“So you don’t know where he was before he got on the bus?”
“No. That is another puzzling aspect. And it is where you may come in.”
Rick’s fork paused in midair. “Me?”
“When I spoke to the countess this morning, she told me that her husband had been writing a book. Local history of some sort. Being an amateur historian is what you do when you’re a wealthy count and don’t have to worry about keeping a job. Apparently, the man kept a journal, and also had made lots of notes for the book. She thinks that something in the notes could help with the investigation.”
“I don’t understand how—”
Piero raised his hand. “The count received his education in England, thanks to an English mother. All his writing is in English.”
“Aha. And you’d like me to read through all that.”
“Precisely. The countess has agreed to pick up your fee. Of course if you are too busy with other clients…”
Rick grinned. “I can squeeze the job in somewhere. But I have to say that the count’s little project sounds interesting. Reading his notes might be fun for me, since I consider myself an amateur historian as well. And if it helps solve the mystery of his murder, all the better.”
“Excellent,” said Piero. “She’s expecting you tomorrow. You’ll enjoy seeing the inside of the Teatro Marcello, though be prepared, the woman does not have an especially warm personality.”
“I would expect nothing less of a countess. Roman nobility must maintain their standards, after all.”
They finished their first course and the waiter appeared with the menus to make the choice of the secondo. Both men went with beef, though of differing types. Piero opted for a simple steak, cooked rare, though it would not be as rare as Rick’s carpaccio. The waiter took the orders, filled their wineglasses, and disappeared.
“Did Sergeant Lamponi take good care of you?” Piero asked.
“Who?”
“Carmella Lamponi. She picked you up at the airport.”
“Oh, Carmella. Of course. She did, and thank you again for covering the cost. An interesting woman.”
“She gave you her life story, I suppose?”
“She recounted every sordid detail. I was exhausted when we got to your apartment, and I wasn’t sure if it was from hearing her talk or fatigue from the flight.”
“Could have been either, or both. She’s part of the team working on the count’s murder, by the way. So you may encounter her again.”
Does that make me part of the team?
Piero took a piece of crusty bread from the basket on the table, broke off half, and ate it. “My sister called me this afternoon at the questura.”
“Mamma is checking up on me already?”
“She wanted to be sure that her beloved son arrived safely, and didn’t want to call you, in case you were napping.”
Rick took the rest of the piece of bread. “And?”
Piero chuckled. “We know her well, don’t we? She also said that she would like regular reports from me. Do I get the impression that you don’t communicate with your mother as much as she would like?”
“To satisfy her I’d have to call twice a day. Minimum. I supposed she asked if I’d met any nice eligible girls yet.”
“Not directly. But she did express hope that you would.” He held up his hand again, this time as if taking a vow. “Fear not, nephew. I will not probe into your private life, and certainly not act as a spy for my sister. I have enough intrigue in my life through my work.”
“I appreciate that, Uncle.” He held up his glass. “To Mamma.”
Piero raised his own. They took sips and reflected in silence on the subject of mothers and sisters. After a few moments Piero spoke.
“What are your plans for the next few days?”
“Well, my first priority is getting the word out that I’ve set up a translating and interpreting business here. I thought I’d start by calling some of my high school classmates. I’ll also contact the embassy to get listed, since they get inquiries from Americans needing the service. One of my dad’s old friends from when he worked here is running the embassy commercial office, so that should help. I translated some articles for professors at several universities here in Italy, when I was back in Albuquerque. I’ll give them a call to be sure they know I’m now here in Rome. And I should start looking for a place to live. Your apartment is very comfortable, but I don’t want to impose longer than I have to. Perhaps you know of a real estate agent.”
“In fact, Riccardo, I have done better than that. Do you remember your Great Aunt Filomena?”
“Rings a bell. Was she at my grandparents’ funeral?”
“She was. She owns a small apartment near the Piazza Navona, and the tenants just moved out. I mentioned to her that you are relocating to Rome and she would be overjoyed if you would take it. It’s not very big, she says, but it sounds perfect for a bachelor. And she’ll give you a family discount.”
“When can I move in?”
He looked up. “Let’s at least wait until we finish dinner. Our next course has arrived.”
Piero’s steak was of medium size, oozed juices, and sat alone on its plate. In front of Rick the waiter placed a plate of equal size, but it was covered with paper-thin pink beef over which equally thin slices of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese were arranged. Drizzled olive oil completed the carpaccio.
Rick picked up his knife and fork. “This is something you can’t find in America. Americans eat a lot of beef, but they always like to cook it.” He pointed his fork at his uncle’s steak. “Like that.”
Piero noticed that his nephew had said “they” instead of “we,” but said nothing.
Rick did not arrive at the Countess Zimbardi’s apartment until the afternoon. He had woken up during the night and stayed awake for several hours, his body clinging to Mountain Time until it relented and let him fall back to sleep. At mid-morning he stumbled out of bed, showered, and shaved. He left his uncle’s apartment near the Piazza del Popolo, and after finding an ATM, had an early stand-up lunch of a panino and a coffee at a nearby bar. The weather was pleasant, so he decided a walk would be good for both body and mind. Did he still know his way around the maze of streets of downtown Rome, where he had spent much of his adolescence? Even if he got lost, it would be good to re-immerse himself in the city.
He headed south in the general direction of the Teatro Marcello, toward the countess’ apartment. Of the three streets that spread like fingers out of the Piazza del Popolo, he took Via di Ripetta, which stayed relatively straight until it changed its name to Via della Scrofa. At that point a jumble of other streets, most of them narrow, shot out of it from all angles. He started working his way through the urban confusion that was Rome’s heart before bursting into Piazza Navona. Its oval shape followed the lines of Diocletian’s original stadium, leaving Rick to wonder exactly where Aunt Filomena’s apartment was. It was around here somewhere. This would certainly be a great part of Rome to live in, despite the dirt and chaos of traffic, both motorized and pedestrian.
Leaving the piazza he crossed the busy Corso Vittorio Emanuele, choking on bus fumes, and plunged into another hive of streets before reaching Campo dei Fiori where the market was already closing down for the day. He strode through the square, came to Piazza Farnese, walked past the French Embassy, and a few blocks later came out to the river. At a traffic light he crossed the Lungotevere, as always clogged with cars, and walked along its sidewalk under the trees. At this point both he and the Tiber were going south. On his right was the stone gorge built to contain a river that had periodically flooded the city for millennia. A few blocks more and he would be at his destination.
You still know your way around this town.
The sidewalk bent left, revealing the point of Tiberina Island, sitting like a ship that divided the current of the Tiber
on either side of its prow. Piero had told him that it was over this island that the count had taken his final steps before being struck down on the Ponte Fabricio, within view of his residence. Rick walked to the middle of the pedestrian bridge, looked down at the ruins of an even older one, and tried to picture what could have happened that night. It wasn’t easy, since the sun now shone brightly and the area bustled with people. He walked down off the bridge and waited patiently to traverse the busy street in front of the Teatro Marcello.
The security service person at the gate had his name, which he took as a good sign. He went as directed and eventually found himself in front of an ornate door in a long hallway. The guard must have called ahead, because when he knocked, the door opened immediately. Behind it was an older man dressed in the black uniform of a butler, his expression unreadable.
“Signor Montoya, please come in.” He stepped aside and Rick entered.
They stood in a small rectangular hall decorated with modern paintings and a tall piece of sculpture so abstract that it was impossible to tell what, if anything, it represented. A set of double doors directly ahead opened to a living area with a similarly modern décor—black leather and metal in the seating, and swaths of framed color on the walls. In contrast to the art of the room, the window looked out on three tall, Corinthian columns, all that remained of the Temple of Apollo. Green bushes on the other side of Via Teatro di Marcello marked the side of the Campidoglio, the original Capitol Hill. It was a view and location that any Roman would die for, Rick thought, with some irony.
He turned to the man in black. “And you are?”
“Gonzalo.” The response came with a slight bow, and before Rick could respond, he continued. “The countess was expecting you earlier this morning. Unfortunately, she had an appointment this afternoon, so she is not here to greet you. But she asked me to bring you into the count’s study so that you could begin working. This way, please.”
Rick had the impression that the man’s speech had been prepared and practiced ahead of time. Very professional, this Gonzalo fellow, and very butler-like, not that Rick had much experience with the profession. He followed the butler through one of the side doors, down a hallway past two closed doors, and up a narrow circular stairway. At the top was a room which also looked out over the ruins, but with only two small windows.
The count’s study could not have contrasted more with the living room downstairs. Climbing the stairs was like stepping back several centuries. The chairs were leather—old, brown, cracking, and framed by wood rather than stainless steel. The desk looked like one found in the captain’s cabin of a British ship of the line, and the framed prints of sailing vessels on the wall added to the impression. Continuing the maritime theme was a world globe, as high as the desk, which turned on a carved wood frame that was a work of art in itself. From the countries Rick was able to see, he estimated the globe to be from the nineteenth century. One entire wall was lined with books floor to ceiling. A carved wood step stool sat on the floor ready to help reach the upper shelves.
“This is quite an impressive room, Gonzalo.”
The butler retained his professional demeanor, but Rick thought he noticed a touch of sadness in the man’s face. “The count spent many hours here. He was proud that his great-great grandfather served in the British navy.”
“I suppose he enjoyed sailing himself?”
“The ocean made him terribly seasick, unfortunately. It was one of the great disappointments in his life. He once told me that he’d tried out for crew at Eton, but even being on a small boat was too much for him.” Gonzalo shuffled nervously, perhaps realizing that he had revealed too much of the personal life of his deceased employer. “The count’s journals and notes are on the desk,” he said rapidly. “If you need anything, Signor Montoya, press the button next to the desk lamp. It rings in my room.”
Rick watched the butler descend the steps and disappear from sight. He walked to the bookshelf and ran his fingers along the spines of those at eye level, noticing that the titles appeared to be grouped by topic. Naval history was together, as were books on the Roman Empire, British royalty, classical architecture, the Renaissance, and art history. It was not all nonfiction. The count’s tastes ran to classic authors, both British and Italian, in both languages. The titles helped form an image of the count in Rick’s mind. For all he knew the man had never opened any of them, but if he were trying to impress people, the books would have been in the living room and not his private study. No, the count had been the real deal. He walked to the desk and sat down, the chair creaking as he pulled it forward.
Everything was stacked neatly in front of him. In one pile were files with loose papers, another contained notebooks like Rick used in his courses at the university, and a third had folders held together by elastic, like the archives of an old accountant. The countess, or perhaps Gonzalo, had conveniently provided a legal pad, what the count with his British background may have called foolscap. A tray of pens and sharpened pencils lay at the ready under the gooseneck lamp, and next to it a small, framed photograph of a pigeon.
He wondered about the pigeon, then pulled the chain on the lamp and started to read.
Two hours later he tore off four sheets of yellow paper, folded them, and put them into his pocket. After neatly arranging the papers he turned off the lamp and pressed the butler button. By the time he got to his feet and walked to the top of the stairs he could hear Gonzalo in the hallway of the floor below. He started down the stairs and found the man waiting for him at the bottom.
“I hope you found something that could shed light on the case, Signor Montoya.”
“That will be for Commissario Fontana to decide. I will need to come back since there is more material to read, but I found something interesting. The count was doing historical research, if that’s the way to describe it. Something about the streets of old Rome. Were you aware of that?”
They were standing in the hallway. Gonzalo made no move to invite him into the living room, but it would not have been his place to do so. They were both hired help, after all.
“Oh, yes. The streets project.”
Rick waited for the butler to continue. He didn’t.
“It wasn’t clear from the count’s notes exactly what the project involved. He was interviewing people and there was a lot about the history of various streets, but I couldn’t figure out the purpose. Do you have any idea?”
“The count considered himself an amateur historian, and he decided to interview those persons who lived or worked on each of the streets within the city’s historic center.”
Rick nodded. “That makes sense, given all that I read about the people living on the street and how it had changed over the years.”
“He hoped to put it all in a book. When do you think you’ll return to finish? The countess will need to know.” A touch of impatience had crept into Gonzalo’s voice, as if he was uncomfortable standing in the hall chatting. Rick took the hint and moved toward the door. The butler stayed with him as he walked.
“I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon about the same time.” He reached for the door but stopped before his hand got to the handle. “One more question, Gonzalo, and I’ll let you get back to your duties. In his journal the count mentioned a bar where he played cards with friends. Do you know where that is?”
There was no hesitation before answering. “That would be Il Tuffo. I’ll give you the address.”
Ten minutes later Rick crossed Via Florida and took the sidewalk that ran next to Via Torre Argentina, thinking about the origin of the two street names, neither of which had anything to do with the U.S. state or the South American country. Maybe the count was onto something with his interest in Roman streets. He looked down at the ruins of the Area Sacra, a group of temples unearthed during Mussolini’s time. As always, it was surrounded by tourists who came to look at the ruins of the temples but were immediatel
y distracted by the hundreds of feral cats that prowled among the stones. He stopped and noticed one which reminded him of Pupa, his family’s cat when he was a kid. Perhaps it was time to get a cat himself, now that he was settling down for a while in Rome. There were certainly enough of them that needed homes. His phone rang.
“Montoya.”
“Montoya, you stronzo. Do you think you can sneak into town without me finding out?”
Rick laughed. Art Verardo, his closest friend in high school.
“Arturo, do you think I want to ruin my first week in Rome by spending some of it with you?”
“Your point is well taken, Rick. But you’ll have to get over it sometime. Are you free for dinner this evening?”
“I’ll try to fit it into my busy schedule. Where?”
“Let’s have a drink first. There’s a place where a lot of our classmates sometimes gather. You never know, we might run into a few of them. It’s called O’Shea’s Pub.”
Rick took a slug of his beer and looked around the room. “Couldn’t our classmates have picked a classier place to hang out?”
He was dressed informally, in a lightweight sweater over a long-sleeved polo, blue jeans, and his more casual pair of cowboy boots. In contrast, Art Verardo wore a dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie. His concession to informality was a slight loosening of the neckwear.
“The decision behind the choice of this pub is veiled in the mists of time,” answered Art, “and now nobody wants to take responsibility for it. On a certain level the place makes perfect sense. Centrally located. Serves cold beer for those of us with American roots and warm beer for the Brits. American and British sports on the TV. Or the telly, if you are so inclined. And the owner, Guido, is an American who is pretending to be Irish.” He ran his fingers over the table and then wiped off their stickiness on a paper napkin. “But you have a point. Problem is, if we found someplace that’s more elegant, it would be impossible to get everyone on board.”
“Group inertia.”
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