[C. MacP #5] The Dead Don't Get Out Much

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “That's another thing, all that stuff about the son. She doesn't have a son. I spent all day checking. Your sister Alexa got Conn on it. It was a crazy idea anyway. He came up empty. No big surprise. How could Violet have a son and us not know a thing about it?”

  “Of course, she would have told us if she had a family. But we had to check it out. If he's not her son, then he's pretending to be her son. He can't be up to any good. Anyway, we have to follow up on whatever we find out on either side of the Atlantic, no matter how weird it might be. I have something else for you. And don't sigh like that. Now I need you to find out about the crash of a bomber in 1944 in the mountains, near Berli. The information would have surfaced after the war.”

  “Okay, sure, downed planes in 1944. What's the connection to Violet?”

  “I don't know. She was in that village, and that plane seems to have been a big secret deal during the war. Someone told me that she was very upset about it.”

  “You mean that could be connected with the dead guy Violet was talking about?”

  “Maybe. I don't know. See what you can turn up. See who was on it. Any luck with the security images?”

  “Not so far. Do you have any idea how long it takes to watch twenty-four hours worth of images on six separate cameras?”

  “Stiff upper lip, Alvin. Talk to you later.”

  I called Ray Deveau next. No answer at home. No answer on the cell. So much for romance.

  * * *

  I tried the telephone number for Luciano Falcone once more. No luck there either. Then I did a little calculation. He would have been a bit older than my father. My father often doesn't hear the phone ringing these days, especially if he's chosen to leave his hearing aid in his dresser drawer.

  The address was in Oltarno, the other side of the Arno River. According to the reception clerk, it was not too far past the Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens. Paul and I had ambled along that route together on our honeymoon. I didn't let myself dwell on that.

  I strolled through the narrow medieval streets, crammed with tall stone buildings housing small shops, restaurants, businesses and homes. I deliberately chose those streets off the beaten track to avoid the tourists. I also gave the Ponte Vecchio a miss. Too many memories. Instead I took the Ponte Santa Trinità, the next bridge down. There was less foot traffic on that one, and it had a great view of the river and the city on both sides, if you cared about the view, which at that moment I didn't.

  After several wrong turns on foot, I finally found the address. signor Falcone lived behind a door-sized gate in faded black. Two black metal pots with geraniums flanked it. I rang the doorbell next to the name Falcone. No answer. I rang again. A curly-haired boy of about twelve opened the door. He could have rivalled any cherub in any painting in the Uffizi gallery. This was a modern-day cherub though, wearing a long-sleeved soccer shirt and expensive-looking running shoes which made his feet look huge. Apparently, I scared him. He squeaked, ducked past me, skittered along the curving street and disappeared around the corner. I put on a burst of speed and caught up with him. I managed to trap him in a corner. I did hope that no conscientious Florentine would call the carabinieri. What was the matter with the kid? He squirmed and whimpered. There was no reason for him to look quite so terrified.

  I said in garbled Italian, “I am looking for signor Falcone. No one seems to answer. He is an old man. Do you know if he is at home?”

  He stared at me. “Signor Falcone?”

  “Si!” I shouted joyfully.

  “È morto.” His lip quivered.

  “Morto? Dead? That can't be.”

  “Si. È morto. Certamente.”

  His huge luminous dark eyes filled with tears. Was signor Falcone his grandfather?

  “I am sorry,” I said in my best Italian.

  He rubbed his nose on his sleeve. He shook his head.

  “He was expecting to hear from me,” I said.

  “Aspetti, signora.” The young man turned, ran back along the narrow curving street and vanished into the house of Luciano Falcone. I hurried after him, thinking no matter how horribly inopportune this death was, it was obviously a personal tragedy as well. As I reached the black door again, the boy emerged with a woman. She was tall and voluptuous, like Italian film stars of the fifties, with the same dark hair and luminous eyes as the boy. Hers were rimmed in red. He rattled on in Italian, pointing to me. She blew her nose and then nodded.

  “La mamma,” he said to me, in explanation, “parla inglese.”

  She introduced herself as Maria Martello. “I am speaking English only a little bit.”

  “Already I can tell that your English is much better than my Italian.”

  “Thank you, signora,” she said. “How can I help you?”

  “Your son tells me that signor Falcone is dead.”

  She choked up as she spoke. “Si. A car hit the signore in the street. He was just going to the Bar 45 for a caffè corretto. He went every day. He would have a beautiful lunch, a little nap. Then he would walk to see his friends. He was very old. Perhaps he fall down in front of the car.”

  Caffè corretto, I knew from happy experience, was espresso “corrected” with a shot of grappa. I also knew it could knock your socks off if you weren't used to it. Most Italians seemed to have adapted well to the correction. It was only tourists who fell over as a rule.

  “You think he fell?” I said. “What a shock that must have been for you.”

  “It was a tragedia.”

  “Signor Falcone was your father?”

  “No, I am the housekeeper. He was wonderful man, very good to me and to Fabrizio, my son. He is very upset.”

  “When did this happen? Recently?”

  “Oggi. Today. This afternoon.”

  “This afternoon? I can't believe it.”

  She began to weep. “Why now, when he was so happy?”

  “Now, when he was so happy? Why was he happy now?”

  “Because after all these years, the telephone was ringing and people were coming to ask him about the war. He loved to talk about the war,” she wailed.

  “What people?”

  “A signora. An old woman. The age like signor Falcone. She came to see him.”

  I fished in my backpack and pulled out the battered poster of Mrs. Parnell. “Is this the woman?”

  “Si. This one.”

  “And she was here today.”

  “Si. This afternoon.”

  “And what happened?”

  “They talked and talked. They laughed a bit, they talked some more. I make them lunch,” she sniffed. “They did not eat much, they drank some sherry. They talk and talk more.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “I did not listen too much. I had much work to do, and I was glad signor Falcone had someone else to talk to this time.”

  “You said people wanted to talk about the war. Do you think that's what it was?”

  “Yes, the war for sure.”

  “Did they seem sad? Upset?”

  “Signor Falcone was a big partisan. Sometimes it makes the old people cry to remember the war. Not signor Falcone. He had funny stories. I have heard them all a thousand times. They are not quite so funny after a while.”

  “And the signora?”

  She stopped to think. “Si, perhaps whatever they talked about made her sad, but something made her furiosa.”

  “You didn't hear what she said?”

  “Just her voice. Very angry. And signor Falcone trying to make her cheerful again.”

  “Did he succeed?”

  She shrugged. “I was not really listening.”

  “Do you know where the signora went after?”

  “I do not know.” She turned and spoke rapidly to Fabrizio, who was leaning against the wall scuffing his feet. He answered just as rapidly.

  His mother turned back to me. “Scusate, signora. We do not know. To her hotel, I think,” she said.

  “Did she have a car?”

&
nbsp; The woman shrugged again. “I did not see her arrive.”

  “You said that people came to see him. Who else?”

  “Si. Look you are here.”

  “Besides me.”

  “No one else came. A man called on the telephone, and he was going to meet the signore.”

  “And then the man didn't come here?”

  “He make an appuntamento. He did not come yet, because the appuntamento was for five o'clock and by that time, the signore was already…”

  I touched her sleeve and said, “This must be very hard.”

  “Si. I don't know what we will do.”

  “Did you see what happened?”

  She reached for her son. “Fabrizio saw it. He is very upset.”

  I glanced at the boy. The kid was definitely shaken, all right. And more than just shaken.

  “What about the car that hit him? Was the driver arrested?”

  “They did not find him. He left signor Falcone to die on the road. Disgraziato!”

  I gave her a minute. “Did anyone see the car? Did anyone tell the police?”

  She said, “Of course, the police were called. I heard my neighbour crying. I thought it was Fabrizio. I ran out and…”

  “And the car was gone?”

  “Si.”

  “Your neighbour saw it happen?”

  “She found signor Falcone lying in the middle of the road.”

  “Maybe she knows what kind of car?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “That information might save someone else.”

  “But why?” she stopped and stared. She brought her apron up to her mouth. “Dio mio!”

  The boy turned as white as marble.

  “Was the car a black Mercedes-Benz?”

  Fabrizio tore past me and raced along the street and around the corner. I said, “He's understandably upset.”

  I would have chased the kid, but I wanted to talk to the neighbour, and I needed his mother with me. Half an hour later, I'd had a long conversation with the woman who'd found signor Falcone. We stood in her doorway, our conversation translated by the signora, including the hand movements, tears and words of lamentation which needed no translation. At the end of the conversation, I had no new information. A fine and generous old man had been killed. No one knew quite how. No one had seen anything. Everyone was stunned. I knew since neither woman invited me in and forced food on me, that they must have been in shock.

  “And the police?” I said, winding up the conversation.

  They both shrugged, implying what was the use of police?

  Maria Martello said, “Of course, police officers came, lots of police. Photographers too. The ambulance took signor Falcone away.”

  A remnant of red and white police tape still flickered in the breeze in the spot the women had pointed to, although the police had obviously come and gone. I didn't know how the Italians handled these things as a rule, but these narrow streets couldn't be completely blocked off for any length of time without chaos.

  “I need to talk to one of his friends. Someone else who might have been in the mountains near Berli as a partisan.”

  Maria Martello spread her hands, a silent entreaty. “Signora. It is very hard for me to think of anything today.”

  “I realize that this is a tragic day for you. It's important for his memory. Can you think of someone, maybe not here in Florence? Anywhere in Italy. Anywhere, anytime.”

  She paused. “There might be someone. I will try to check his papers. He has photographs and names in the apartment. There is one old friend. Maybe I can find that.”

  “Thank you. Did you see photos? Photos of when he was a partisan?”

  “Si.”

  “Could I have a look at them?”

  She hesitated.

  I knew she was wondering about the rightness of this, as I would have been myself. That was not my problem. I needed something to move forward on. I tried to smile sadly, in a trustworthy fashion.

  “It would help so much,” I said.

  The signora might have been distraught, but she was not stupid. I could tell that she was starting to wonder about me and what I really wanted. Perhaps she was processing the idea that, if the death had not been an accident, and since people wanted to talk to him about the war, there might be some connection. She seemed like an honest and transparent person. I could imagine her thoughts written on her face.

  “I must go to my son,” she said. “He is very upset. Later, I will look.”

  “Please give me your address and telephone number, signora,” I said.

  She looked surprised. “This is my home. Fabrizio and I live here, with the signore.”

  “I didn't realize that,” I said.

  “I do not know what will happen to us now.”

  “Did signor Falcone have any children?”

  She shook her head absently. I hoped that the kind and generous old man had made formal provisions for Maria and Fabrizio, since they were pretty damn ripped up about his death.

  As I left, the signora went off in search of her boy, pausing briefly to lock the door.

  “Firenze is full of thieves now,” she said, meeting my eyes.

  I tried not to take it personally.

  Toronto, Ontario

  June 12, 1946

  My dearest Violet,

  What excellent news to hear that you plan to attend Queen's University. I think you will make an excellent mathematician, and it would be a waste not to take advantage of the government's education program. Perhaps you will be able to teach it after you graduate. If you were a man, I'd say you would make a first-rate lawyer, but teaching is a very fine job for a woman. As it is, I would like to be a fly on the wall in your classes. You will give the boys a run for their money and probably your professors too.

  I am continuing my own studies. I have been accepted to medical school. It will be good to put one's energy into saving lives instead of taking them or watching helplessly as one's colleagues fall.

  The next few years should be quite demanding. However, Kingston is not so very far from Toronto. It is easy enough to get the train between the cities. I hope we would be able to get together. Perhaps next Christmas would work out for both of us. I certainly hope so.

  Yours very sincerely,

  Walter

  Twelve

  I trotted off towards Bar 45, which turned out to be two winding streets away. Fabrizio's mother ran in the opposite direction. I could hear her calling her boy's name until I rounded the corner.

  Just before I reached the bar, I glanced through the front window of a small convenience store as I passed it. Fabrizio was there, flashing a wad of Euros. I stopped and watched. A nasty thought flickered in my head. Fabrizio's mother had been signor Falcone's housekeeper. Fabrizio was very well-dressed, and now here he was, a young boy with a lot of money. Did he have a new source of cash? Could his mother afford to indulge him this much? I asked myself whether someone might have slipped that boy a bundle to let them know when the late signor Falcone was about to cross the small street for his caffè corretto.

  An ugly question. The answer was possibly even worse. Fabrizio jumped when my hand landed on his shoulder. He whirled and squirmed. I held tight until he slumped and hung his head. His plump lower lip quivered.

  The proprietor rolled her eyes. I guess she'd seen a bit too much of Fabrizio and, anyway, she already had his money. She wagged her bony finger at him. “Cattivo ragazzo.”

  Bad boy.

  I gave him my most wolfish smile. I fished out my pocket dictionary and pieced together the phrase, “I will keep your secret.”

  Tears filled Fabrizio's eyes.

  I handed him a tissue to blow his nose.

  I said in Italian, “Did someone pay you?”

  “No,” he said, “no, no, no.”

  “Si,” I said. “Si, si, si.”

  “No, no, signora.”

  I checked the dizionario again.

  “Si. I know what
you did. I have proof,” I said or hoped I said in Italian.

  Fabrizio began to wail. I was able to piece through his blubbering that a man had called, the man had paid him, he loved signor Falcone, his mother loved signor Falcone, he thought the man was a friend who would surprise signor Falcone, he never thought it was so bad to do that. A little surprise, a nice thing, and so many Euros to buy treats.

  I said, “It's not your fault, Fabrizio. The man tricked you.”

  Before Fabrizio became too much more upset, I tried to get a description of the man. “You are sure you didn't see him?”

  He shook his head, sending tears flying.

  “And the car, was it a Mercedes-Benz?”

  That triggered another bout of sobs. “Non l'ho visto,” he said.

  Okay, as far as I could tell, he hadn't seen the man or the car. After listening to him blubbering for a bit, the best I could understand was that the money had been tucked behind a flower pot.

  “You must tell the police, Fabrizio,” I said.

  I couldn't really follow his distraught response. It contained lots of mammas and sobs.

  I managed to more or less convey the following: “You must do it for signor Falcone and for your mother. You did something a little bit wrong, but someone else killed your old friend, and you have no choice. You have to be a man, Fabrizio. For your mother.”

  Fabrizio sat straighter, dried his eyes. “Per la mamma.”

  I said, “Anche per signor Falcone.”

  Fabrizio swallowed hard.

  I handed him another tissue to mop his dripping nose and moved on before it got too late. I could have called the police myself, but something told me that would just slow things down. Time was what I didn't have. I also didn't want to have to explain holding Fabrizio against his will, even for a minute.

  * * *

  I needed help. A sane voice. Advice. I checked my watch and made for the nearest public telephone before continuing on. The phone was picked up on the first ring for once.

  “Is Ray there?” I said.

  “Nah.” Ashley, the second daughter.

  “Do you know when he'll be back?”

  “Nah.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No idea.”