by Wendy Tyson
The Pittaluga farm looked like the farm of her childhood fantasies.
Situated on a hundred acres twenty-two miles outside of Ithaca, the property was a patchwork of mowed fields and corn crops. A barn, freshly painted a deep red, sat on a hill overlooking a pasture. The house itself was a white Victorian.
Not large, but neat and well-maintained, with a wrap-around porch. A porch swing hung from two I-hooks on one end, next to two white wicker chairs. Flowerpots dotted the porch, their ceramic interiors overflowing with festive red, pink and white geraniums and trailing vines of vinca.
“Wow,” Vaughn muttered. “Either these guys have found the secret to longevity or they are paying someone a lot of money to take care of things.”
Allison had to agree. The grass around the house was a well-manicured green. Perennial flower gardens had been planted along the walkway from the driveway to the house, and waves of brightly-colored perennials lined the front of the home, against the porch. The trees surrounding the house, now in full summer glory, provided restful shade. As they climbed the porch steps, Allison admired the view. Farmland in every direction, hills in the distance. Overhead, the sky was blue and the sun, vibrant. Here, it was almost possible to forget that two clients were missing and one woman was dead.
Almost.
Vaughn knocked on the screen door. After a few moments, a woman in her early sixties answered the door.
She said, “Can I help you?”
The woman was slender, with wispy white hair and hard eyes that stared at them with suspicion.
Vaughn said, “We’re looking for Enzo or John Pittaluga.”
“For what purpose?”
“Just to talk,” Allison replied. “We have a few questions about a relative of theirs.”
The woman continued to stare at them through the screen door. She had one hand on the storm door, which she looked ready to close, when a deep, thickly-accented voice behind her said, “Let them in, Carol.”
The woman pursed her lips in disapproval, but she opened the door and moved aside. Allison entered an immaculate foyer. The walls were pristine white, the floors, gleaming oak. Behind Carol was a stairway, its risers also white, the center lined by a rich Persian runner. To Carol’s right, the foyer entered into the dining room. An antique-looking walnut table and matching buffet took up most of the room. The walls were painted ecru, a crystal chandelier had been hung over the table. To Carol’s left, blocking much of the entrance to a nicely appointed, albeit old-fashioned, living room, stood a short but very rotund—and very old—man. He had white-yellow, bristly hair, cropped short, a sallow complexion and eyes so dark they looked like pools of ebony.
“Who are you?” he said. He was holding a cane, despite impeccable posture.
Allison introduced herself and Vaughn. “We’d like to talk about your sister, Gina Benini.”
The man looked at her for a long time, shifting his gaze back and forth between her and Vaughn. Carol had moved to the dining room, and Allison caught her staring at the man, her eyes searching for some indication that she should show these strangers out. But he surprised Allison by saying, his voice hearty, “I’m Enzo Pittaluga, Gina’s brother. Come into the parlor. Carol, some iced tea for these people, please.”
Carol nodded, a sour expression still on her face. She gave them a distrustful once-over before heading toward what Allison assumed was the kitchen.
Allison and Vaughn followed Enzo. He made his way slowly but steadily to a pair of deep green loveseats in the living room. The couches were positioned across from one another, in front of a stone fireplace, with a floral Queen Anne chair at the end between them. Enzo sat on one couch, Allison on the other, and Vaughn on the chair. Carol returned a few minutes later with three glasses of iced tea on a tray. She placed the tray on a black coffee table and disappeared quietly into another room.
“Our nurse, housekeeper, security guard. Carol does it all. But she can be overly protective. She means well.” Enzo smiled. Allison saw capped teeth, gleaming white. He took a sip of tea, put the glass back down and said, “So you want to talk about Gina? All these years and someone wants to talk about Gina.” He looked at Allison. “What do you want to know, my dear? And if I might ask, why do you want to know?”
Allison debated how much to say, but realized there was little point to being coy. “I’ll start with the why, Mr. Pittaluga. Francesca Benini is my client. Francesca disappeared last week under suspicious circumstances. Her niece, Maria Benini, died yesterday. While Maria’s death looks like an accident, it seems awfully coincidental. Anyway, both ladies mentioned your sister. We don’t know if there is a connection, or if there is, what it could be. We’re just trying to understand what happened to Gina. Her life in the States and the circumstances surrounding her passing.”
“Passing. Such a euphemism, Ms. Campbell. And you can call me Enzo, by the way.” He looked at Vaughn. “You both can.”
“She took her own life?” Vaughn asked.
“She did, indeed.”
“Any idea why?” Allison said.
Enzo toyed with his cane, passing it back and forth between two meaty hands. “Gina moved here first. She was our younger sister. Our parents thought maybe she needed some family, so they sent John—my brother—and me to the States, too. When we arrived, we found our sister had aged considerably. She was only eighteen when she married Paolo, in her twenties when we saw her next. She and Paolo had tried for years to have a child and it didn’t work, she was upset. She felt like a failure, a bad wife.”
“But she did conceive. Twice,” Allison said.
“Ah, eventually, yes. But imagine the pressure, Ms. Campbell. Paolo was a good man, but his grandmother was a tyrant. She wanted an heir. It was only Francesca and Paolo and when it became apparent that Francesca would never marry—not that the daughter was as important, especially back then—the responsibility fell to Paolo.” Enzo shook his head. “And in the ways of many families, it was the wife, not the husband, who was blamed when no child was produced.”
Vaughn looked skeptical. “But Gina was only around forty when she took her own life. By then, her youngest at least ten. She’d achieved her goal—heirs for the Benini estate. Not one, but two male children.”
“The years in between had taken their toll. They’d tried for seven years to have their first child, Mr. Vaughn. Do you have any idea how much abuse she took in that interim?”
“Physical abuse?” Allison asked.
“No, subtle abuse. Mental, emotional.”
“By Paolo?”
“I believe he loved Gina. In fact, I think Gina was his true love, if you believe in such things. He was a weak man.” He let out a sad sigh. “He just couldn’t make her happy.”
Vaughn said, “But Paolo’s grandmother was in Italy. How could she have affected her here?”
Enzo turned his body to look at Vaughn. “My sister was a child when she married. My parents were old-fashioned. Peasants, really. They brought her up to believe she was good for one thing: child-rearing. Her sole purpose in life was to marry and bear children.” He turned toward Allison, smiled apologetically. “I’m sure that sounds absurd by today’s standards, but back then…well, it was the norm. Have you been to the Benini home?”
Allison nodded.
“Then you know how big it is. It would be easy to get lost, to feel lonely in that house. And she was there by herself, feeling dejected and like a failure, for seven long years. Constant questions, constant pressure. No one to confide in. And she was young. So young.”
“She had you and your brother,” Allison said.
“We were close enough, but not in that way. And Paolo was growing the business here in America. As a consequence, he was rarely home. I’m sure my sister felt restless, a caged animal used for breeding and failing even at that.”
A caged animal. Like Francesca?
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br /> “Still,” Vaughn shook his head, skepticism in his eyes. “She killed herself more than ten years later.”
“She was depressed. She hadn’t received treatment. It happens.”
Allison said, “Enzo, when Francesca arrived, did that help alleviate her loneliness? Were they close?”
“Yes and no.” A look passed over his face. “Francesca was very young. Barely seventeen when she showed up at the Benini estate, another casualty of Antonia Benini, the grandmother. Francesca helped care for the two boys, but in the beginning, especially, she was yet another burden on Gina, who by then was older and used to being in charge. Of the house, at least.”
The look on Enzo’s face, one of unspoken stories, made Allison say, “There’s more.”
“You’re very perceptive, Ms. Campbell. There’s always more, of course. These are stories passed through the filter of an old man’s brain. And don’t let this handsome façade fool you. I’m almost ninety.”
Allison smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind. And it’s Allison, please call me Allison.”
“Allison, Francesca was hated by her grandmother, but adored beyond belief by her father and her brother, Paolo. In their eyes, she could do no wrong. And in her younger years, she was quite lovely.”
A sudden glimmer in Enzo’s eye made Allison wonder if there had not been more there. Perhaps a love affair between a younger woman and a debonair older man, for she believed Enzo was probably quite the catch in his younger years. Allison’s mind flashed to Alex and she felt a flush creep across her face. She looked down before Vaughn or Enzo could notice.
“So Gina was angry and jealous?” Vaughn asked.
“No.” Enzo sighed. “That was not Gina’s way. Her way was to internalize, play the role of the martyr. My sister could be very passive aggressive. I’m sure she did her best to show Francesca she was neither welcome nor wanted.”
Allison thought about that. A big, isolated house. Sisters-in-law vying for the attention of one man. Nothing to do but wander those halls and dote on two small boys. Such a limiting life.
“And you,” Allison said. “Were you there often?”
“John and I went when we were invited. Not frequently, I’m afraid.”
“Did you get along with Paolo?”
Enzo smiled. Suddenly, he looked tired. Tired and old. “Everyone got along with Paolo. That was his gift.”
His words echoed those spoken by Alex about his aunt. Allison didn’t have time to ponder that because Carol came into the room, a striped apron tied around her waist. “Excuse me for interrupting, but John’s awake.”
“Ah, yes.” Enzo struggled to his feet with the help of the cane. “I’m afraid this visit will have to come to a close. My brother is not well. I need to attend to him. Carol will see you out.”
Allison watched him disappear through the dining room and into whatever rooms existed beyond. Carol followed them back out onto the porch, shooing them along like she would an unwanted stray dog.
Once on the porch, Vaughn pointed to the corn fields. “Do Enzo and John take care of the fields?”
Carol shook her head. “No, no. The land is subleased to a local farmer. The brothers used to do a little farming themselves, but not much.”
“What else did they do? For a living?” Vaughn asked. “This is an impressive piece of property.”
“They owned a local bakery. John was a genius in the kitchen in his time. Enzo, a keen businessman.”
“A bakery, huh?” Vaughn said.
“Fireside Bakery,” Carol said. While it was clear she wanted to end the conversation, she couldn’t keep the admiration out of her tone or her eyes. “Best bread for thirty miles. And Italian pastries like you wouldn’t believe.”
“And they never married?” Allison asked.
Carol’s eyes stormed over. That stern expression was back. “Never. The brothers are devoted to one another.” She frowned, started to close the door. “I have food on the stove. Enjoy your day.”
As they climbed back into Vaughn’s BMW, Allison took one last look around. Carol was watching from the dining room window, waiting for them to leave in spite of her cooking. But it was another face that caught Allison’s attention.
Upstairs, curtains had been pulled aside, and a man was watching them pull out of the driveway.
An old, old man with a face like a mask.
Twenty-Five
Thomas Svengetti had gone to some lengths to stay out of sight. Mia would have tried calling first, but Svengetti’s number was unlisted, so Mia had relied on a paid background check, which only provided an address. She wasn’t even sure it was the correct address. Google Maps led her to the top of a mountain in the Poconos, to a long dirt driveway that snaked from a rural route into the woods.
Mia idled her truck and debated what to do. She’d come this far, although no one—not even Jamie—knew she was here. And did she really know whether Benjamin Gretchko was trustworthy? But if the landfill and the Gretchko family were dead ends, she wanted to know that up front. Based on Benjamin Gretchko’s reactions, she was pretty certain that the family still had Russian Mafia ties. And she wasn’t sure who Svengetti was, although she had a hunch, but if the dearth of public information about the man’s current whereabouts was any indication, he was keeping a low profile for a reason.
After a few minutes, Mia shifted from neutral to first and started up the driveway. The trees formed a canopy so dense that all light was blocked, making the dirt road nearly impossible to navigate. She flicked on her headlights and sat forward in her seat, trying to watch the winding path before her for fear she’d derail into the woods. She was thankful that the Toyota had four wheel drive.
At the top of a steep embankment, dirt gave way to pebbles and the driveway entered a small clearing. A turnaround and a wood pile the size of a small house, its contents neatly stacked, were on one side of the clearing.
On the other side stood a trailer home. Its vinyl exterior, once white, was now a mottled gray. A white Toyota pick-up, not much different than her own, was parked next to the house, facing the road. Ready for a quick getaway?
Mia noticed the hum of a window air conditioner. She looked at the turnaround. No fresh tracks. So Svengetti’s home, Mia thought. Or someone is.
She took a deep breath, willing herself calm, and climbed out of the car. She’d worn jeans and a plain black sleeveless blouse, and her wild curls were pulled into a tidy twist. Neat and nondescript. She pulled her bag closer to her body and made her way toward the door. Mia was three feet away when the front door slammed open. She stopped, frozen.
A male voice said, “What do you want?”
He stepped into the light. In his early sixties, the man had a neatly-trimmed beard and full head of graying brown hair, also carefully cut. Fit and tall, he wore a plaid flannel shirt, despite the summer heat. But most noticeable of all was the pistol he held in his hand, pointed at her.
“Who are you?” he demanded. His voice was rough, hoarse, with the raw edge of someone who didn’t spend much time talking. “Goddamn it, answer me.”
With incredible effort, Mia found her voice. “My name is Mia Campbell. I’m here to talk about the Kremsburg landfill and the Gretchko family.”
“Go away.” The man started to slam the door, seemed to think better of it, and pulled it open again. “Who sent you?”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody? Then how did you find me?”
“I was researching the Gretchko family. Someone mentioned your name. I can’t tell you who. I traced you here.”
“I don’t talk to journalists.”
“I’m not a journalist.” Mia dropped her purse and held up her hands palms down and open, heart hammering. “Please. If you could put the gun down, Mr. Svengetti. Truly, I want nothing from you other than to talk. A girl is missing. Only eighteen. I know what
it is to lose a daughter, I just want to help.” Mia’s words came out in a tumbled rush. She saw Vaughn, the echoes of past terror in his eyes. She thought of Jamie, of the fact that justice did not always serve those most deserving of its salve. And she forced herself to hold this man’s stare even if every nerve in her body said run.
And when she looked up at Thomas Svengetti, she saw distrust and fear, but also pain. This was a hurting man, and that tugged at the part of her that was irreconcilably wounded, too.
“Please,” she said again.
Svengetti sighed. “Fine, I’ve got nothing else on my social calendar today. Your purse stays outside. And you need to open your shirt. I want to make sure you’re not wired.”
Well, that’s a new one, Mia thought to herself. But she unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it to the side, showing him a lavender bra and a bare midriff.
He nodded brusquely. “If you know anything about me, Mia Campbell, you know that people around me tend to drop like flies. You’re taking a risk just being here.”
Svengetti swung the door out, then followed her inside. The trailer was tiny. Mia entered the living room. One brown recliner, a small folding table, and a flat-screen television on the wall. A brownish rug covered the floor, its piling rubbed bare in spots. A half-wall separated the living room from the dining area, which consisted of a small table and one chair.
A galley kitchen looked scrubbed and outdated. That was her overall impression of the trailer: clean, drab, and old.
Svengetti pulled the dining room chair into the living room. “Sit down.” He motioned to the recliner, but Mia opted for the dining room chair. He sat on the edge of the recliner, alert and poised to move. “So, what brought you here? You don’t look like a lady from these parts.”
Mia smiled. “I’m helping a friend, Mr. Svengetti. Her client is eighteen years old. She disappeared last week. No one has heard from her. Her parents don’t know where she is.”