe had been sent back.

  “Congratulations, Beppe,” Nico said. “Well done.”

  At the back of the bar, Jimmy was unloading the dishwasher. “You’re going to work at the news shop?”

  “I’m going to be a reporter. Exciting things are going on here. Two murders in the area in less than a year. Who better than me, a native, to spin the story, eh?”

  “God help us,” someone behind the pillar muttered.

  “In fact, Signor Nico, you are a friend of the maresciallo and the murder—” He was stopped midsentence by Gustavo bursting through the open door.

  “Is it true?” Gustavo asked Nico. “Ferri killed that wine critic?”

  The news would probably be in tomorrow’s papers, but to Nico’s regret, their grapevine had caught the news first. He now found himself surrounded by the Bench Boys, retired men in their late seventies and eighties who spent their days sitting together in the piazza, expounding, arguing and usually getting along. They carried flip phones in their pockets so their wives could call them home for lunch or dinner.

  Gogol grinned at Gustavo. “You wish to know the truth. ‘It is right you should be gratified of such a desire.’” Any excuse to quote the master poet, even only partially, was a good one.

  “That’s worth ten cents, not a euro,” Gustavo said.

  Gogol shrugged. “It’s free. Sometimes I need to adapt.”

  “Please sit down, all of you,” Nico said.

  Gustavo pulled a chair from the next table and sat down next to Nico. Ettore did the same. The other two pushed the table closer and leaned on it, their necks craned toward Nico to hear better.