The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

“That’s what I’m afraid of. She took a taxi to Lamole, was unsuccessful in getting a table at the restaurant there, then walked off with her suitcases. A couple of hours later, she was spotted on the south road by some hikers. She was sitting on one of her suitcases with a broken shoe heel. When they went back to check on her, she was gone.”

  “Someone must have picked her up.”

  Maybe you? “It looks that way. Can you think of who might have? Verdini is accounted for.”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I really don’t.” Diane noticed Nico hadn’t even taken a sip of his tonic water. He looked uncomfortable, sitting up straight at the edge of his chair. A nice interesting man. A keeper. “Peccato,” as the Italians said. Too bad. Funny that the word also meant “sin.” She laid her head back on the chaise and closed her eyes. “Forgive me; I think the gin has gotten to me.” Gin and regret.

  Nico stood up. “It’s been a long day for everyone.”

  “Yes, it has.” She kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to see him leave. “I wasn’t any help, but I hope you find her. Please let me know.”

  “I will. Good night. I’ll see myself out.”

  “Please do.”

  OneWag, who had warily kept watch on his boss and the woman, let out a bark of joy and rushed to the door.

  Nico had just squeezed himself into his Fiat 500 after OneWag and buckled up when his phone vibrated. Damn! He’d forgotten to get his phone out of his pants pocket and slip it in the door pocket when he’d gotten in. The car was so damn small. He knew he’d gained weight, but this was ridiculous. Nico unbuckled, got out of the car, slammed the door shut and took out his phone. “Did you find her?”

  “We found her suitcases halfway down on the same road the hikers saw her. They were hidden behind some bushes. Her shoes were there too. She must have kept the broken heel for some reason.”

  If the need occurred, Nico thought, a stiletto heel could make a good weapon. “If she left the suitcases, she wasn’t picked up by a car.”

  “It must have been a motorcycle. If she was on foot, we would have found her. Tarani left two men on a stakeout near the suitcases in case she comes back for them. I sent my own home. Let his men do the night. She could be halfway to the Swiss border by now.”

  “Why the Swiss border? Do they extradite?”

  “I was thinking of Mantelli’s money. The housekeeper caught Loredana riffling through Mantelli’s desk and closet on Friday. What if she found some Swiss bank information?”

  “Or his overdue laundry bill. Perillo, you’re tired and grabbing at straws. Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning. Buonanotte.”

  “Let’s hope it’s a good one. Ciao.”

  THIRTEEN

  When Nico walked into Bar All’Angolo with OneWag, Gogol raised both his arms and exclaimed, “‘The time was the beginning of morning, and the sun was rising accompanied by three stars from when divine love first made these things of beauty.’”

  “That’s a good one,” Nico said as he sat down facing his friend. The sight of Gogol welcoming him with an enthusiastic quote lifted his spirits. Being in the café also helped. Sandro at the cash register, Jimmy manning the espresso machine, clients elbowing each other at the long counter. Life was back to normal here. Worried about Loredana, he had tossed and turned most of the night, driving OneWag to seek peace on the sofa.

  “Dear Gogol, I understood every word, and I’m going to surprise you by guessing correctly. Since Dante is seeing the sun, it can only be from the first canto of Inferno.”

  With a brown-toothed grin, Gogol lifted his hand for a high-five. Their hands clapped.

  “He came in half an hour ago,” Sandro said, bringing over Nico’s cornetto. “Kept fidgeting and muttering until he saw you. Jimmy claims he can tell when something is wrong before it happens.”

  “Thanks.” Nico took the plate. “That sounds like a bit of folklore to me.”

  Sandro lifted one shoulder, “Maybe,” the other shoulder came up. “Maybe not.”

  Gogol paid no attention to Sandro, his eyes intent on Nico’s face.

  “You must be hungry.” Nico pushed the plate across the table. “I’ll get another one.”

  “Coming up,” Jimmy said from the far end of the café. “Along with an Americano for you and an espresso for the seer. Come get them.”

  Nico walked to the back. OneWag followed. Today’s pickings on the floor had been meager. Nico swept up the cornetto flakes and powdered sugar on the counter and let them fall to the floor. OneWag started licking.

  Jimmy noticed. “Thanks. No one bothers to clean up after themselves.” He put the cornetto and two coffees on a tray. “What Sandro told you isn’t folklore.” He spoke in a low voice. “The morning my mother died of a stroke, I rushed over to her house, and there was Gogol walking back and forth on the sidewalk. When my sister broke her water three weeks early, who was outside her home but Gogol with a flower in his hand. He feels things, like animals just before an earthquake.”

  Nico wasn’t convinced, but he played along. “I’m glad he can also feel good things coming, not just bad.”

  “We all are. Otherwise someone might get it in his head to run him out of town.”

  Nico took the tray back to the table and sat back down. “Did you enjoy that?” he asked. Nico’s first cornetto was gone.

  Gogol shook his head and wiped the crumbs off his lips. He drank his espresso before looking up at Nico. “‘Charon, don’t torment yourself.’”

  Nico guessed a sleepless night showed on his face. “I’m not ferrying anyone to hell, Gogol, so I can’t torment myself.”

  Gogol huffed and used his chin to point to Perillo walking through the open French doors. Dressed in his usual jeans and a crisp shirt, Nico watched him walk over to a group of cyclists and start chatting. What the hell? He’d expected Perillo to come straight over to him and share whatever news he had. Even if there was no news.

  Gogol clasped his hand over Nico’s wrist. “‘Don’t torment yourself. It is willed where the power resides to will it.’”

  Nico freed his wrist. “Gogol, please just say it in plain Italian. What are you trying to tell me?” Gogol’s chagrined face made him instantly regret his outburst.

  Perillo walked over, sat next to Gogol and leaned in. “He’s trying to tell you,” he said in a barely audible voice, “that God willed her death.”

  “Loredana?”

  Perillo nodded, his face drained of any visible emotion. “I need a cigarette,” he said in a surprisingly steady voice. “Signor Gogol, would you mind lending me your friend while I smoke outside?”

  “He is yours to keep today. I wish you both buoyed spirits. The day is full of sadness.” He stood up with them. “Tomorrow, if I live.”

  “God wills it, Gogol. See you tomorrow.” Nico called out to Sandro, “I’ll pay you later.” Sandro raised a thumb.

  Outside Perillo lit his cigarette and watched Gogol walk away. “It’s odd, but the dogs in the kennel don’t bark at him. Vince sees him there often, hears him quoting Dante to them, and not a one barks.”

  “They sense he is gentle. Tell me about Loredana.”

  Perillo started walking along the grassy edge of the road. Nico kept pace. “Dino found her—that is, his dog did.”

  “Where?”

  “In the woods behind the kennel where most of the hunters around here keep their dogs. It’s almost at the end of the south road that leads to Lamole.”

  “The road where the hikers saw her?”

  “The very same, except five kilometers further down. Dino goes to the kennel at five-thirty every morning to walk his German pointer before coming to the station. As soon as he opened the cage, the dog ran off into the woods. Dino thought he’d spotted or smelled a hare and went after him.” Perillo jabbed the cigarette in his mouth and sucked the smoke in. He took h
is time blowing it out. Sucked in more smoke, taking it down all the way to the bottom of his lungs. Perillo’s mind was replaying his visit to Loredana at Il Glicine. How breathtakingly beautiful she was, how wild and yes, how fragile.

  Nico didn’t press him.

  “She was curled up as if she’d fallen asleep,” Perillo finally said. “Fully dressed. Only her shoes were missing. She had the broken heel in her hand. She’d used it to start writing a suicide note on the ground. I AM SOR. That’s all she managed to write before whatever she’d put into her body took over.”

  “You are sure it was suicide?”

  “It certainly looks that way. There was a syringe not far from the body.”

  “She could have overdosed,” Nico said. “According to Diane, a doctor had introduced her to pentobarbital. It’s an anti-anxiety drug. You get the dosage wrong, and you’re dead.”

  “Overdose or suicide, the result is the same. An ugly, sad, useless death.” Perillo looked at his watch. “The medical examiner took Loredana and the syringe with him. They should be in Florence in half an hour. We’ll have a definitive answer on Loredana in a few days, depending on how many other bodies he has to deal with. We should know what was in the syringe by tomorrow.” Perillo started walking again. “The idea of that beautiful woman being cut up makes me want to throw up.”

  It was nauseating when it came to all victims, Nico thought, keeping up with Perillo’s pace. Nauseating but necessary. It gave answers, which in turn gave peace to the family. “Have you called her stepmother?”

  “Daniele has that job. The good news is that Aldo is coming home tonight.”

  Nico tapped Perillo’s shoulder. “That’s wonderful. Let’s try to focus on the good news.”

  “I will when we close this case,” Perillo said, “and I hope that happens when we get Loredana’s autopsy report.”

  “You have doubts she killed Mantelli?” Perillo had seemed convinced before.

  “I’m full of doubts these days. The autopsy should clear some of them.”

  “Nelli’s out on the terrace,” Enzo said when Nico walked into the restaurant with Enrico’s bread for the lunch service. “She heard about the suicide. Awful, isn’t it? She was so young and beautiful.”

  Nico dropped the bags on the first table. “It’s awful even when they’re old and ugly.”

  “You’re right, but somehow it just hits you differently. Thanks for the bread.” Enzo was in charge of slicing it.

  Nico walked to the kitchen, saying buongiorno to Elvira on the way.

  She was in her armchair in her blue and green Tuesday dress, folding napkins. “I appreciate you saying that about the old and ugly. I never had the luxury of beauty, and I certainly have no intention of committing suicide. It’s a selfish act. No thought to the pain she caused.”

  “She had no one, Elvira.”

  “It’s not possible to have no one. She didn’t suddenly appear in a cabbage.”

  “Her father and mother are dead. So is her boyfriend, and there was no love from the stepmother.”

  Elvira crossed herself. “Suicide is a sin, but I hope the Lord will forgive her.”

  Nico continued walking, popping his head in the kitchen. “Ciao, Tilde. Nelli’s on the terrace. Do I have time to talk to her?”

  “Take all the time you want. She’s upset about Mantelli’s girlfriend committing suicide. I sent Alba to her with a plate of your frittelle. Go and cheer her up. Even better, invite her to have lunch with you. Alba and Enzo will handle the lunch crowd. Go.”

  “Thanks.” Walking out on the terrace, he crossed paths with Alba, who gave him a quick double kiss. “Sad day.” Nico nodded, his eyes searching for Nelli. She was seated at the least popular table, one far back against the building wall.

  “I tried to get her to move to a seat with a view,” Alba said. “She wouldn’t, so I brought over your fritelle. She looked in need of cheering up. So do you. I know, I heard. If the American lady shows up, I’ll tell her you’re not here. Nelli’s nice.”

  Nelli spotted him and smiled.

  He walked over to her table and sat down facing her.

  “Ciao, Nico. Your frittelle are very good. I wasn’t hungry, but I finished them all. How are you?”

  “It’s been a sad morning, but it’s nice to see you.”

  “Why did she do it, do you know?” Nelli saw his face shut down. “I’m sorry. If you know, you probably can’t tell me. I didn’t come here to get information about her. I wanted to know how you are. It must be horribly sad and also frustrating for you and Salvatore. She was running away, wasn’t she?”

  “The usual rumor mill told you?”

  “Who else? Thanks to the Internet, the news—false or not—takes flight. The cab driver wrote something on his Twitter feed, and it spread from there. How are you?”

  “Okay. I had no emotional attachment to her. I only saw her twice. The second time, I exchanged a few words with her, that’s all. Suicide is always sad—it’s devastating for the family, for friends.”

  “Theories are already sprouting about her death,” Nelli said. “I thought you should know.”

  “Such as?”

  “That she overdosed by mistake. Or was kidnapped by a hiker or a tourist, raped and killed. Or that she knew where Mantelli’s money was, and his wife or someone else forced the information out of her, then killed her. Or that she was blackmailing Mantelli’s killer, and he or she shut her up.”

  “Perillo should cede his job to these people.”

  “No one likes uncertainty, so people come up with possibilities. I think it makes them feel in control.”

  “As long as it doesn’t harm anyone.”

  “Sometimes it does.”

  “It will take a few days to know what really happened to Loredana. I’d like to put her aside for now and concentrate on lunch. Will you keep me company? I’d like that very much.”

  “You don’t have to work?”

  “Tilde kicked me out of the kitchen, thanks to you. If you’ll join me, I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.”

  Nelli didn’t feel like eating. The young woman’s ugly death had shaken her. She had come to console Nico if he needed it, but realized she was looking for consolation too. Nico’s presence did that. “I would like lunch with you very much. Thank you. What’s on the menu besides frittelle?”

  “The best pappa al pomodoro in all of Tuscany, for one.”

  “All of Tuscany?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Before going home after lunch, Nico drove by the Ferriello welcome center for news of Aldo.

  Arben was lying down on a bench, eyes closed. OneWag nuzzled his ear. “Ciao, Nico.” He kept this eyes closed. “You’ve heard the good news about Aldo?”

  “I did. I’m sorry I interrupted your nap.”

  “I give myself twenty minutes each day on a bench. It reminds me of how lucky I am that I’m sleeping in a bed again. Today, I gave myself an extra ten to celebrate.” Arben opened his eyes and sat up. “You just missed Cinzia. I wish you’d seen her. She was gushing like a badly popped champagne bottle. I’ve never seen her so happy.” Arben was one big smile too. “She asked me to tell you she’s having me and the rest of the workers here to celebrate. She wants you to come.”

  “I didn’t work at lunch, which means tonight is a must, unfortunately.” Nico knew he could get out of the dinner shift. Tilde had made it clear that, since he insisted on working for free, he had no obligations to her. Celebrating Aldo’s freedom would have been fun under different circumstances, but Loredana’s death sat heavily on his chest. “I’ll drop in and give Aldo a hug before I go. I’ll celebrate with him another time.”

  “She’s going to be upset.” Arben wiped his face with his hands. “I should be working now.” He stood up. “I heard about Mantelli’s girlfriend. I guess she
didn’t want to spend the rest of her life in jail. I would have done the same, although I hear Italian jails are much better than the stinkholes in Albania.”

  “Ciao, Arben. I’ll tell Cinzia myself. Enjoy tonight.”

  “Oh, I will. Big headache tomorrow. Ciao.”

  Perillo called as Nico was changing into shorts and a T-shirt to do some weeding. “I got the results on the syringe. It had traces of pentobarbital. That’s how she killed herself.”

  “Let’s say that’s what probably killed her. You still need to wait for the autopsy report.”

  “You are splitting one hair into many, but justifiably so. Haste is not a good policy, and I now have more questions than before.”

  “I have only one. Why poison Mantelli with wood alcohol when all she had to do was inject him with pentobarbital? A much faster, easier way to kill.”

  “I see we agree. Are you free now?”

  “Give me the time to change and I’ll come to the station.”

  “No, Daniele and I will come to you. Being in comfort is more conducive to clear thinking, and your balcony offers fresh air.”

  A glass of whiskey also helps, Nico thought, but said, “What about Tarani?”

  “He is in Florence, convinced we have found Mantelli’s killer, who is conveniently dead.”

  “No dinner. I have to work tonight.”

  “I would not presume to impose on you for food. Ivana has plans to salvage our spirits with a seven-layer eggplant and zucchini lasagna, followed by a homemade cassata. She’s extended the invitation to you, but alas, it appears Tilde has you under lock and key.”

  “Stop expending oxygen with your fancy talk and get over here.”

  “At your orders.”

  “Loredana was not a stupid woman,” Perillo said as he sat down on Nico’s balcony and answered the question he had posed not half an hour ago. “Killing Mantelli with pentobarbital held the risk of immediately leading us to her as the prime suspect.”

  “You didn’t know she took pentobarbital.” Nico put two glasses and an open whiskey bottle out on the table. He’d dropped the last of the olives in a small bowl, which he now pushed Daniele’s way. “She told Diane about taking the drug only after Mantelli’s death.”