by Rhys Bowen
“Are the turnips ready for harvest?”
“Soon. Before Christmas. That will be good. Maybe I can trade for things that we need for the holiday. It is so strange. In past years we would all be baking at this moment. Now it will be only chestnut cake if we are lucky. No dried fruit, no cream, no butter. And probably no meat. A poor feast.”
“Let us hope it will be the last poor feast before the Germans are finally defeated.”
Sofia crossed herself. “From your lips to God’s ears,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JOANNA
June 1973
It’s easy enough to explain that boot print, I thought. The two Carabinieri agents would obviously want to search the crime scene for clues. They may have dusted my window for fingerprints. But then if it wasn’t an official search, someone was watching the house and saw me leave. I glanced around and was relieved when I heard Paola’s voice calling for Angelina to bring a bowl. I hurried to join her, and soon she was showing me how to choose the zucchini blossoms and how to pick them, making sure that the stem was intact. After that she cut a few artichokes, dug up some radishes, and chose a couple of ripe tomatoes. Then she stopped by the herb garden and picked various leaves that I couldn’t identify, but their scent was pungent when she gave them to me to hold. Finally we walked back to the house. I found myself looking around to see if we were being watched. Paola chatted away as we walked, telling Angelina about our encounter with the Carabinieri and what the townspeople had been saying.
“You see, I was right,” Angelina said. “I told you that it was because Gianni kept bad company. He liked to flirt with danger. That’s why he was killed.”
“But why choose my well? That’s what I’d like to know,” Paola said. “Why not kill him on his own property? It is more remote, less likely to be seen among those trees. Why not just follow him there?”
“Perhaps he saw he was being followed. Perhaps he fought back and had to be killed in a hurry.” Angelina shrugged. “Let’s get on with the meal, Mamma. I am hungry and I am sure Signorina Joanna is, too.”
“Then lay the table and slice the bread,” Paola said, going ahead of us into the cool kitchen. “And put out the salami and the cheese and wash those radishes.” She turned to me. “Now pay attention if you want to see how we stuff the zucchini blossoms, Joanna.”
She put some of the white cheese into a bowl, chopped up and added some of the herb I had now decided was mint, then grated some lemon zest on to it. Then she took a spoon and carefully stuffed this mixture into each of the blossoms.
She dipped a scoop into the big jar of olive oil and lit the gas under a pan.
“Now the batter,” she said. She broke an egg into flour, whisked the mixture, and added water. Then she took a zucchini blossom and dipped it into the batter. When the oil was sizzling, she dropped the blossom in and repeated the same process with the others, one by one, turning them and then removing them when they were crisp.
“Tonight we do the same with the artichokes,” she said. “We need to eat these while they are good and hot.”
We sat at the table. Bread was passed to me along with sliced tomatoes with rich, sweet vinegar poured over them. I took my first bite of the zucchini blossom.
“Very delicious,” I said, wishing my Italian vocabulary of praise was more extensive. We ate for a while in silence until the baby’s cries made Angelina jump up to fetch her. “She went three hours between feeds this time. That is good news, eh, Mamma?”
“Yes, she is certainly growing stronger,” Paola said. “I think now we can safely say that she has come to stay.”
We finished our meal with apricots.
“Now a little siesta before we pick the vegetables and load up the cart for tomorrow,” Paola said. “I expect you are tired, too, mia cara.”
I didn’t like the thought of Paola and Angelina going off to sleep and leaving me alone.
“Not really,” I said. “I think I will sit in the shade of the front porch and read my book.”
“As you wish. Myself, I need to sleep.”
I went to the front porch and sat on the bench in the shade. It was cool and peaceful. Bees were buzzing around jasmine. Sparrows chirped as they hopped around in the dust. In the distance I heard a donkey braying. But I could not read or relax. I found myself glancing up from the book, my eyes on the path that led down from the village. I tried to make sense of what had happened. Nobody in San Salvatore seemed to have met my father, or even knew of him. And yet Gianni had tried his best to get me alone and tell me something important, something he had kept hidden until now for fear of his life.
And then there was the beautiful boy, the boy my father had hidden where only he and Sofia could find him. But the only boy was Renzo, and he did not remember being hidden away, nor did he remember my father. And he was too old to be a child of my father. I found myself wondering if Sofia had concealed a pregnancy. Would that be possible in a village of this size with nosy neighbours? Renzo, being only three at the time, might not have noticed if his mother put on weight. But other women would. And then the biggest question of all: If my father had been in the area long enough to fall in love and maybe father a child, where on earth had he been hiding? In Sofia’s house? But then Renzo had said that a German soldier had been billeted with them. And surely someone else would have seen him. It didn’t make sense. In fact, the most logical thing to do was to leave this place as soon as possible. If Sofia Bartoli had run off with a German and thus broken my father’s heart, then I didn’t want to know more about her.
The afternoon passed without incident. Paola awoke from her nap and we went into the garden to pick vegetables. By the time the sun set we had a flat cart loaded with wooden trays ready to take to market in the morning. I looked at the cart and wondered if we’d have to pull it up the hill. It looked like really heavy work. Paola left it in the shade at the side of the house. “In the morning Carlo will come for it,” she said. “Now we go and eat.”
This evening’s meal started with round white and shiny balls of a cheese called mozzarella, along with tomato slices and fresh green basil. Then came the fried artichokes. I found these a little chewy and not as good as the zucchini blossoms had been. But the main course of the veal chops in a rich wine sauce—well, that was heavenly.
Afterward we sat talking until I could pluck up the courage to go back to my room. I didn’t like to ask Paola to accompany me, but I did say, “You don’t think we are in any danger, do you? I mean, a man was killed right next to my room.”
Paola shook her head, smiling. “You are in no danger, my little one. You have had nothing to do with this man and neither have I. He has met a sad end, but most likely he brought it upon himself. Don’t worry.” Then she put an arm around my shoulder and walked with me to the little house. I went in and locked the door from the inside. Even so I found it hard to sleep. I pictured someone finding a way to prize off the bars at the window, or even putting through a hand holding a pistol and shooting me as I slept. I closed the shutters and the window even though it was hot and stuffy and finally fell asleep in an airless room.
I awoke to shouts and leapt up, my heart thudding. It was not quite light, and my head throbbed as if I had drunk too much wine. I opened my door and saw that the cause of the commotion was that a man had arrived with a tractor and was hooking it up to Paola’s cart of vegetables while she yelled instructions with much arm waving. I dressed hurriedly and went to join them.
“Did we wake you, little one?” she said. “I am sorry. I would have let you sleep on and join me later. I have to go up to the village now to set up my stall, but I have left coffee and bread for you on the table. If you would like to join me, come up at your leisure. The bathroom is at your disposal, and Angelina will soon be awake if you need anything.”
I realised I had not locked my door behind me when I ran out, so I rushed back. Nothing had been touched. I took my toilet bag, towel, and clean clothes for the day an
d locked the door carefully this time before I went over to the farmhouse, had a bath, and then had breakfast. Angelina appeared while I was still eating, rubbing her eyes sleepily.
“It is not easy to be a mother,” she said. “The baby, she cries and wants to eat every two hours, all night. You are wise to concentrate on your career and not marry. I wish I had studied harder and not let Mario sweep me off my feet.” She paused, and a wistful smile came over her face. “But he is very handsome.”
“You must miss him very much while he is away.”
She nodded. “Of course. But he does this for us so that we can save money and maybe open a little business. I pray for that day.”
“You are lucky to have your mother to help you.”
“Yes, although she can be bossy and tells me how to look after my child. Her ways are old-fashioned, you understand. But she won’t listen to new ways that I have read about in books.”
“At least she is here,” I said. “I still miss my mother. She was a kind person like yours is. She took good care of my father and me.”
“You had no brother or sister?”
I shook my head. “My mother was over forty years old when I was born. It was a late marriage for both my parents. She never thought she could have a child and was surprised when I came along. She told me I was her little miracle.”
“I had a brother,” Angelina said. “But he died when he was a baby. He caught that disease called polio, you know? So sad. Life is full of sadness, is it not? My mother, she still weeps for my father.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Life is full of sadness. But you have a new baby to make you happy.”
“If she doesn’t want to eat the whole night long,” Angelina said, and we both laughed.
“I promised your mother I would come up to the piazza and help her,” I said. Soon after, I set off up the hill. It was a cool morning with a few white clouds racing in from the west. Maybe the weather was going to break. I passed nobody on the path and have to confess that I almost ran through the tunnel, but when I reached the village piazza it was full of activity at this early hour. Paola was already doing a lively trade and looked as if she was glad to see me.
“Ah, you came,” she said. “I will put you to work. The basket of apricots needs to be filled again. And the tomatoes. And make sure the basil is not in the sun or it will wilt.”
I did as she asked.
“And I promised to bring parsley to the trattoria,” she said.
“I’ll take it over for you,” I volunteered.
She shook her head. “No, I had better go myself. I need to know what they might need for the festival tomorrow.”
“A festival?”
She smiled. “It is a holy day. Corpus Christi. We have a big procession and then a feast in the piazza here. Everyone brings food to share. You will enjoy it, I am sure.”
So off she went. I was a little nervous that I wouldn’t be able to understand her customers, but nobody came for several minutes. I was moving the tray of tomatoes out of the direct sun when I saw the shadow of someone approaching. I looked up and it was Renzo.
“Oh, it is you,” he said in English. “Why are you still here?”
“I’m not allowed to leave yet,” I said.
“Is this not Paola’s stall?” he asked, looking around. “Where is she?”
“She went to take parsley to the trattoria,” I said. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I need all your tomatoes, and your basil and onions, and do you have garlic? I need a lot of garlic.”
“You must be very hungry,” I said, trying to be flippant.
“It is the feast day tomorrow,” he said, not smiling. “My father feeds all of his workers. He will roast lambs on a spit, and I am instructed to organise the salads and pasta to go with them.”
“He has many workers?” I asked.
“He has much land,” Renzo said. “Olive groves, vineyards, the olive press. He is a wealthy man.”
“And you will inherit it all one day?” I said. “You have no brothers or sisters?”
“My father never married,” he said. “He told me that the girl he loved did not love him, and he wanted no other. Such true love should be applauded, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” I said, hesitating. “But I don’t think I’d choose to be alone for my whole life if I couldn’t have the person I wanted.” I was surprised to hear myself say those words. Did that mean I was ready to move on from Adrian and there was a light at the end of that tunnel? I glanced up at Renzo. “So when you want to get married, you’ll have to choose a girl who will be willing to live here or Cosimo will be alone.”
There was something I couldn’t quite read in his face. “Yes,” he said. “Any future wife would have to be willing to be part of my life here. That may not be so easy. Who would want to shut themselves away in the middle of the countryside?”
“It’s very beautiful here,” I said.
“Maybe.”
“But you had dreams of being a chef,” I said. “You gave them up to take care of your adopted father. That is commendable. I regret that I left my father alone so much.”
“Your father is now dead?”
“Yes. He died a month ago. That is why I am here, because I wanted to know what happened to him in the war.”
“Then I am sorry we can’t help you,” he said in a more civil tone.
We stopped talking as a man approached the table. “Excuse me,” I said to Renzo. “I must take care of this customer for Paola. I just hope I can understand him. The local dialect is hard for me.”
The man was wearing a light suit and had an impressive black moustache. “You are Signorina Langley?” he asked.
“Si, Signor.”
“You will please come with me. I am Inspector Dotelli of the criminal investigation department in Lucca. I need to ask you questions concerning the death of Gianni Martinelli.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JOANNA
June 1973
I tried not to let alarm show on my face. “But I made a statement,” I said. Actually, with my Italian being quite basic still, I said, “I told the man what I had seen.”
The inspector spread his hands. “A mere formality,” he said. “You will come with me to the police station.”
“I am watching this stall for Signora Rossini,” I said. “I cannot leave until she returns.”
“This man can watch for you,” he said, waving dismissively at Renzo.
“This man is an important customer. He was buying vegetables for the festival tomorrow,” I said, feeling my face turning bright red with embarrassment. “I could not ask him to spend more time.” I was stumbling over the Italian words now, flustered. “I do not know how to answer your questions,” I added. “I speak only a little Italian. I am a visitor from England.”
“But you were speaking with this man. I saw you.” The inspector wagged an accusing finger. He certainly used his hands a lot in his speech.
“That was because we were speaking in English,” I said. “This man worked in London.”
“Then he shall come with you to be your translator,” the inspector said.
“I have business that needs to be taken care of,” Renzo said coldly. “I don’t have time.”
“I am not requesting,” the inspector said. “This is a command from the police. It should not take long.” He looked up. “Ah, here comes the lady now, returning to her vegetables. Good. Come with me.”
Paola was rushing toward us, her face ready to do battle. “What is this? What is going on?” she demanded.
“The inspector from Lucca,” I said, nodding at him. “He wishes to ask me questions.”
“We have told the Carabinieri all that we know,” Paola said. “This young lady is a stranger here. She cannot help you and I do not wish her to be upset.”
“She will not be upset if she answers my questions and tells me the truth. Come, follow me now. It is Saturday, and I wis
h to get this matter sorted out as quickly as you do.”
With that he put a hand on my elbow and literally steered me across the piazza to the municipal building. I glanced back at Renzo. He was speaking with Paola, presumably reserving the items that he wanted. He was still giving her instructions as he followed us toward the dark doorway. The young Carabinieri agent was turned out of his desk with a mere wave of the hand. The inspector took his place.
“You will stay and take notes,” the inspector said to the agent who was about to sneak from the room. “Bring a chair for the young lady and you may sit at the desk beside me.”
The young man returned with a chair and then took his place beside the inspector, looking extremely uncomfortable. There was no chair for Renzo. He stood behind me. I was not only embarrassed now, I was scared. I had seen the contempt for me in Renzo’s face. What if he mistranslated my answers to make me seem guilty of Gianni’s murder? My heart was thudding in my chest.
“Now,” the inspector said. “Your name, your address, and your reason for your visit.”
I looked up at Renzo, wanting to give the impression that I didn’t even understand these simple commands. I slowly gave my name and address. “I came here because my father was a British pilot. His plane was shot down near here in the war and I wanted to see the spot for myself.”
Renzo translated this. The inspector nodded.
“You arrived in this town when?”
“Only two days ago.” It felt much longer.
“And you were the one who found the body of Gianni Martinelli?”
“Signora Rossini and I found the body together,” I said. “I sleep in the little house at the bottom of her garden. The water comes from the well behind my room. I wanted to take a shower but there was no water. I went to find the signora and told her. Together we lifted the heavy lid from the well and saw the body. We both screamed and were very upset.”
The inspector listened to the translation, then watched the young policeman writing down notes. He looked up at me. “What did you do then?”
