“Did the count appear any different that night from other times?”
“He did seem nervous.”
“Really? What do you mean?”
“It was funny, really. Usually I’d call him a taxi, but that night he had it in his head to take a bus. Someone had given him a bus ticket and he was determined to use it, though I don’t think he had ever been on a city bus before. He was uncomfortable about it, I could see that.”
“Did the other card players know?”
“No, no. In fact he asked me not to tell them. He was embarrassed.”
Which probably meant that none of them had given him the ticket. It had to have been someone he’d seen earlier in the day. Rospo? No, more likely someone on Via Anacleto. If the person who gave him the ticket knew where the count lived, they would have known he’d be crossing that bridge after getting off the bus. Rick pondered and finally sipped his coffee. It was cold.
At that moment Gonzalo entered the establishment carrying two large shopping bags which he put down next to the door. Thankfully, he was back to his butler’s outfit. He noticed Rick, smiled, and walked over to him. They shook hands.
“Signor Montoya, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
“Altrettanto, Gonzalo. Are you on your break?”
He inclined his head toward the bags. “The countess’ dry cleaning.”
“Can I get you something?”
“A coffee, thank you.”
Gilda had returned to her place behind the counter and Rick ordered the espresso for Gonzalo and a mineral water for himself. She went to work.
“Is there any news on the case, Signor Montoya? Perhaps the commissario has been in touch with the countess, but she has told me nothing. Not that she is required to do so.”
Did Rick detect some bitterness in the man? “I’m not privy to all the details, of course, so I don’t know if there have been any breaks in the investigation. I’m sure my—the commissario, will call her if there are any.”
The coffee came and Gonzalo took a sip, without sugar. “Is your role in it finished, after the translations and the encounter with the count’s friends here?”
Rick had a gut feeling that the man could be trusted, and also thought that if he let him in on what he knew, it might be reciprocated. “I’ve assisted in some of the other details. Interviews on the street where the count was doing his research. I’ve also spoken to the count’s harp teacher.” He didn’t mention that Carmella had conducted most of that interview.
“Ah, the harp lessons. That was indeed puzzling for me, though after so many years I should have been accustomed to Count Zimbardi’s capricious whims.” He smiled and took another sip of his espresso. “One time a few years ago, after reading that it was one of Queen Elizabeth’s hobbies, he decided he would raise pigeons. Apparently, there is a competitive aspect to pigeons, racing them, which also appealed to his penchant for wagering. But before he could get fully into competition the neighbors complained about the cooing on the roof, and the countess made him get rid of them.”
“I recall seeing a photograph of one on the count’s desk when I was reading his papers.”
“That was Samantha, his favorite. It was very painful for him to part with her.”
“I can imagine the disappointment.”
“Yes, but he moved on. One of the count’s finest character traits was not dwelling on disappointment. If I recall correctly, it was after that that he decided to collect plates.”
“Plates?”
Gonzalo drained his cup. “There is an Italian association of restaurants that promotes regional and local dishes. When you order that specialty in one of those restaurants you receive a whimsically decorated ceramic plate at the end of the meal. The count’s trips throughout Italy were planned around restaurants that were part of the association, so that he could add to his collection. Of course the culinary aspect of the hobby appealed to him as well; the count was a good fork.”
Rick recognized the Italian slang term for someone who enjoys eating. “That doesn’t seem to me to be that eccentric a hobby.”
“The countess found it extremely déclassé. She put her foot down when he wanted to decorate the walls of the dining room with the plates. He ended up hanging them in the hallway outside his study.”
“I don’t remember seeing any plates hanging there.”
“She had me take them down shortly after the count died and give them to Rocco.”
“Rocco?”
“The count’s driver, who was quite pleased to get them. Apparently, there is a market for such items on eBay.”
“Another coffee, Gonzalo?”
“That’s very kind of you, Signor Montoya, but I should be on my way.”
“There was one other interview I did, which the commissario asked me to do in English… Signor Syms-Mulford. You told me that he called the residence often.”
The mention of the name darkened Gonzalo’s expression. “Yes, the count’s closest friend. They were compagni di scuola in England, as he likely told you, and he took the count’s death very hard. He has been very attentive to the countess since the murder.”
“Attentive?”
“Yes. I know that he’s called her almost every day to console the widow of his good friend. Very decent of him.” He thanked Rick for the coffee and stepped into the street with the countess’ dry cleaning.
Chapter Nine
“Take a good look at that man sitting by himself at the table near the window,” Piero said. “Study him carefully and then tell me about him based on what you observe.”
Rick and his uncle met for dinner at a restaurant close to Rick’s apartment. The orders for the first course had been placed, and a bottle of wine, along with one of mineral water and a bread basket, were within reach of both of them on the table.
“Is this a test?”
Piero took a drink of the wine. “No, Riccardo, it is a game. I play it with my fellow policemen and it helps sharpen their observational skills. You have been working for the police now for a few days, so you might want to try it.”
“I suppose, since you come here often, that you know the man.”
Piero shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Rick looked. “He appears to be well dressed, though his suit looks off the rack, not tailored. That would make him comfortable but not wealthy. The suit looks too big for him, which goes along with his gaunt face. Because of that I would guess that he is that rare Italian who is not that interested in food. He eats to live, doesn’t live to eat. He is well groomed; hair combed and recently cut. No wedding ring, but that doesn’t mean anything in Italy. He’s giving more attention to his newspaper than his food. I can’t see what paper it is.”
“La Nazione.”
“Is that a Rome paper?”
“Firenze.”
“So he may well be from Tuscany and is reading the news from home. I’m guessing he is a salesman from that region. Since he’s drinking a red, probably Chianti, he may well be a wine distributor of some sort. I should go ask him if he’s trying to sell wine to the Vatican.”
Piero frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Just something else I’ve become involved in since arriving.” Rick told his uncle about Juan Alberto Sanguinetti, his old college friend who obviated the need for enemies. Piero found the story amusing.
“Clearly you must help your friend. And you must also tell me about what you have discovered in the case of Count Zimbardi. I’m sure I will be getting another call from the countess before long.”
The arrival of their pasta stopped any discussion of less serious matters. The restaurant was the best, or perhaps only, Genovese restaurant in the city, so they had chosen regional specialties. Rick’s was trenette al pesto. Besides the basil, walnuts, and olive oil, the ribbons of pasta were tossed with green beans and potato
es, making it truly Ligurian. His uncle had ordered another specialty of the Italian Riviera, pansôti, stuffed pasta with a creamy walnut sauce. They exchanged wishes of buon appetito and, before putting a fork in their own dishes, took tastes of the other’s.
“That pesto is excellent,” said Piero. “But I have a colleague from Arenzano, just west of Genova, who says that the best basil for pesto grows in pots on the terrace of his grandmother’s house overlooking the Ligurian Sea. The saltwater mists that coat the plants are essential for producing the sweetest leaves. He refuses to eat pesto anywhere else.”
“Next time I’m in Genoa I’ll have to visit his grandmother.”
“You’ve never been?”
“Just driving around it on the autostrada. Lots of tunnels.” He pointed his fork. “Your pansôti are excellent as well. Does your colleague require walnuts from his grandmother’s trees for his?”
“He’s never mentioned that. You were going to tell me what you’ve found in the investigation.”
“Yes, of course.” Rick took a sip of wine before continuing. Keeping with the region, it was a straw yellow Cinque Terre. “With one possible exception, it all seems to come back to the street where the count was doing his research. Even his music lessons take us there, since his harp teacher is the mother of the man who restores furniture. I can’t think of a motive for those two, but I can for the middle generation of the Stampatelli clan, Ludovico, if what Carmella suspects is true.”
“Sergeant Lamponi has a very good nose for such things.”
“Well, she thinks that Ludovico Stampatelli was in a relationship with Pina, of the salumaio, and he was not happy when the count arrived and started spending time in her shop.”
“The wealthy nobleman pushing aside the working man. Perhaps some class envy there along with old-fashioned jealousy. That sounds like something the sergeant would pick up on.”
“Ludovico seems like a rough character, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been in trouble already.”
“Sergeant Lamponi checked his record, along with that of everyone else on the street. All the Stampatellis are clean except for the boy, who was charged with shoplifting, but his case was dismissed. The others on the street have had no brushes with the law, not even parking tickets.” He cut his last little pillow of pasta into two pieces and swirled one around in the cream sauce. “You said there was one exception to the people on the street being involved.”
Rick had gone to the bread basket for help in getting the last of the pesto sauce. “Yes, that exception is Signor Syms-Mulford. The woman in the bar told me that on the count’s last day, the two of them had an argument there. Raised voices and all that.”
“So she must have heard what the argument was about.”
“Unfortunately not, Uncle. They were yelling at each other in English for the most part, but she did hear the count use the word mascalzone.”
“The count called his friend that?”
“Apparently, but we don’t know the context. I can’t help remembering what the count wrote about suspecting foul play.” Rick still had not come up with a good translation of the word skullduggery.
“What would Signor Syms-Mulford have done to cause his old friend to get so agitated?”
Rick took a long pull from his wineglass before replying. “At the risk of starting to sound like Carmella, my suspicion is that Syms-Mulford may have been getting too cozy with the countess.”
“You’re joking.”
“I ran into the Zimbardi butler, and he said that Syms-Mulford has been telephoning the countess regularly since the count’s passing.”
“A family friend helping her get through the mourning period.”
“Perhaps, but I just can’t shake the sense that there’s more to it.”
“Well, you’ll have to make another call on the man.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” He tapped his forehead. “Zio, I forgot to tell you something else that the woman in the bar told me. The count was there that night playing cards before he got on the bus. She said she was ready to call him a taxi at the end of the evening, as usual, but he said he was going to take the bus. He wasn’t used to riding busses, but someone had given him a ticket and he wanted to try it out.”
“Someone who may have wanted him on that bus. I don’t suppose she said who it was.”
“She did not.”
“He could have gotten it that day, or had it for a while and finally decided to use it.” Piero swirled the wine in his glass. “The countess found it strange that he was on a bus, of course. If she had known who’d given him the ticket, she would have told me.”
The two men were silent as they pondered the ticket mystery.
The pasta dishes had been cleared and menus were placed in front of them to decide on the main course. As they studied the choices, the waiter noted that some excellent fish had arrived that very afternoon if they would like to inspect them. Piero agreed that they would, and the man scurried into the kitchen, returning with a large platter on which lay three silver fish. He pressed his finger on the flesh of each to prove the freshness.
“That middle-sized one should be perfect for the two of us, don’t you think, Riccardo?” Rick nodded, the waiter returned to the kitchen, and Piero swirled the vino bianco in his glass. “Are you completely settled into your apartment? It meets your expectations?”
“Meets and surpasses, Zio. I may need a few more items to stock the larder, but I am feeling quite at home. When the kitchen is up to standard you will have to come over for dinner. It won’t be as good as this, but…”
“I will enjoy seeing it, Riccardo, but I don’t want you to go to any trouble. Perhaps we can have a glass of wine there before dining somewhere in the neighborhood.”
Rick was certain his uncle was worried he’d be served hamburgers and French fries.
“I’m glad the apartment worked out. How about your translating and interpreting? Unfortunately, I have been keeping you busy on this case, but have you had time to make some contacts? What is it you call it? Networking?” He used the word in English.
“Bravo, Zio. The answer is not much. I have talked with several of my old friends from the American School, so they know I’m here and they will pass the word to their contacts. But I haven’t gotten around to calling anyone else. I did some translation work back in America for some university professors here, so I’ll eventually be in touch so they know I’m now in Rome. How long have I been here? I’ve lost track.”
“I think it’s five days.”
“It’s gone fast.”
“Not for Countess Zimbardi, I imagine.”
The fish returned to the table in style. The waiter set the platter down on one corner of the table, and allowed them to admire its grill marks and take in the smell of lemon and garlic. A younger waiter brought two spoons, a bottle of olive oil, and two plates, and set them next to the platter. The seasoned waiter then went to work armed only with the two spoons. First he removed the head and tail, then the fins, first on one side and then the other. Holding the fish in place with one spoon, he used the other to slice all around the belly, then delicately lifted one side and turned it over, leaving two equal sides, one containing the spine that was then removed. This left identical filets that he drizzled with olive oil and placed on the two plates. “Buon appetito,” he said as he set the plates before them.
The man had given a virtuoso performance, and Rick was temped to applaud. Instead he picked up his fork and took a bite, finding that the fish surpassed the presentation. It was nothing like the Red Lobster served back in Albuquerque. The waiter had lingered under the pretense of filling their wineglasses, but Rick knew he was really hoping for a compliment. Piero complied.
“Eccezionale.”
The waiter smiled and made a short bow. “Grazie, Commissario.”
Rick watched him
leave. “Do you come here often, Zio?”
“On occasion. I had an investigation in the neighborhood a few years ago and it was convenient to come here for lunch. The case involved a body found in a parked car.” He cut a small piece of fish and stabbed it with his fork. “We never did solve it, but I was able to consume a good amount of pesto.”
Rick noticed that the man at the window table was concentrating on a plain green salad rather than his newspaper. “What about that man, Zio? Are you going to tell me who he is?”
Piero glanced at the table, as if he had forgotten about the game. “Ah, yes. Signor Doria. He owns this restaurant and a few others. Started out as a cook and worked his way up.”
“So like I said, no interest in food.”
“None whatsoever.”
Rick bid Piero good evening on the sidewalk and tried to cross the busy thoroughfare in front of the restaurant. During the day it would have been easy, and relatively safe, because the traffic would be at a standstill. At this time of night there were few cars, and those on the street were not about to stop for some foolish jaywalker. When he was finally able to scurry across, his phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket when he reached the curb but it was not a number he recognized.
“Montoya.”
“Rick? This is Sister Teresa. You sound out of breath. Are you all right?”
“Oh, hi, uh, Teresa. I was just dodging a car. Traffic.”
“Be careful. Listen, Rick, I’m sorry to call you so late, but I have a problem that you may be able to help with.”
“Of course.”
“A group of wealthy church contributors from the States is in town and will be having an audience tomorrow morning with the Holy Father. Tomorrow afternoon one couple wants to visit some churches on their own, and asked me to get a guide who speaks English. I know this is kind of last-minute, but—”
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