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

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Okay. This is his friend, Camilla. We have met.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I'm calling from Italy. I really need to speak to him.”

  “He's not here.”

  “He's not back in the hospital, is he?”

  “Why would he be in the hospital?”

  “When he had his appendix out in the fall, he ended up in ICU. I wondered if that was it.”

  “Oh, yeah that.”

  “So he's not sick?”

  “I don't think he's in the hospital. Brittaneeee!! Is Dad in the hospital again? Wha’? Okay. No, he's not in the hospital.”

  I massaged my temple with my free hand. “Is it possible to talk to your aunt?”

  “Look, Carmella, can you call back later or something? I'm on the other line and it's, like, real important.”

  * * *

  Fine. You win some, you lose some.

  Alvin didn't answer when I tried calling again, and the machine did not pick up. I was in Florence without a clue how to find Mrs. Parnell among the million or so tourists who still thronged the city in November, despite the crappy drizzle. I had eighteen hours to kill.

  I needed to organize my thoughts for a few minutes before I talked to signor Falcone's friends. Just to clear my head and make sure I asked the right questions. If you need to amble around somewhere in order to think straight, I highly recommend this area to do it. At one time, Oltarno was the wrong side of the river. Then in the sixteenth century, give or take a hundred years, upstart rival bankers had constructed the Pitti Palace to thumb their noses at the Medici, and things began to look up in terms of local real estate.

  I'd been to the palace and the gardens. I really liked the curving narrow streets of the surrounding community, the houses without an inch between them, the way they loomed over you, flush with the sidewalk, blocking the sky. Aside from the occasional glimpse of a stubborn potted plant, they gave no clue about the lives lived behind the massive wooden doors. I liked to imagine medieval lifestyles.

  Churches crept right to the edge of the sidewalk. No long lawns or high wide stairs here. I stopped outside the English Church of St. John. I'm not big on churches. I tend to avoid them, except for weddings and funerals. I try to avoid weddings and funerals too. I was tired of walking, my head was buzzing. I needed to sit and think. I pulled out my travel guide and set it on the middle step. I pulled out my notebook and hunkered down. I added Fabrizio and Maria Martello's names to the others in the book. That reminded me to copy in the dashing Dario's cellphone number. I wasn't so sure that Dario might not be more distraction than help. Just in case, I wrote it down underneath Hazel's, Betty's, Orianna Preto's and Luciano Falcone's.

  What a day. Signor Falcone was dead. Mrs. Parnell was dashing all over Italy, evading capture. The reports of her driving like a racer and talking to villagers had been a bit reassuring. It might have even been amusing if I'd known what was compelling her to take this trip despite her condition. Maybe the condition was causing the problem. How had I let her get away from the hospital? Dr. Hasheem's words echoed in my brain. What if I didn't find her in time? What if she had a cardiac disaster? What if I'd really screwed up?

  A whippet-thin woman emerged from the church and, with a foxy smile, handed me a piece of paper promoting a concert inside the church that evening. It named a tenor and a pianist and included a list of the music to be played, mostly Vivaldi. I remembered this about Florence, you might find a string quartet playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons concerto on a street corner. A dizzying number of evening concerts took place in churches and other quasi-public spaces.

  I stood up and thanked the woman profusely. I grinned like a fool. She took a couple of steps back.

  I dusted off my black wool pants, tucked the guidebook into the backpack and went on my way with a spring in my step. No wonder I felt grateful. Who in the world liked concerts better than Mrs. Parnell? Shostakovich was her weakness. She'd only attend a performance of Vivaldi pieces as a last resort. There'd be plenty of other options in Florence. I turned back and asked the woman if she knew of any concerts featuring Russian composers that evening.

  She glanced at the door and said in a crisp British accent, “I suggest you consult your hotel concierge, madam.”

  “Good thinking,” I said.

  It was nearly five thirty, getting dim. I still had time to check the Bar 45 before I found out about concerts. Signor Falcone had gone to the same bar every day, so there was a chance someone at the bar might know about his partisan comrades. Someone might even have heard about the appointment with the unknown man. With any luck, I could extract information from these elderly, grief-stricken and probably unilingual Italian friends of signor Falcone. I reminded myself to be calm and sympathetic and not to scare off the witnesses.

  Bar 45 was jammed with people. I approached the server and asked her in fractured Italian where signor Falcone used to sit. She pointed to a corner where two old men were huddled together, leaning on the small wooden table, laughing uproariously. They had obviously moved past caffè corretto to straight grappa, and beyond grief to affectionate memory. There were few tables in this bar, typical for a fast food and drink spot, but I could see the regulars got special treatment.

  I rehearsed my Italian as I approached. I stuck out my hand to the first old gentleman, introduced myself and said I had come to Florence to speak to signor Falcone to learn about his experience as a partisan. I said how shocked I was to hear of his tragic death. At least, I hoped I said something remotely like that.

  They both regarded me with astonishment. Perhaps my words had been quite different from what I had intended. Maybe I'd said the world was flat or the plague was about to rip through the country. That can happen when you're limping along on a rusty vocabulary of about three hundred words, most of them food, drink or toilet related.

  One of the old men stood up and gave me a courtly bow. He was a long-faced fellow, about my father's age, with a full head of thick wavy silver hair and a sharp dark mustache. He sported a red scarf even jauntier than my own and a crisp crease in his grey trousers.

  “Sit down and have a little something, signora Camilla. I am Vittorio Ralli. Luciano Falcone was my oldest friend. We were just telling stories of his exploits during the war. Luciano had a superb knack for drama and a wonderful sense of humour. He will not be equalled.”

  I sat down and pulled out the notebook and wrote Vittorio Ralli promptly. For one thing, I had too many Italian names dancing in my head to keep them straight without a written record.

  The second old man had a strangely tilted orangy-brown toupee, unlined skin and twinkling bright blue eyes. He howled with laughter as Vittorio Ralli spoke.

  Ralli scowled at him and turned back to me. “This is my friend Giuseppe.”

  “Does Giuseppe speak English too?” I asked, as the man continued to chortle merrily, his blue eyes swimming with tears of merriment.

  “Unfortunately not. Forgive him. He is not himself today.”

  “You speak very well.”

  “I should, signora Camilla. I was a prisoner of war in England.”

  “Ah.” I was at a loss for the proper comment to make about that situation. What would Miss Manners recommend?

  “Revolting food. At least I didn't have to be slaughtered in the service of that madman Mussolini, and I learned another language and met some lovely English ladies.” He winked flirtatiously. Something told me this wasn't the first time Vittorio Ralli had ever flirted.

  Again, he had me at a conversational impasse.

  “How can we help you, signora Camilla?” he asked, waving the server over and ordering a glass of red wine for me, since I was apparently looking pale. He must have had special status in the Bar 45, since in most Italian bars the customer orders from the bar. I accepted, not wanting to seem ungracious. I told him what I wanted, mentioning everything I knew about the plane crash, the pilot and Orianna Preto in Berli, who had suggested the first connection with the partisans. I
filled him in on the background: Mrs. Parnell's absence, the black Mercedes-Benzes and the late and obviously lamented signor Falcone and his fatal appointment.

  “Any information that you might have about any of those might help,” I said, as my generous glass of Bardolino arrived.

  “You are in luck, signora.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes. We don't know anything about this appointment, so it must have just been made. Luciano mentioned yesterday that a Canadian lady was coming to see him to talk about the war. He was very pleased. Apparently he likes Canadian ladies. Now I can see why. Was that you, signora Camilla?”

  “Yesterday, you said. No, it must have been my friend. She is the one who is missing now.”

  “Ah, yes, and that is very serious. For her heart, you mentioned.”

  “Yes, it is. And I believe her visit, and the other appointment, have something to do with signor Falcone's death.”

  “You must go to the police, signora, even though they are incredibly stupid and quite useless.”

  “Hmm.” I hadn't wanted to get the police involved, mainly because I didn't want them to pick up Mrs. Parnell and possibly trigger a heart attack, the very thing I needed to prevent.

  He gave a wicked and perceptive grin. “There are channels, of course. They take time. There is politics. Perhaps you'd better steer clear of those fellows, after all. I should know. I was a policeman myself until I retired. Of course, that was nearly thirty years ago.”

  “Maybe I will try again,” I lied. “First, you said I was in luck?”

  “Si. Yesterday, when Luciano was talking about his visitor, he said they discussed an old friend who had been a partisan with him. Someone they both knew.”

  I had too many Italian names whirling around in my head, mixing themselves up at that point. I reminded myself that Vittorio was silver hair and flirtatious, while Giuseppe was toupee and twinkle. And unfortunately, Luciano, the Falcon, was dead.

  I said, “Was Giuseppe a partisan too?”

  Giuseppe nodded, giving the toupee a workout. He seemed to have understood that question.

  Vittorio said sadly, “No, he wasn't. He spent the war in the hospital with tuberculosis.”

  “Oh, but…”

  “He has good days and bad days. This is a bad day. He might think he was a partisan. He was not.”

  “Okay. Does he remember the name of the other partisan that he and Luciano Falcone knew?”

  Vittorio shrugged. On him it seemed flirtatious. “Today he wouldn't remember his own mother's name.”

  “Mamma!” Giuseppe shouted.

  I took a swig of wine.

  Vittorio smiled approvingly.

  “Giusep’,” he shouted and asked the same question three times in Italian. I caught the words Lucian’ and partigian’.

  Tears formed in Giuseppe's empty azure eyes.

  Vittorio said, “We don't want to upset him. If we talk of other matters, he might remember. I'll get him a bit more grappa. Would you like another glass of wine?”

  Somehow I didn't think grappa would be the answer to Giuseppe's memory lapse, but I was new to the culture. I still had plenty of wine, so I turned down the offer of a second glass, before I had lapses of my own.

  “By any chance, would he remember the town signor Falcone's friend lives in? Or maybe you overheard them talking?”

  Vittorio shrugged. Giuseppe joined him in the shrug, even though he didn't understand the question.

  I looked straight at Giuseppe and asked loudly, “Montechiaro? Pieve San Simone? Alcielo?”

  A look of unbearable sadness passed over his face.

  Vittorio said, “We mustn't push him, signora. He is having problems. The slightest stress only freezes his memory, and he feels very bad, very inadequate. We must talk about other things. How much we liked our old friend. I will tell him you said something nice about Luciano. What will it be?”

  I thought for a minute. “Although I never met him, from what I have heard, signor Falcone was a fine and generous man.”

  I could tell from his face the comment was well received. A fast conversation ensued. I listened and didn't understand a word.

  In the middle of it, Giuseppe shouted, “Stagno Toscano.”

  “What's that?” I whispered. “A wine?”

  “Benissimo!” Vittorio said. “He remembers the town.”

  The good news: he remembered. The bad news: I had another town to add to the list. Never mind, I told myself. It's better than nothing.

  “And the name of the person?” I said.

  Vittorio gave me a reproachful glance.

  A half-hour later, Giuseppe still hadn't remembered the name. I was beginning to feel desperate. I wouldn't be able to put off another glass of local red forever.

  “Signor Ralli,” I said.

  “Vittorio,” he said flirtatiously.

  Fine. “Can you ask him if he has told anyone else about this other friend who was with signor Falcone?”

  I gathered from the resulting injured looks and what sounded like recriminations that no one else knew about the friend. No one. No one whatsoever. Absolutely no one! A lot of denials. Was Giuseppe lying like a rug? Had he already told the mysterious visitor? Or did he really not remember? I made no more headway. In fact, when I persisted, both men developed pouts. I put Stagno Toscano, wherever that was, on the list just ahead of Montechiaro, Pieve San Simone and Alcielo.

  Vittorio leaned forward and whispered, “Tell me where you are staying, signora Camilla. I will contact you when Giuseppe has a memory breakthrough. I will get you the name. Trust me.”

  I did. In fact, I was sufficiently grateful for their efforts that I bought a round of grappa for the two of them. What the hell, I decided to have one myself. Paul and I had had a memorable evening consuming the potent beverage. I'd forgotten how much like floor cleaner it tasted, and how it raised the top off your skull and made your eyes water. Never mind, I was on foot, and if no one lit a match near me, I would probably survive the two-mile walk back to the Paris Hotel.

  * * *

  As the old saying goes, too soon old and too late smart. I was whistling my way along the ancient curved streets, heading back to the bridge over the Arno, when I caught sight of Fabrizio and his mother.

  “Hello, signora!” I shouted, in the manner of one who has had a snootful.

  Maria Martello's striking face contorted. “Strega!” she screamed.

  Strega?

  I was pretty sure strega meant witch. That didn't make any sense. I'd never been called a witch. Other things, yes, witch, no.

  “Pardon me?” I said.

  “Ladra!”

  Thief?

  Now just hold on.

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “I am kind to you, I let you in to my home, when I am in terrible grief, and what do you do! Ladra! Ladrona!”

  “Stop screaming,” I said. “I am not a thief, and I am definitely not a big fat thief. What on earth do you think I did?”

  “You know what you did.”

  “I have done nothing. I have been at the bar with the signore s friends.”

  “You have been in our home to steal signor Falcone's photographs and papers!”

  I have to admit, the grappa on top of the red wine and my enduring jetlag made it hard to deal with this bizarre accusation. I told myself to keep calm and not to make things any worse. Didn't matter, they got worse on their own.

  “You mean someone broke into your house?” My head whirled dangerously.

  “You did!”

  “Not true. I didn't break into your house.”

  “Pfff. I have called the police already. I hope you die in jail, you witch.”

  “What did they take?”

  “Ha! You already know. Thief!”

  “Why would you even think I had anything to do with it?”

  “Because you wanted the photos and the information about the other partisans.”

  “You said you'd
give them to me. Why would I steal them?”

  “Maybe you couldn't wait.”

  “Why do you think it was me?”

  “You were seen. That is proof.”

  “Seen? Who could have seen me?”

  From behind his mother, Fabrizio smirked.

  I gasped. Of course. The little creep. First, I sympathize with him for inadvertently causing the death of his benefactor, then he tries to frame me.

  The gloves came off.

  “And did I get the photos and information?” I asked, expecting the answer to be no.

  “Of course you did. That is why I am so angry.” The signora's nostrils flared. She stood with her hands on her hips, very voluptuous, very Italian, and, I realized, very dangerous.

  “Well, I did not,” I said. “And I will be happy to tell the police that.”

  “Of course you deny it.”

  “I will tell the police they should talk to your son about where he got the money to buy that expensive soccer shirt.”

  “Signor Falcone gave him the money.”

  “I don't think so. I think a man gave him the money to say when the signore would be going to the bar. I think that same person asked Fabrizio to get the photos and letters. I also think that same man will kill the signore s friend next. That's a lot for one cattivo raggazzo to be guilty of.”

  Fabrizio was struggling to understand our conversation in English. He picked up on the cattivo raggazo all right.

  “That is not true! Fabrizio is not a bad boy. He would never do such things.” The signora glanced fondly at her darling and hesitated just a blink.

  “I don't expect you to believe me. I think the police would think that Fabrizio could have been an innocent child used by a killer in signor Falcone's death. Of course, if something happens to the second man, Fabrizio's in deep, deep trouble. Do they put children in jail in Italy?”

  She clasped her hands on her capacious bosom and howled. The woman clearly had missed a career on the stage. She had the body for it and all the right dramatic impulses. Plus a voice that could really project.

  I continued, “Go ahead. Talk to the police. I sure intend to.”

  I pivoted and strode off. The stress of the situation coupled with the grappa caused my head to spin, but I think I made a dignified exit. One thing I knew, I had to get to Stagno Toscano quickly, before someone else did.