Turn to Stone

by James W. Ziskin

  “Again? What am I looking for?”

  “No. Thursday. Wait. No. You took that photo you found. To remember him. Of course I said yes. But now I want to see it. Show me the photo.”

  I rummaged through my purse looking for a photograph of some kind. He could barely see, after all. Where was the harm? I found one of me with my late brother, Elijah, tucked inside my billfold. I held it out for the old man to examine.

  “How handsome I look,” he said from his toothless smile. “Bianca not so much. She’s a good wife, but not very pretty.”

  I told myself not to take it personally; his cataracts surely rendered the photograph a total blur.

  A presto, zio,” I said, taking his broad hand in mine. He pulled me in for a kiss on each cheek.

  “A domenica,” he replied. “Mi raccomando . . .”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  By now I felt completely at ease with the Vespa. Shifting gears, braking, and handling became second nature after a few miles of navigating the streets. I had two last errands to run in the city before heading back up to Fiesole. First, I zipped down Via della Pergola, then zigzagged my way through the vie until I reached Via del Proconsolo. From there, I rode through a couple of side streets and arrived at Piazza dei Cimatori. Lifting the Vespa up onto its kickstand, I locked the steering column and dismounted. A young man whistled at me, but I ignored him, heading instead straight into the American Express Office.

  “I’d like to make a phone call to the United States,” I informed the clerk behind the granite counter.

  “There’s a wait,” he said. “Probably twenty-five or thirty minutes.” With no other choice, I agreed, cashed some traveler cheques, and took a seat to read the Herald Tribune I found abandoned on the bench. An income tax reduction had been approved in the House of Representatives. That sounded good. In other news, a crazed man had crashed his pickup truck through the White House gates and demanded to speak to President Kennedy, shouting as he did that the Communists were taking over North Carolina. I thumbed through the rest of the paper but could find no corroborating evidence of an invasion of the Tar Heel State. In sports, the Colt .45s beat the Pirates in eleven innings—that was Thursday. The Herald Tribune was notoriously late with news and scores from home.

  My phone call still hadn’t gone through, so I continued flipping through the paper. Someone had started then botched the crossword puzzle, in ink no less, which made solving it more annoying than it should have been. The comics bought me another minute —Miss Peach and Johnny Hart’s B.C.—were mildly amusing. Then, just before five, the clerk called my name and pointed to a booth against the wall. “Numero tre.”

  I closed the door behind me and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello, Fred?” I asked. “It’s Ellie Stone.”

  “Eleonora,” his voice crackled down the line. “I thought you were in my old country.”

  “I am. And this call is costing me a fortune.”

  “Missed me, did you?”

  I’d first encountered Dr. Federico (Fred) Peruso a few years before in his professional capacity of Montgomery County coroner. We’d become friends over a couple of dead bodies in New Holland, New York, and, at some point—about two years earlier—I’d asked if he’d take me on as a patient. Now I needed his help enough to spend a minor fortune on a transatlantic phone call.

  “Save the wisecracks for when I get home,” I said. “You have my medical records, don’t you?”

  “Of course. What do you think I read for laughs in the evening?”

  I warned him again about the jokes. “I know I requested them from my old family doctor’s practice, but I never followed up with you.”

  “You can climb down off the roof,” he said. “I remember receiving them a year or so ago. What do you want to know?”

  I explained about the suspected rubella outbreak and wanted to know if I had indeed already had German measles.

  “I remember the chickenpox, but I’m not a hundred percent sure about rubella.”

  After giving him the details of Veronica’s illness, as well as everyone else’s symptom-free status, I asked him for his opinion.

  “Your doctor over there is an idiot,” he said. “No fever, headache, or swollen glands. Only a rash? Sounds like she rubbed something irritating on her skin.”

  It hit me. An explanation for Veronica’s rash that carried no other symptoms.

  “Fred, could witch hazel cause a rash?” I asked.

  “I suppose it could. Almost anything—especially irritants—can cause contact dermatitis. Depends on the person and his allergies or how much of the stuff touches the skin.”

  I told him about her fondness for splashing witch hazel all over, and he agreed it was a possible suspect.

  “Can you send me a certificate of some kind to spring me from quarantine?” I asked.

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “The American Express office in Florence.”

  “Sounds like you’ve already managed to spring yourself,” he said.

  “I’m AWOL at the moment. Can you help me out?”

  I gave him the address for Villa Bel Soggiorno, and he promised to send me a wire as soon as possible.

  “Thanks, Fred. For a coroner, you’re a lifesaver.”

  The phone call set me back 9,973 lire, which at sixty-two lire to the dollar came to more than fifteen dollars. I nearly wept as I paid the clerk. I comforted myself and my pocketbook with the knowledge that I’d incurred no other expenses in the past three days while a prisoner at the villa.

  After the American Express office, my last stop in the city was the shop across the little piazza, the cartoleria where I’d left my film the previous Wednesday. I collected my prints and slides and dropped off Mariangela’s film, both the Kodachrome and Tri-X. The same man assured me everything would be ready Saturday. Not much room for haggling, I thought. I thanked the shopkeeper and, as I was heading out the door, spotted an English-language copy of the Decameron on a shelf next to a row of guide books. I simply had to have it after the stories I’d heard at Bel Soggiorno.

  With the new book safely tucked into my purse, I climbed aboard my borrowed Vespa for the ride back up the hill. I ran out of fuel about halfway up Via San Domenico and cursed Franco for not having filled the tank. I considered myself blameless in the matter, of course. A nice man of about forty on a motorino stopped to inquire what was wrong. I told him I was out of gas.

  “Did you try the riserva?”

  Who knew there was a reserve tank? Franco and Lucio hadn’t mentioned it. What a couple of lousy teachers they were. The nice man turned the little switch below the seat and helped me get the thing running again. I thanked him, offered some money, but he refused. Instead, the little creep patted my bottom when I climbed back aboard the scooter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Turning off Via Boccaccio at the same path I’d taken on my outbound journey that morning, I glided through the olive groves, climbed hills and wound through meadows, before finally coasting to a stop on the gravel near the limonaia. I left the Vespa in the very spot I’d found it. Well, stolen it.

  Safely back at Bel Soggiorno, I wasn’t yet sure my unauthorized visit to Florence had yielded the identity of Giuliana’s witness, but I had a theory. I turned one bit of new information over and over in my head. It might have been a coincidence. Or perhaps not. One thing was certain, I intended to get a straight answer from Giuliana.

  “Where have you been?” It was Max.

  He was alone, for which I was thankful, and I assumed a man of his moral profile would keep my secret whether I asked him to or not. I also noticed Peruzzi’s car parked not thirty feet away in front of the house.

  “Just admiring Franco’s Vespa,” I said.

  He smiled. Actually smiled. “Bugiarda. You went down into Florence, didn’t you?”

  I don’t normally cotton to being called a liar, but, in fairness to Max, his characterization was an accurate one. Still, who
did he think he was? I had a good mind to stomp off in a huff.

  “I don’t know how to drive one of these things,” I said, challenging him to repeat his accusation. “How could I go all the way to Florence? I don’t even know about the reserve fuel tank.”

  “Bugiarda,” he said again. “You quizzed that idiot Franco on how to operate it the other night. But where did you get the key?”

  “What key?” I asked.

  “The one in your hand.”

  The back and forth might have gone on for hours if Franco himself hadn’t appeared with a glass of wine in his hand.

  “There you are,” he said to Max. And, noticing me, he flashed a bright smile. “Ecco la Ellie! Where have you been? The inspector wants to talk to everyone. Vieni a prendere un drink con noil.’

  He was imbibing again, using tu with me, and already one or two sheets to the wind. I’d seen the effect alcohol had on him. He’d wept on my shoulder the last time he’d overdone it. Still, his arrival provided me with an escape from Max’s scrutiny. Hiding the Vespa key in my right fist, I took Franco’s proffered arm with my left hand and, tossing a flirtatious bob of the head at Max, I made good my exit, slipping the key into Franco’s coat pocket as I did. Max followed us inside, through the house, then out onto the terrazza.

  Peruzzi glared at us, three tardy students showing up late for school. We separated, hoping to dodge his attention. I sidled up to Bernie, who was holding a bocce ball, of all things. He noticed my puzzlement and motioned to a couple of iron balls about twenty feet away. Clearly they’d been playing bocce when the inspector showed up. Not sorry I’d missed that.

  “I have news on the death of Professor Bondinelli,” announced Peruzzi.

  I caught Max’s attention and mouthed the words, “Dov’ è Mariangela?” He jerked his head toward the door to indicate she was safely inside. The inspector continued.

  “We have learned several important details concerning his movements that day. And . . .” he surveyed our faces as he paused for dramatic effect, “we have made an arrest for his murder.”

  Just as in any locked-room mystery worth its salt, the assembled rogues, suspects, and acquaintances gasped on cue, as they had done the day before when Giuliana announced her affair with Lucio. The inspector raised a hand, indicating we should hold our reactions for the end. He retrieved the notebook from his pocket, pushed his eyeglasses up onto his forehead, and proceeded to read us the details.

  “Thanks to the professor’s donna di servizio, we know that Bondinelli left his residence Tuesday morning at nine ten or nine fifteen and headed to his office at the university. Furthermore, we have witnesses who saw him arrive there at approximately nine thirty. According to colleagues who spoke with him, he was in excellent spirits, happy and planning to attend to some final preparations before the symposium.”

  Peruzzi paused to lick his thumb and turn the page.

  “Professor Sannino spoke to Bondinelli a little after noon and, according to witnesses at the university, he saw him earlier as well. We have no reports that the two men met after that.

  “Which brings us to Signorina Pincherle,” he said, turning the page yet again. “Despite her statements to the contrary, we have three witnesses who claim they saw her speaking to Professor Bondinelli in his office at the university at approximately two forty-five on the afternoon of Tuesday, September twenty-fourth.”

  Giuliana tapped her foot, fuming, but kept her mouth shut.

  “The question of your false declaration is something we will address later,” he said to her. “For now, let me continue with the order of events. Shortly after his meeting with Signorina Pincherle, the professor left his office. That was a few minutes after three. Witnesses described his mood as turbato, agitato, innervosito, and sconvolto. Devastated.”

  Peruzzi stashed the notebook in his jacket, returned his eyeglasses to their customary position, and, head down as he studied the stone surface, embarked on a brief turn around the terrazza. We all waited for him to finish with the dramatics.

  He stopped his perambulation and regarded us. “Where did he go?” he asked, expecting no response. This was a question he himself intended to answer for his audience. “After some excellent investigation by my men, we discovered that Professor Bondinelli came here, proprio qui, to Bel Soggiorno.”

  Nicely done, I thought. He’d set the scene perfectly before delivering the punch line.

  “But why did he come here?” he continued, feigning befuddlement. “Whom did he meet?”

  A long silence ensued. No one dared speak, so I did.

  “Well?” I asked. “Why did he come here?”

  Peruzzi frowned at me. I must have been throwing a wrench into his grand summation. Nevertheless, he answered me.

  “Professor Bondinelli came to see Signor Locanda but, not finding him at home, spoke to the porter, Achille, instead. Unfortunately he did not reveal the motive for his visit, but the porter’s description of his emotional state is consistent with that of the witnesses from the university. He was extremely upset.”

  “What time was that?” I asked, wanting to update the timeline I was tracking in my head.

  “To the best of Achille’s recollection, it was between three thirty and three forty-five, which is adequate time for Bondinelli to rush home from the university, jump into his car, and drive up here from Via Bolognese.”

  “You said you’ve arrested someone for his murder,” said Franco.

  “Yes, I was coming to that. As you know, I came here yesterday to question some of you about the professor’s wallet. When we didn’t find it on his body, I decided to launch an exhaustive search for it on both sides of the Arno. In cases of robbery, it’s rare for the thief to hold onto the wallet. He usually empties it and tosses it away. Often into the river, but that was not the case here. My men fanned out and questioned shopkeepers, local residents, spazzini (garbage collectors)—everyone—asking if they’d found or seen an empty wallet. We had little luck at first, but eventually our hard work paid off. We located a man known to us as a petty criminal, un piccolo deliquente, who harasses young women, especially tourists. He lives in Coverciano, on the east side of the city. He spends his days drawing caricatures outside the Uffizi when he’s not bothering foreign women.”

  “And he’s the one who killed poor Alberto?” asked Franco.

  “He denies it, of course,” said the inspector. “But he had the wallet. He says he got it from an old beggar woman on the Oltrarno. Can’t remember where. An obvious lie. None of that matters, of course. We are sure that he robbed Bondinelli and threw him into the river at the Ponte alle Grazie.”

  “What time do you think that was?” I asked, again trying to complete my timeline.

  Peruzzi beamed, clearly pleased with the information he was about to share. “From our interviews, we know that Bondinelli left Bel Soggiorno around three forty-five. Furthermore, we know he returned to his home on Via Bolognese at approximately four. He worked in his study for a period of time, perhaps an hour. Then he left in a hurry a few minutes after five. It is our theory that he went from his home directly to the Ponte alle Grazie and was robbed, murdered, and pushed into the river there.”

  “And when exactly did the young couple spot the body in the water?” I asked.

  “Very close to six. The call to the police was recorded in the log at 6:04.”

  “And, of course, you’ve tested how long it would take a body to float west from the Ponte alle Grazie to Santa Trinita.”

  “Of course. We consulted a limnologo from the university in Pisa. And also meteorologists. Even the local rowing club and fishermen on the Arno. They provided us with their best estimates based on the conditions of last Tuesday evening. We also performed a test with a dummy approximating the height and weight of the professor. We are confident that the current transported the professor’s body from the Ponte alle Grazie to Santa Trinita in approximately half an hour, give or take five minutes.”

  “What’s
a limnologo?” I whispered to Bernie.

  “Limnologist. Someone who studies inland bodies of water,” he said.

  Well, that was thorough of the police. But I still had my timeline to straighten out, so I asked Peruzzi for a final estimate on the time of death.

  “Dunque,” he began in typical Italian fashion, “we have the eyewitness reports of the two young people on the bridge who spotted the body in the water at approximately five fifty-nine that evening. Working backward from there, we have established with reasonable certainty that Professor Alberto Bondinelli entered the water upstream between five twenty and five thirty.”

  Sensing the presentation was at an end, Franco stepped forward and congratulated the cop. “Meticulous work. Complimenti, ispettore.”

  Peruzzi accepted the plaudits gladly. I still had a question for him.

  “What’s the name of the man you arrested?”

  He disliked my interrupting the ovation, but he pulled himself away from Franco’s attentions to answer me.

  “He gave us an assumed name at first. Paolo Notte. Quite unlikely. I sensed he was lying and, in short order, we discovered it was a nom de guerre he’d used during the winter of 1944. He claims to have been a partisan fighter, but the only record we could find showed he was an army deserter. Abandoned his post in Rome in September 1943, following the armistice. Just as our forces were ordered by Badoglio to resist all alien invaders.”

  “Except the Americans and the English,” added Max from the periphery of the group.

  Peruzzi coughed. “Yes, of course. Except the Americans and English.”

  “So he deserted the army and ended up a partisan,” I said.

  “He ended up with a partisan nom de guerre. We have our doubts about his valor in the fight against the occupiers in the north.”

  “So what is his actual name?”

  Peruzzi didn’t need to consult his little notebook. This arrest was a feather in his cap, and he’d committed the name to memory. “Leopoldo Migliorini. A small man of little consequence. A failure in life. Even as a caricaturist, he was carente di talento. I was unable to recognize any of the famous people he’d drawn. His Alberto Sordi looked more like Garibaldi.” He chuckled at what must have been a memory of the comic actor.