by Mary Leo
It made no sense, but then nothing was making much sense at the moment.
“They are beautiful, no?” Giuseppe asked, startling me as I tried to imagine all the history that had gone on around these majestic trees. “They were among the oldest trees in Southern Italy, more than a thousand years old. They bordered both my Nonna’s land and your papa’s land.”
“And my father and your Nonna dug them up to give them to my mother for a wedding present? Shouldn’t they have been left in the ground for you and Angelina?”
“Let me say again, Angelina would never have been my bride. Your papa, he knew this. Saving these trees and many more like them is what is important to your papa and Nonna. Nothing else is as important as this.”
“Then why did he dig them up and ship them here?”
“They will be safe here.”
“Safe from what?”
“The disease that is killing many of Italia’s olive trees, and safe from poachers.”
Thanks to Mariateresa mentioning it, I knew about Xylella but she’d also said that was more in the heel of Italy, a long way from Calabria. But I didn’t know a lot about people who actually stole olive trees in Italy. I tried to remember what Lisa had said about it that day.
“Wait . . . did you say poachers? Like in thieves?”
He nodded, his demeanor serious. “Yes, the poachers come in at night and steal the ancient trees. There is too much land and too many trees to keep them all safe every night. That is why you and I must marry. There is bad blood between our families in Italia. Each family thinks the other is stealing the trees, but if we get married, then all the land will be under one family, and just like here on your mama’s land, everybody can get along. No more bloodshed.”
“Oops, there’s already been bloodshed. Angelina, remember?”
“She was not part of the plan. Her murder does not make sense, and I do not know the reason . . . yet.”
“Then why did she come here pretending the two of you were engaged?”
“This was not her original plan. I was leaving, until your papa gave me a different offer. Then someone shot me. Angelina and your papa made a change of plans . . . to keep me safe.”
“And how did that work out?”
“Not so good, and now Angelina . . . she is dead.”
“And someone tried to kill you . . . and me just last night. Why? Do you know?”
He gazed around the room. “I do not know for certain, and this is not the place or time to talk of such things. We will talk another time.”
“And you’ll tell me the truth about all of this and how it’s related to my father?”
“Only if you will agree for us to be married.”
“I’ve seen what happens to your fiancées and I don’t like much like the outcome.”
“I would never let anything happen to you,” he told me, sounding as sincere as he had when we first talked about fiancées and marriage, before Angelina had drifted off into the great beyond.
“I bet you say that to all your fiancées.”
“I do not joke.”
I turned to him, his eyes sparkling. “Neither do I. Let me say this again. I will never be your bride, especially now that Angelina has probably been murdered by some sneaky, underhanded killer. After all, if it was the cut Freon line that killed her, it wasn’t even a real hit. Like trying to kill us with gas from the stove. Whoever did this is smart and has a thing for murder by asphyxiation.”
“We will soon learn who killed Angelina, and that person will be the target of my disgust. If you did not kill her, so you could be my wife instead of Angelina, you have nothing to worry over.”
I wanted to slap him silly. “Let me make myself clear. I did not, nor did Lisa, have anything to do with Angelina’s death. And I most certainly wouldn’t have ever killed her so I could marry you. That would mean I was jealous of Angelina. And that, my Italian friend, is possibly the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said.”
Although, as soon as I said the jealous part, a chilling thought occurred to me. Was Angelina murdered out of jealousy? The idea seemed at once preposterous and possible at the same time. I’d have to know more about this fake engagement of theirs.
He grinned down at me. “Then everything is good!”
“Not exactly. The local sheriff will investigate and learn that we were in her room tonight.”
“Believe me, Angelina will not be found in her room . . . that matter has been handled.”
I didn’t like how that sounded.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you do not have to worry. She has been . . . how do you say . . . repositioned. Somewhere safe until we can ship her back to Italia to be buried by her family.”
“You moved the body?”
“I can not answer that question.”
I sucked in air, startled at my own mob-type thoughts. “Don’t tell me she’s here . . . in this warehouse . . . in some back room.”
He shuffled his feet and smirked. “Okay, I won’t tell you this.”
I gazed up at the ceiling for a moment, wishing I had a normal family that didn’t hide dead bodies. “Won’t this start more bloodshed?”
“We will have found her killer by then and taken care of the . . . problem.”
I thought about how we had to leave the hotel in a hurry. “Who came to the hotel to move her? Was it a couple people from my family or do you have more of your friends with you that I haven’t met yet.”
He smirked, and shuffled his feet. “I can not tell you any more. You will be in danger if you know too much.”
“I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Then do not listen.”
I decided not to press him any further. The less I knew, the less I would say in an interrogation room. Thing was, something about all of this reeked to high heaven, and Giuseppe wasn’t helping to smother the smell . . . or was he?
“Your mama would like to see you enjoy her party, I’m sure. Everything will be good, I promise you,” Giuseppe said. “I will take care of it. Now, you should eat. Food will help your mood to be calm. The bread is sweet like honey. My Nonna, she make it this morning.”
I wanted to argue with him about my “mood,” but his phone buzzed. He immediately took the call and walked out of the room. Moments later, Gianna strolled past me, as if she’d been lurking in the shadows. Then Rocco walked past from the other direction. Had they both been listening or was it just a conscience that they’d been so close by? What did it mean? Was Gianna listening for a reason?
And Rocco, was he somehow involved in all of this? I didn’t know much about him other than the few facts my mom had told me, and so far, he and Alessandra seemed like a sweet couple waiting for their baby to be born. But my past taught me not to always believe what may be on the surface.
Dirty little secrets could run deep with anyone in my family.
SEVENTEEN
In Wine, There Is Truth . . .
I knew that Rocco was an imported mobster who’d been marked for a hit. I thought he’d moved passed all of that. But maybe he hadn’t. Was he trying to appease some irate Wise Guy back in Italy by taking out Angelina? I decided I needed to question Rocco and was about to do just that when Gianna walked over to me, holding a flute filled to the brim with Prosecco. And at that very moment, I would kill . . . well, maybe I wouldn’t go quite that far . . . but I would do almost anything to be holding that glass in my own hand.
“I saw you and Giuseppe talking. I bet he’s taking it hard about Angelina,” she said. “I’m surprised he’s here and not back in his apartment, sobbing.”
I really wanted her glass of Prosecco. I’d do anything for it . . . even tell the truth.
“They were never really engaged,” I whispered under the rumble of voices coming from everyone else in the massive room.
I reached for her glass.
For a brief moment, Gianna’s eyes went as wide as saucers, then just as quickly she regained control.
She guzzled some of her Prosecco, then said, “What do you mean? She had an engagement ring and everything.”
I pulled my hand back. “I don’t know all the details, but I do know it wasn’t a real engagement. It was all a ruse to expose someone else.”
“Why go through all that trouble? Did Giuseppe tell you who that someone else might be?”
She caught me off guard with that question. “What makes you think I learned all of this information from Giuseppe?”
“Considering I saw you two talking only a moment ago, I assumed as much.”
I suddenly wished I hadn’t told her anything.
“Well, it wasn’t Giuseppe who told me,” I told her, trying to sound convincing. “I can’t really share that information.”
“Fine,” she said, looking miffed. “Whatever is or isn’t true about their engagement, you two are free to marry now. Is that back on?”
I hesitated, but then, just to spite her I said, “It sure is! Thinking of having a double wedding with my mom and Benny.”
She grinned but it had to be one of the more fake smiles I’d ever seen. “So you’re all for it now. Good. That’s good. Congratulations! Just be careful of him, Mia. He’s a first rate shit. I knew that back when I lived in Italy.”
This was news to me. She’d given me the impression that she hadn’t really known him in Italy. He was merely one of her customers. What the hell?
She held up her glass, drank down the rest of her Prosecco. “Wow, that has to be some of the best bubbly I’ve tasted in a long time. Really goes down easy. Did you know that Audrey Hepburn loved Prosecco? Well, it’s a little known fact, but she did. Oops,” she covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. You don’t drink anymore. Talking about it must really drive you crazy. My bad.” Then she sashayed back to the group, obviously miffed.
I wondered what the heck that was all about? Did I detect a bit of . . . what . . . jealousy? That couldn’t be true. She only recently even tolerated Giuseppe. She’d made it clear that she didn’t like having to live down the hall from him, an active gangster. So why on earth did I pick up on some kind of jealousy? What the hell happened between them back in Italy?
This night was stacking up to be both dangerous and unpredictable. I needed to cook something in the worst way, but that wasn’t possible at the moment, so I decided to do the next best thing.
Eat.
I went to the bathroom and cleaned up as best I could, not that adding soap and water made much of a difference. My hair was a mess, covered with leaves of all sizes and shapes, my face was covered in dirt, and my hands burned when I put them under the water from the faucet.
Cousin Audrey walked in while I was cleaning up. “Hey,” she said. “What happened to you?”
“I, um, fell,” I told her.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just need to clean up a bit,” I said, not wanting to get into the details of my escape from Angelina’s room.
“You look like you’re going to be here for awhile. Can I leave my purse with you?”
“Sure,” I said, and she placed her small clutch down on the sink in a puddle of water, then she immediately went into a stall and locked the door.
I immediately picked up her purse to move it away from the water. Curiously it felt way too heavy, so heavy that I couldn’t help but take a peek inside. And sure enough, right there in the middle sat a small weapon, what looked like a .38 caliber revolver. A handgun, something she’d sworn she didn’t how to use..
I heard her coming out of the stall, and I immediately closed her clutch and put it right back in the puddle where she’d left it.
“So sorry to hear about Angelina, not that I’d ever met her, but apparently my mom had and she was upset about it.”
“Yeah, it was a shock.”
“Well,” she said, as she rinsed her hands, then dried them on a paper towel. “I hope they find the killer soon. I hate all this mobby shit. It makes me feel so vulnerable.”
Then she picked up her purse that contained the revolver, wiped off the water from the back and walked out leaving me to wonder why she lied about owning a gun.
I let it go for now and did the best I could with foamy soap and rough paper towels, which wasn’t much. Then I walked out of the bathroom and headed over to the bountiful buffet table, grabbed a dish and loaded it up with a few ravioli along with the caprese salad, a few slices of grilled eggplant and zucchini. Then I grabbed a napkin rolled around real flatware, and walked over to take a seat at the empty far side of the long table where I’d left my hoodie. I didn’t know if I could eat anything, but I was going to give it a good try. Lisa pulled a chair out next to me and made herself comfy. I watched in silence as she first poured down a glass of deep red wine, then she sliced off a big chunk of cheese from a nearby platter, gathered up a few bright green olives, stuffed with almonds or garlic, while others weren’t even pitted.
She then carefully tore off a piece of bread from a loaf the size of a small tree, and poured pasta sauce over it from the white tureen close by. I’d never seen a loaf of bread so big and wondered what kind of oven could bake it. Then I remembered that Dolci Piccoli Bakery, the bakery that my two aunts owned on our property, had a huge pizza oven. Maybe Mariateresa had used that.
“How can you eat at a time like this?” I asked Lisa as she stuffed her face.
“Running from mobsters always makes me hungry. Besides, have you tasted this bread? It’s incredible. And the wine is much better than most of the wineries in Napa and Sonoma combined. There’s a fruity richness to this wine, much like a good quality Pinot, but more balanced and with less oak.”
She was preaching to the choir. Many of my family members had brought back wines from Southern Italy, and those wines always surpassed what was made in this valley, at least for my taste, and apparently for Lisa’s as well.
“Wines from Southern Italy were always my favorite,” I said, trying not to think about how much I wanted those flavors on my tongue. But I didn’t drink wine anymore, even though the scent of it wafted up from her glass to tickle my nose and remind me of how much I missed it.
“This wine isn’t from Italy,” she quipped, after taking another sip. “It’s Russo’s Cab.”
“What?” My skin prickled.
“It’s Leo’s wine. Why? Was his Cabernet your favorite?”
“Any wine was my favorite, but the bottle of wine in Angelina’s room was Leo’s Cabernet Sauvignon. How the heck did it end up here?”
“It wasn’t the same bottle, silly. I opened this one myself. It was already here, sitting on the table.”
“So the same person who visited Angelina’s room, and shared a bottle of wine with her, also brought the same type of wine to this party. Odd, don’t you think? Did you see who brought it?”
She shook her head. “Like I said, it was already on the table when we arrived, along with several bottles from Italy and some other local wines as well. It could just be a coincidence.”
“Or a deliberate statement.”
“I don’t think our killer would be that bold,” she said before she slipped a piece of cheese-filled ravioli off her fork and into her awaiting mouth. She always made eating the simplest of foods look sexy. When we were in high school, several of the boys would join us for lunch just to watch Lisa. She never thought anything of it, but even I knew it was erotic, but then everything about Lisa exuded self-confidence and sexual freedom. She had always been and still was, my hero.
She let out a quiet little yum sound, just like my mom’s moan when she ate. Only Lisa’s yum was almost inaudible. My mom’s moans could be heard over the music of a rock band.
“Maybe so, but it’s awfully odd that the Russo table wine ends up both in Angelina’s room and here at this party. Leo usually brings over a couple cases of his Pinot, never his Cab. I just think it’s odd.”
“You look a little pale,” Lisa said. “I think you should eat something.”
I had to admit I felt a littl
e woozy. It had been quite a night and it wasn’t even over yet.
“Okay, maybe a bite of bread,” I said, wanting wine instead. I could guzzle an entire bottle of wine . . . Leo’s wine “Is there any olive oil?”
She pointed to the center of the table where several bottles were clustered together along with a jar of roasted red peppers in olive oil, red pepper flakes, a few bottles of balsamic vinegar, exotic red-colored salt, pepper, and four different types of extra virgin olive oil: Spia Blend and Picual oils were robust and peppery, while the Manzanillo and the Sevillano oils were delicate and buttery.
But there was one bottle of olive oil in the middle of the table that I didn’t recognize. A dark-tinted cylinder-shaped bottle with a large black label. Good oils needed to be protected from light or they could go rancid early. Most olive oils from a grocery store were in clear glass bottles. That oil was already rancid by the time the customer first opened it, no matter what the price.
I’d never seen this brand before. I had to try it on a chunk of bread.
I poured it on, took a couple deep sniffs and a big bite of the now golden-soaked bread. The oil had a medium intensity, with fragrant aromas of freshly cut grass and a hint of tomato leaf, plus fresh herbs and green almonds. It was an exceptional oil, balanced, complex and elegant. I even poured a little onto a spoon and sucked it into my mouth, then with clenched teeth and an open mouth, I sucked it to the back of my throat. No bite, just a smooth earthy flavor.
A truly exquisite extra virgin olive oil that would rival anything we bottled.
I held the bottle, and took another look at the label: Nardi Villa Estate Biologico. This was the Nardi family estate olive oil. I wondered if Giuseppe and I in fact married, would the Spias and the Nardis be selling olive oil together? How would that work?
“Mariateresa handed out samples of her olive oil,” Lisa said. “Here, I have two.” She handed me one of the small bottles.
“Thanks,” I said, then shoved the bottle inside my hoodie pocket. As soon as I slipped my hand inside, I felt a soft lump. I pulled my hand out and my fingers were covered in cake crumbs.
