“That’s a real skill, wish I could do it.”
“I think it comes from being a writer,” said Kat. “I can kind of ‘step out’ of the scene and take a bird’s eye view of it. It also stops me from jumping to conclusions. Books take all sorts of unexpected twists and turns before you arrive at the ending. And, as they say, life is stranger than fiction.”
“That’s really something, Kat.”
“Well, we all have our skills, Deborah. I couldn’t do what you do. For one, I couldn’t teach. For another, I’d just about die talking about sex in public. Sure, I can write about it behind the safety of my pen name, Sexy Cissy.” She laughed. “But that’s about it.”
“When you’ve been talking about it every day for the past fifteen years as I’ve been doing in the classes I teach, it becomes second nature,” Deborah said with a chuckle.
“That’s what I hope happens with my writing,” Kat said ruefully. “I wish I could just see an empty page, and it would all start flowing from my fingertips without any thought. Unfortunately, it takes a great deal of mental energy.”
“I can imagine,” Deborah said.
“But the sense of satisfaction is unreal. When I finally type out ‘the end’, I get a high that can last for days. I guess that’s another similarity with investigating. Both writing and investigating have a very clear end moment. You come to the end of one, and then you move onto the next.”
“The next?” Deborah asked with a smile. “You mean you’re planning to do more investigating? Are you going to become Lindsay’s answer to Miss Marple? Although a much more glamorous Miss Marple, I might add.”
Kat gave her a playful swipe. “And a heck of a lot younger, thank you very much.” She looked out over the vineyards. “Well to answer your question, no, I’m not hoping another Lindsay resident drops dead so I can whip out my magnifying glass, but I’ll certainly be there if I’m needed.”
“Maybe you should start your own private investigating firm!”
Kat laughed. “No thanks. First of all, Blaine would go crazy. He’d be worried sick all the time. I don’t think his nerves could take it.”
“That’s a valid point,” Deborah said. “I couldn’t live with someone who was employed in a dangerous line of work, either.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t be a barrel of laughs, would it?” Kat asked. “Sitting at home every night wondering if you’re going to get the call you’ve always been dreading, or if a police officer is going show up at your door with bad news.”
Deborah shuddered. “The whole thing sounds awful.”
“It certainly does,” Kat said in agreement as she looked at her watch. “I wonder when the vineyard manager will get here. He’s got a very glamorous name, hasn’t he? Gabriele Ferrari.”
“He does to our American ears,” Deborah agreed. “So many Italian names sound glamorous to us, but I’ve learned they don’t sound glamorous to other Italians.”
Kat laughed. “I guess. It’s like that old joke about Enrique Iglesias. Sounds wonderful in Spanish, but Henry Churches doesn’t sound so exciting, does it?”
“Oh, I’ve never heard that before!” Deborah said. “That’s brilliant.”
Eventually Gabriele, the vineyard manager, arrived. Luigi had let him know earlier that Kat and Deborah wanted to speak with him, but he’d taken his own sweet time coming to see them.
“Hello,” he said in English when he arrived on the veranda. He gave them a professional smile and handshake, neither of which seemed to be sincere or warm. Kat took an instant dislike to him, but tried to keep an open mind.
Primo sat at Deborah’s feet and glared at him.
He sat down and sneered at what was sitting on the table in a glass pitcher. “Why do they bring Guappa when there is some of the world’s best wine here to drink?” He looked at their glasses and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, sorry.” Then he arranged his face into a smile. “How can I help you lovely ladies? I am sorry I took a little longer than expected to get here. We are rushing the new release through.”
“The new release?” Kat said, astounded. “The same one Bruno was trying when he was murdered?”
“Unfortunately, we have to,” Gabriele said. “We’ve invested a huge amount of time and money this year for this release. If we don’t release it, we will incur a significant loss. That would not be beneficial to whoever inherits the estate from Mr. Lombardi.”
Kat couldn’t help but think he was a rather cold type of individual. “Did you and Mr. Lombardi usually agree on the work involved in the vineyards and the wine production?”
“Of course,” Gabriele said. “I worked for him for ten years. Mr. Lombardi was the kind of man who would fire you if you exhibited anything less than excellence.” He sat up very straight with a superior look on his face. He left a long silence, speaking without words, letting them know how excellent he obviously was.
“Who had access to the cellar?” Kat asked.
“Me, and some of the workers in the vineyard. None of them would have any motive to kill Mr. Lombardi, and I certainly don’t. I’m confident my position as the vineyard manager is not in jeopardy. Believe me, the profit alone from this successful upcoming release will guarantee that, but vineyard workers are expendable. Any of them could be fired, for any reason, at any time. None of them stand to gain anything from Mr. Lombardi’s death.”
“I see,” Kat said. She poured more Guappa to give herself some time to think. She did so very slowly, pondering whether what Gabriele said was true or not. Did he really not stand to gain from Bruno’s death? She couldn’t think of any real motive that he’d have, but perhaps he was acting on behalf of some other winemaker. Maybe he’d been recruited by one of them to take a job at the Lombardi estate so he could eventually kill Bruno. But waiting ten years to get rid of someone would be an awfully long-term strategy. She couldn’t see that happening. Still, she asked, “Who were you employed by before you started to work here?”
“I was a wine expert for one of the most famous international wine magazines. I was not a vineyard manager, but Mr. Lombardi would not let me continue to waste my talent, so he said, when we met at an event. I allowed him to, shall we say, poach me. I relocated my young family from Venice and came here.”
Deborah and Kat exchanged glances. The way he spoke was so mechanical and devoid of emotion it was quite chilling.
Kat took a deep breath. “I hope you don’t find this to be a rude question, Mr. Ferrari,” she said, “but you don’t seem to be that disturbed by Mr. Lombardi’s death.”
He looked her straight in the eye, a look that pierced into her very core, so piercing she had to look away. “Not all of humanity wears their hearts on their sleeves, madam,” he said. “Not everything is as it appears. Not in the wine world. Neither in the wider world. If you opt to judge by appearances, you will make many errors.”
Kat sighed. There was something about the man’s manner that sucked the will to live out of her. She felt depressed and flat and momentarily thought about packing this all up and going back home to Lindsay, but she knew she couldn’t. Wearily, she asked, “So, do you have any idea who might have killed Bruno Lombardi?”
“I am neither a detective nor an investigator,” he said drily. “But I can tell you that many in the wine community envied Mr. Lombardi. Those who do not have the will or skill to reach the very peak of excellence always envy those who have the disposition, talent, and discipline to achieve it.”
“Are you speaking about anyone in particular?” Deborah asked, barely able to conceal the irritation in her voice.
“Well, if you’ve done even half a job, you’ll already know that there was certainly no love lost between the winemaker, Vito Rizzo, and Mr. Lombardi.”
“Thank you,” Kat said, and made a mental note of the name.
“You mean to tell me you did not even know that? Well, Luigi obviously has some sort of faith in you. I hope he is right.”
Kat couldn’t wait to get away from this o
dious man, but she still had questions. “Let’s say Vito Rizzo killed Bruno…”
“I never said such a thing,” Gabriele interrupted.
“I’m not saying that you did,” Kat snapped back. “Now, hear me out. Hypothetically, say Rizzo was the one who was responsible for Bruno’s death. Who would have done it? Who would have had access to the cellar? Would one of the workers in the vineyard have taken payment from Rizzo to sneak into the cellar and add poison to the wine?” She wanted to add, “Or would you?” but she didn’t want to jeopardize the interview.
He shook his head. “I told you that I am not an investigator. I make excellent wine. And the thing about excellence is to know your sphere, and to only operate within that sphere. Therefore, I have nothing to say.”
“But you don’t need to be an expert in this,” Kat said. “A man off the street could tell you that was plausible. What I’m asking is, in your position as vineyard manager, do you think that could have been possible?”
He stood up and spoke tightly. “My time and attention must be focused on this new release. I cannot sit around all day musing about murder motives. I know my place as an excellent winemaker and vineyard manager, not as a half-rate policeman.”
Kat wondered if that was a dig at her. In any case, it didn’t really matter, because she couldn’t imagine disliking him more than she already did.
“You’ve made yourself very clear,” Kat said. “Thank you for your time.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, practically through gritted teeth. He walked back into the mansion with a stiffer gait than when he’d walked onto the veranda earlier.
Deborah looked at Kat, totally bewildered. “What was that all about?”
“You know as much as I do,” Kat said. “That’s a very strange man.”
“You’ve got that right. We should keep an eye on him.”
Kat thought for a moment. “I think you’re right. After all, he’s the one who would have had the easiest time slipping the poison into the bottle. The only problem is, I don’t see a motive.”
Deborah shivered. “People like that don’t need a motive. From what I’ve read, people like that kill for fun. Did you see the look in his eyes? Scary.”
“They were rather piercing, weren’t they?” Kat answered in agreement.
CHAPTER 16
For lunch, Kat, Deborah, Blaine, and Luigi were treated to a lovely spaghetti bolognaise, courtesy of one of Chiari’s cousins. Well, actually, Kat learned that spaghetti bolognaise doesn’t exist in Italy. Instead, it was tagliatelle al ragù, with thick tagliatelle instead of spaghetti. It was absolutely delicious, and clearly laced with copious amounts of red wine. Kat could taste it in the sauce. Primo got a whole bowl of it himself, and wolfed it down at lightning speed.
Over lunch, Kat tried to shake off the weird, uncomfortable feeling Gabriele had left her with. He’d made her feel very uneasy, and she was finding it difficult to get rid of the feeling.
“Are you okay, darling?” Blaine asked her quietly when Deborah and Luigi returned the dishes to the kitchen.
“I think so,” she said. “I just have this awful feeling of dread. Like something terrible is going to happen.”
Blaine frowned. “Something like what?”
“I don’t know,” said Kat. “That’s the thing. I just feel… ugh. It’s horrible.”
Blaine wrapped her up in a hug. “Well, nothing terrible is going to happen to you with me here.”
“The sooner I wrap up this investigation, the better,” Kat said. She felt all the more determined to make something happen, to get to the bottom of things. Impatience pumped through her. She hadn’t found out anything yet. At least, that was how it felt.
After lunch, Luigi and Blaine left for a round of golf at the exclusive Pevero Golf Club where Luigi was a member. Blaine asked Kat if she’d rather he didn’t go, given how she was feeling. She smiled at him and told him to have a great round of golf.
As soon as they were out the door, she turned to Deborah. “We’ve got to get serious. Let’s go and find this mistress of Bruno’s. Her name’s Sofia Ossani, isn’t it?”
Deborah nodded. “I think that’s what Chiari said.”
Kat already had the rental car keys in her hand. “Let’s hit the road. Of course it might help if we knew where she lived. I wonder how we can find out. Maybe there was a postmark on the letter the son sent.” They called Chiari, who was still out with Salvatore, something Kat definitely wanted to speak to her about, and she gave them the name of the town where Sofia lived. She didn’t know the exact address, but that didn’t matter. It was a very small town and everyone knew everyone.
When they were in the rental car, Primo secured in the back, Deborah punched the name of the town into the GPS.
“Oh, dear,” Kat said as she looked at the GPS. It was a three hour drive, all the way to the end of the island. The little seaside village where Salvatore lived was on the way. “We’re really going to rack up the miles, plus we won’t get back until late this evening.” She paused for a moment. “We also have to go see Vito Rizzo. Do you know where he lives?”
“He’s in the south of the island as well,” Deborah said. “Luigi mentions him from time to time, and not in glowing terms. I’m not looking forward to that visit.”
“Do you think it would be a better use of our time to stay down there for the night? We could ask Luigi and Blaine if they’d join us after their golf.”
Deborah smiled. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll give Luigi a call.”
Soon they’d agreed to meet at a lovely resort hotel near the south end of the island. Before long, Kat was driving the rental car out of the driveway and through the expansive vineyards, ready to make that now-familiar journey down the coast.
They chatted about everything and nothing on the drive to the south end of the island, that is, everything except the investigation. They spoke about Lacie and Tyler, and about Kat’s books. They giggled like schoolgirls about Kat’s sexy new book release. Then Deborah spoke about her new discovery, Brené Brown, a researcher who gave talks on all kinds of interesting topics, such as the power of vulnerability. Deborah wasn’t usually into self-help, she said, but Brené Brown based all her work on good solid data. Kat made a mental note to look her up.
They talked about Deborah’s job, Primo, and the workings of vineyards, until they were both thoroughly tired from talking. They turned on the radio, and Kat found a jazz station. It felt very relaxing cruising down the coast with soft jazz filling the car.
“Oh, look,” Deborah said, pointing to a sign. “There’s the turn for the town.”
Kat followed the signs to the little town where Sofia lived. It was quite a ways in from the coast, nestled among mountains. Everyone stared at them when they entered the town, the people apparently not used to seeing outsiders. Small stone houses climbed up the sides of a nearby mountain, and the little town as a whole presented a very picturesque scene.
Kat slowed the car down so Deborah could speak to an older man in Italian and ask him where Sofia lived. “It’s the largest stone house up on the mountain,” Deborah told Kat. “The man I asked said we can’t miss it. It has large golden gates.”
“That sounds fancy,” Kat said, and followed Deborah’s directions up a winding mountain road. Soon they came to the golden gates, which were thankfully open. Kat felt a little intrusive just driving right into the driveway, but she did.
The front door opened and a buxom blonde woman with curlers in her hair and her face heavily made up appeared, a frown on her face. “Who are you?” she asked in Italian.
Deborah explained in Italian that she was Luigi’s friend, and Kat was her friend. She asked the woman if she was Sofia Ossani.
Yes,” Sofia said. Deborah told her they would like to talk to her for a few minutes about Bruno Lombardi. Sofia motioned for them to come inside, and looked around the neighborhood with a worried look on her face as she let them in. She also looked worriedly at Primo.
/> Deborah reassured her in Italian about Primo and put a leash on him. Sofia still looked worried, but nodded, and Primo came in with them.
She led them into the living room. A young dark-haired boy was playing on a gamin console with a grown man, also blond. The boy didn’t even look up. The grown man offered them a quick smile, then went back to the virtual soccer game he and the boy were playing. Sofia rolled her eyes at them and began making coffee.
Whenever Sofia or Kat spoke, Deborah translated.
“What is it about Bruno that you want to talk to me about?” Sofia asked.
“First, I just wanted to say how sorry we are about Bruno,” Kat said.
Sofia frowned. “Sorry about him? Sorry about what?”
Kat and Deborah looked at each other in alarm.
“She doesn’t know,” Kat said in English to Deborah.
Deborah had the unenviable job of breaking the news of Bruno’s death to Sofia. She gasped, and the boy, who had overheard the conversation, froze.
“No,” she said, shaking her head again and again. “No. No. No.” Then she broke down in tears.
The man tried to put his arm around the boy, but the boy struck out at him, punching him in the stomach.
“Papa!” he shouted, then ran to Sofia and buried his head in her chest, like a much younger child would do.
Kat remembered the note the boy had written. Diego was his name she recalled. He was now sobbing, and his mother was crying as well.
Kat and Deborah sat, watching the scene. Kat’s heart broke for both of them, despite the adultery. It was obvious they clearly had adored Bruno, and Diego was faced with having to deal with the loss of his father.
“I am Rinaldo Ossani,” the man said in Italian. Again Deborah had to translate. “Sofia is my sister. I have been telling her that she should end her relationship with Bruno, because he was taking her for a fool. But in death, I suppose none of that matters.”
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