Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death

by Sheila Connolly

  How much had Cynthia had to drink? “Right. Who knew the professor would be making a special appearance, and when did they know it? And the arrogance of that guy, thinking he’d be welcome after what he did to so many women.”

  Cynthia held up a finger. “Allegedly did. No one ever accused him openly. He was never tried for anything. He didn’t lose his job. So he had reason to believe that his behavior was acceptable, or not unacceptable.”

  “Do we blame the college for that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know if we can. You remember those days, don’t you? Nobody knew of terms like bullying or sexual harassment. We were mostly good little girls who were raised to believe that if a guy got out of hand, it was somehow our fault because we’d led him on. Now, raise the ante and make the guy a good-looking, smart professor. Any girl would have been flattered to be noticed by him. And when he kicked them to the curb, well, guess what—it was their fault again. They just didn’t measure up. Throw in a dash of third-wave feminism—we were breaking out of the old restrictions. And the college didn’t have in place any mechanism to address this kind of problem then.”

  I sat back and looked at her admiringly. “That, lady, is quite a speech. You sure you don’t have a stake in this?”

  “No, I don’t—not personally. I’m just reminding you that those were the times, and the times changed. I hope and believe that this would not happen today.”

  “Amen. Anyway, Gilbert felt free to join us, confident that he would be welcomed warmly. Jerk.”

  “Well, he paid the price in the end.” She drained her glass. “So, now what?”

  “You find out what you can about our classmates. Let me think about who else we can bring into this—my head’s a little muddled tonight. You planning to tour the Cinque Terre tomorrow?”

  “I thought I might. We should split up and talk to different people again. You never know what they might let slip.”

  “Like a convenient confession?” I joked.

  “You wish. But we can verify if they ever knew the professor. And then we can compare that with the real history, when I get it. If someone lies, then we know we’ve got a problem.”

  “I can tell you the ones I know knew the professor, so your list just got shorter. You know, you’re pretty good at this. Your data collection company—you’ve worked with law enforcement before, haven’t you?”

  “My lips are sealed. Confidentiality agreements and so on. And you haven’t been exactly up front with your activities either.”

  “Fair point. But between us we can handle this, right?”

  “Of course. Ministrare, non ministrari.” The old college motto: Not to be ministered unto, but to minister. All right, then. We were going to take charge of this problem before the police got involved, and we would take care of it.

  Chapter 15

  Cynthia went inside, and soon I could hear the sound of running water in the bathroom behind me, but I didn’t feel like going inside to get ready for bed—it was too nice out here. I tipped the last of the bottle of wine into my glass and sat listening to the night. No sounds floated up from the town, but my fleeting impression had been that it shut down fairly early—no raucous beach parties or people spilling out of bars.

  Was it arrogant for Cynthia and me to think we could figure out who had killed the professor? Why not just let the police handle it? Well, for one thing, I felt responsible for starting the whole mess. If I’d kept my nose out of it, most likely it would have gone away quietly. Two, I had my doubts that the local police, or even the national police, would get it right, although I had to admit that my disdain was based more on years of movies and television shows rather than any direct experience with them. But our group of classmates was on a tight schedule, and nobody had planned on sitting around being interviewed by the cops—in Italian, no less. Would the investigators want to talk to us here in Liguria? Or would they want to drag us back to Tuscany and the scene of the crime? Where would we stay? For how long? Nobody would be happy with Cynthia and me.

  It didn’t take much of this thinking to convince me that if Cyn and I could expedite the process, we should, pronto. And we did bring special skills to the table, skills that our classmates most likely weren’t aware of. We could use them, quietly, without revealing too much about what we did, how we worked. We could fix things without anybody knowing. At least, that was what I hoped. I had to admit that Cynthia and I were both behind-the-scenes kind of people in our fields, not experienced or subtle interviewers.

  Did I feel a need to make things right for these women, whom I wasn’t exactly close to? I was surprised that the answer was yes. We had a bond because of our shared past, no matter what had happened since. And so many people, myself included, had been looking forward to this trip; had probably made sacrifices for it, financially or otherwise. To have it compromised by one person’s cruel and thoughtless act was not fair.

  Had it in fact been thoughtless? A crime of opportunity? Or had someone planned this carefully, maybe for a long time? Who had known that Professor Gilbert lived in Tuscany? Who might have suggested that it would be interesting to invite him to speak at our gathering? That was a question that should be directed to Barbara and Gerry, but they weren’t here, and I wasn’t even sure how to get in touch with them. Maybe we could ask Jean and Jane if they knew any additional details. But even if the professor had been lured to the villa, who had known what the topography there was, and that it provided so many steep hills and slippery paths?

  Too many questions, and not enough time to ask them all.

  I heard footsteps crunching on the path below, and then a voice called out quietly, “Hello?”

  “Up here,” I said, also quietly—I was pretty sure voices carried in the still night air.

  A shadowy figure slid up the last set of steps to my patio. It resolved itself into Xianling, who dropped into a chair. Not a hair out of place, and she wasn’t even panting. Not fair.

  “What brings you up here?” I asked. “It’s a little steep for a late stroll.”

  “Simple—I switched places with Vicky, who was assigned to a room up here. After one walk down to the village, she decided she’d never make it back up, and I offered to take her place. I can use the exercise.”

  “You’ll get plenty, believe me. What’s the hotel like?”

  “Like a pleasant small hotel, I guess. There was nobody on the streets except a cat when I started walking up. The only odd thing is that they have Manx cats at the hotel—no tails. It’s a bit unnerving to meet one unexpectedly. Anyway, I brought enough to handle tonight”—she held up a sleek small bag—“I’ll worry about my suitcase tomorrow.”

  “Welcome to the vineyard, Xianling. Wait until you see it by daylight, you won’t be sorry. Have a seat. I’m sorry, but we finished the wine.”

  Xianling sat gracefully. “Who else is up here?” After I named the others, she asked, “You and Cynthia were roommates in college, right?” she asked.

  “We were. And after too, for a couple of years.”

  “Have you kept in touch?”

  “Kind of. As much as with anybody. I hate to admit it, but I’m still having trouble putting names to some of the people in our group here.”

  Xianling laughed. “I am so glad to hear somebody else say that! It’s so strange, you know? Some people you’d recognize if you passed them on the street now, they’ve hardly changed. Others I don’t recognize at all, even after spending a couple of days with them on this trip. Do you remember me? I won’t be offended if you say no.”

  “You were an art historian, so of course I knew who you were. But I don’t remember ever having a real conversation with you.”

  “That sounds about right. I think I started on that track before you did, so we didn’t overlap in classes.”

  “Had you noticed how many people are here from the freshman crop in Munger?” I asked. “Funny how so many of us stuck with the first group of people we met the first week at school. Random choice�
��heck, it wasn’t even computer-organized back in those days. Some little lady in a back office in Green Hall sorted handwritten cards, and presto, people became friends for life. And here we are. Bet no one saw this coming!”

  “A trip to Italy with these people forty years later? I can’t say that I did.”

  “And yet you signed up. Why?” Why had this elegant and accomplished woman volunteered to join this motley group of classmates?

  “I love Italy, of course, but mainly curiosity, I suppose. I’ve stayed close to Jean over the years—that art history connection—but I wanted to see how everyone else had turned out.”

  “You’ve been taking a lot of pictures.”

  “I have. In part, it’s a habit, given what I do. I also wanted a record of the event. I’ll be happy to share with anyone who wants copies.”

  “I think I’d like that. Looking at what’s on my camera, I seem to concentrate on landscapes and cats, with food coming in third. I have very few pictures of people. I guess I feel embarrassed taking pictures of others, even candids. You seem to do it well, or at least everyone has gotten used to it. I love that group photo you took at Capitignano.”

  “That did come out well, didn’t it?” She was silent for a moment, then said, “Can you point me toward my room?”

  “It’s the one in the middle—go past the patio and up. You’ll be in with Pam. The others are at the far end.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you at breakfast then.” Xianling stood and vanished silently into the night. I wondered what kind of shoes she was wearing.

  I’d missed a good opportunity to ask her about the professor’s death—but I was tired, and it had been a long day, and I’d probably just mess it up. I had to think about how I wanted to approach people without giving myself away. If that was possible.

  I stood up and stretched. With one last look at the dark landscape, I went inside.

  • • •

  Cynthia and I were up early and went down to the main patio to kill time until breakfast started. The staff was apparently trying to drive us crazy because they put out everything else for the meal before they finally set out a carafe of coffee. Cyn and I used our time well, admiring the incredibly lush flowers everywhere. Roses predominated, but there were some impressive lilies, as well as a number of plants I couldn’t identify. The fowl down below the vines were making loud morning noises. From what I could hear, there was a mix of species, all producing different sounds. When the table was finally set up and the staff stepped back, Cyn and I helped ourselves to food and coffee, then settled ourselves on the shady interior side of the table, the one facing the view—I wasn’t going to waste a minute of the gorgeous scenery.

  The others drifted in gradually. “What are you all planning for today?” I asked when a quorum had assembled.

  “I want to take the ferry and do the whole circuit of the Cinque Terre. I’m pretty sure this is my only chance to see this part of the world,” Denise said.

  “Not me,” Valerie replied with something approaching a shudder. “I might do one town. Maybe. And I don’t like boats.”

  “Okay,” I said neutrally. “I was thinking it might be nice to see one, maybe have lunch there. I mean, how different can they be from each other?”

  “You mean, you see one, you’ve seen them all? And what the heck is there to do in any of them?” Pam demanded.

  “No museums,” I said. That brought a wry smile from Xianling. “I guess that leaves taking pictures of the scenery and the town, eating, and shopping. And apparently Xianling is the designated official historian for the trip and is taking pictures of everything and everyone.”

  Xianling shrugged. “It’s not a big thing, I do it everywhere. I have a very visual memory, which may be why I went into art history originally.”

  “Interesting about how your memory works,” I said, and meant it. “I think I was always more attracted to three-dimensional things, like medieval churches. So your pictures—does your tablet work inside and out? I haven’t seen any flashes.”

  “It does.” She pulled it out of her bag, tapped the screen a few times, and turned it toward me.

  “Wow,” I said. “Great resolution, great color. But you’ve also managed to capture people looking natural, which I know is a lot harder.”

  “Thank you. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

  “You’ve traveled a lot?” I asked, and that set off a conversation that took us through breakfast and a second cup of delightfully strong coffee.

  The next arrival was heralded by a flood of fluent Italian, none of which I could follow. I watched as a woman came up the path accompanied by Jane. Jane was having trouble stemming the flow of the other woman’s words, even though she tried.

  “Buon giorno,” Jane said when she saw all of us at the table, watching expectantly. “This is my cousin Loredana—she and her husband own the vineyard here, and when our head count exceeded the hotel’s capacity, she generously offered to let a few of you stay up here. She speaks some English. She’ll be accompanying us on some of our excursions in this area.” Jane made the round of introductions. Loredana was shorter than Jane and radiated energy and enthusiasm. Her words of welcome poured out in a haphazard mix of Italian and English, but her warmth was sincere. She seemed quite happy to meet all of us, but I guessed from the tenor of the conversation earlier that something was troubling her. And I thought I could guess what it was.

  I stood up abruptly, almost knocking over the chair. “Jane, could I speak to you for a moment, in private? And your cousin too?” Cynthia looked at me, and I nodded slightly.

  “Uh, well, sure,” Jane stuttered. “In the vineyard office?” She glanced at Loredana for confirmation. She nodded vigorously, still looking concerned. So did the others at the table. I’d managed to confuse just about everyone. I was rarely tactful this early in the morning.

  Loredana led the way, opening the office door and letting Jane and me in. Then she closed it, and she and Jane exchanged a complex series of glances, accompanied by shrugs. I hurried to begin with explanations.

  “Jane,” I began, “I didn’t want the whole group to hear this. You and Loredana came up here to tell us something, right?”

  “Yes,” Jane said. “The police called. They think Professor Gilbert’s death was not an accident, or not completely. Were you expecting something like that?”

  Loredana seemed to be following but was having trouble expressing her own opinions. “Cara, I no have words … la polizia, si?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I was. Have you told the rest of the group yet?”

  “No. I thought I’d start up here because you were all together. Are you telling me that I shouldn’t tell people? Wait—why don’t you seem surprised?”

  Poor Jane—I’d really thrown her a curveball. “I’m the one who found the body, and let’s say I had some suspicions about how he died. What have the police told you?”

  “Not a lot, just that they have more questions for us.”

  “Did they ask that we return to Capitignano?”

  “No,” Jane said. “They volunteered to send someone here to talk to us.”

  I tried to work out what that would mean and concluded that they were still fishing, although they knew something was amiss.

  “Did they tell you anything else? Any details?” I asked carefully.

  “When they called, I handed the phone to Loredana, and she gave it to her husband—you haven’t met him yet, but he’s a senator from this region, so he has some clout. They told him that somebody had slipped the professor something … harmful, the night he died, and it might have had something to do with his fall.”

  So the police were making progress. I didn’t like it. I definitely didn’t want them here in Monterosso asking us questions, and I was pretty sure Jane and her family wouldn’t either.

  “Laura, what’s going on?” Jane demanded.

  I took a deep breath. “Jane, I … asked some colleagues of mine back home to keep an eye on this
investigation, in case we needed some assistance. They warned me that it might come to this. Tell me: can Loredana and her husband stall the authorities long enough so that we have a chance to figure out what happened on our own? Kind of under the radar?”

  Poor Jane’s circuits were reaching overload. I waited to see which issue she would tackle first. In the end she proved that she was a smart woman. “Yes, they can, if I explain it to them. You’re assuming you can fix this thing? What if you can’t? What happens then?”

  I chose my words carefully. “Jane, I’m in over my head here, but I’d like to try to do it. I’d rather not have you tell everyone that the professor’s death was … not what it appeared. Cynthia and I have been talking this over, and we think we have some resources that will help. Can we set a deadline? Say, if we don’t work this out in the next two days, then we turn the whole mess over to the police? Would that get your relatives into trouble?”

  Jane thought for a moment, then turned to Loredana and let loose a torrent of Italian; Loredana responded in kind. I could catch about twenty percent of the words, and I wasn’t sure who was winning. Finally it was Loredana who turned to me. “We help you. You are friends of Jane, and guests in our homes. We can keep this trouble away from you, at least for a little while. If Jane will allow?”

  “Uh, yes, please. If you’re sure it won’t get your family into trouble.”

  Loredana gave a dismissive wave. “Do not worry. Go enjoy the Cinque Terre with your friends.”

  Jane turned back to me. “Well, there you have it. How can I help?”

  “I don’t know yet, Jane. Cynthia and I haven’t come up with a plan yet, and we may need to enlist a few more people. But we’ll be discreet about it. Please thank Loredana for me—I know we’re asking a lot from her.”

  “I will. So otherwise, for now I do nothing, and you all will go your different ways for today and you’ll ask all the right questions, and we can regroup after dinner?”

  “That works for me. We’d better get back before the children get restless.”