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

by Mary Jane Maffini

  The locals criss-crossed the square, bustling in and out of shops, collecting groceries bottega by bottega, and stopping to talk with everyone they met. The air was full of happy chatter. I made my way to the small patio of the trattoria where we'd had lunch the day before. I kept an eye out in case I saw anyone suspicious. The cheerful server remembered me and was glad to practice his English. With a flourish, he sat me in the corner with the best view, or so he claimed, and I ordered an espresso. As I took the first sip, Lucia came striding down the hill from her shop with her wild curls flying in the light breeze. She joined a friend a few tables over. They ordered brioche, which everyone in Italy seemed to eat for breakfast. I waved, and she smiled and nodded. I hadn't forgotten we would be seeing her father after lunch and that was our chance to nab Mrs. P.

  My waiter approved. “Ah, Lucia,” he said, smiling fondly, “very nice girl.”

  “Good to her father, I suppose,” I said, making vacuous conversation.

  “And to her nonno. She takes very good care of him.”

  “Her grandfather?” First I'd heard of him. “Is he still alive?”

  “Si, he must be ninety. He is very fine old man, and Lucia sometimes brings him in here for a glass of wine. He is in a wheelchair now. She is very strong for such a skinny girl.”

  “I bet she is,” I smiled.

  Several cars eased into the square as I killed time making the espresso last. The small clusters of tourists made good watching. A half-dozen tall Germans were unsmilingly consulting maps. A pair of middle-aged couples in matching jogging suits, sneakers and American accents spilled out of their rental Opels and stretched. The women headed to the gelateria, and the men hit the internet café. Two tall, elderly ladies in flowered dresses and cardigans, and a tweedy old gentleman emerged from an ancient Morris Minor and began an animated discussion about the problems of getting a decent cup of tea on the Continent. They wandered off up the hill, the man arguing for a trip to the top of the hill, one woman insisting on the antique stores as the other had a fear of heights, and how could he have forgotten that? I chuckled at that and at a thin and stylish man and woman, standing by a Renault, shooting contemptuous glances at the jogging suits and the retreating flowered dresses. An Italian teenager made laughing faces behind everyone's backs.

  Back in Ottawa, I'd have been indoors to avoid the wind and cold, and worse, would have been bombarded with relentless Christmas music and advertising. Italy in November would have been wonderful if things had only been normal, if I'd only been able to relax. I figured Ray would be back in a short time with some useful information, and we'd snag Mrs. P. at Sergio's. It was such a pleasant morning, and I was glad to be alive after the previous evening. I had plenty to think about. One phrase kept echoing in my mind. Fear of heights. Something about that, but what?

  Villa Rosa

  Pieve San Simone, Italy

  November 1, 2004

  Dear Vi,

  I hope perhaps you will remember me from our youth. I have tried to follow your life. I have only recently found your newest address. It wasn't easy!

  If you're wondering where I've been in the last sixty years, after the war, I went home and started a plumbing supply business outside Toronto, just in time for the post-war housing boom. Left me with a pretty good retirement income after I sold out to the competition. Let them tear their hair out dealing with the big box stores. I did okay out of the tech boom too and got out early and intact. I've always had good timing in my life, except when it came to a special girl from Chesterton. I'd like you to know, after things went haywire with you and Harry Jones, I tried to “run into you” quite a few times. By the time I found out where you were stationed in England, you'd already hitched up with Major Parnell. At least that's what he told me. In hindsight, I think I should have tried harder.

  Never mind, I found myself a nice Italian gal in Toronto, and I've had a damned good life and better food than I had any right to for nearly fifty years. Evelina and I retired back here to her home town of San Simone. Can't say I miss the Canadian winters. Last few years, I've been picking up abandoned farm houses and getting them renovated. Keeps me out of trouble. Except for the lousy TV, Tuscany's the best place in the world to live. Up until Evelina died, I guess things really turned out well for me. Right now, the local widows are elbowing each other out of the way to fatten me up. You're probably asking yourself why this old fart is rambling on. Well, I'm just about to get to the good part.

  The point of my letter is that a few months back, I decided to buy myself a small piece of art for the Villa Rosa. I've nothing to do in the evenings, except read and stare at the wall and I like to have good stuff and I can afford it. You can't take it with you, and after eighty, we're all on borrowed time. Bought myself a little beauty of an oil from a local dealer who was associated with Brockbank & Brickle, that's Harry Jones’ firm. Bit later I had an art expert tell me my painting might have been stolen, maybe from a church, and the provenance faked. I'd heard some rumours about Harry dealing in smuggled stuff, some of it looted in the war. Harry's not long for this world. His two boys keep the cash rolling in. In fact, they even shipped his grandson, William, over to get the business going in Canada. I had the unexpected surprise of meeting another grandson while I was collecting my painting in Alcielo. A handsome lad he is too. There was a daughter born on the wrong side of the blanket. I guess Harry stuck by mother and child, although the daughter died a few years ago. He had a fondness for the Italian gals.

  I'll be in Ottawa for a week in early November, looking up old friends and in your case, someone I wish had been more than a friend. It will probably be my last trip. Hope you will see me. I have some photos you'll find really interesting.

  Yours fondly,

  Guy Prendergast?

  Eighteen

  As I sat there pondering fear of heights, a bus disgorged a load of tourists at the edge of the square. Within minutes, everyone had slapped on their sunglasses and launched themselves towards the shops and boutiques. Lucia Giansante glanced up, then checked her watch. She finished her coffee, put down the rest of her brioche, tossed some money on the bill, and hurried off. I had a couple of questions for Lucia before we met with her father in the afternoon, and there is only so much espresso you can drink. Ray wasn't back, but what the hell. It was morning, Alcielo was crawling with locals and tourists, Lucia's shop was not far from the square, and somewhere nearby was a grandfather we hadn't been told about. Sergio. I wouldn't really be breaking any promises. The server agreed that if Ray showed up, he'd tell him I had gone to Lucia's. I was still pretty achy, so I meandered slowly up the hill, stopping regularly to wince. On one of the stops, I remembered who had been afraid of heights. I stood still when I realized what that meant. I could almost hear the other pieces dropping into place.

  There were already customers gabbing in English, French and German when I hurried into Giansante e Figlia. The scent was a wonderful blend of beeswax, solvent, old wood and something else. Lucia was showing an American couple a beautifully restored table. Apparently the showing wasn't going well, because there were signs of stress on her fine features. The flowered ladies had joined a group clucking enthusiastically over some antique porcelain lamps in the corner. The Germans had donned reading glasses and were turning small objects upside down. Serious hunters and gatherers. I moved out of the way of the door, as yet another old lady in a floppy hat and a flowered dress entered, swinging a large bag with a loud chrysanthemum design. The bag barely missed knocking over a lamp before the woman joined the clucking crowd. I felt grateful for my black wool pants and dark jacket and promised myself I'd die before I ever wore clothing with chrysanthemums. How different these ladies were from Mrs. Parnell, always cool and collected in taupe or khaki. No flowers and floppy hats for her. I ambled around the shop, stroking the lovely woods, squinting at the fine china, fingering the silver candelabra, waiting for my chance to speak to Lucia. I stopped and sniffed the air. There was a large VIETATO FUMA
RE sign. Even so, above the hint of wax and solvent and the relentless lavender of the ladies, I caught the distinct scent of Benson & Hedges cigarette smoke. I kept calm and jockeyed for a chance to speak. Apparently the price of the table was so outrageous that, after a round of dickering, the disappointed purchasers left. The bell jingled as they slammed the door behind them. That cleared a few extra customers, frightened off by the minor conflict. Lucia ran her hand through her hair and said a rude word in Italian. The Germans seemed to take offence, and the door slammed again. Lucia raised an eyebrow when she saw me leaning against a huge carved sideboard.

  “Tell me, Lucia,” I said in a low voice, “is your grandfather around?”

  Her bright lipstick stood out as she paled. She folded her arms over her thin chest. “No.”

  Direct hit. “Where would I find him?”

  “He is sleeping. He is not well.”

  “No problem,” I said, pulling out my non-functioning cellphone. “My friend is at the police station now. I'll ask him to have the carabinieri drop in.”

  She bit her lip. “I will see if he is awake. Wait here.”

  “I'll come with you.”

  “That is not possible. He is in the workshop. It is not open to the public.”

  “I'm not the public, Lucia. I'm the person looking for my grandmother, and we both know she's here.”

  The British tourists had begun to look alarmed and whisper among themselves.

  “You are lying,” she blustered. “She is not your grandmother.”

  “Close enough.” I pushed past her and opened the door marked officina.

  An elderly man with skimpy wisps of white hair framing his shiny pink scalp looked up in surprise. He'd been parked in a wheelchair next to the long work table. The work surface was covered with paint and solvent cans, jars filled with brushes and tools. Some cans were opened, rags, paper and mats for painting lay around. He might have been in his nineties and confined to a wheelchair, but it appeared that he still had his skills.

  Mrs. Parnell was seated in a half-restored ornate wooden chair, facing him. They had been deep in conversation. She turned and raised an eyebrow. She doesn't startle easily. Lucia turned back to me and shrugged.

  “I almost got killed last light, Mrs. P.,” I said, keeping my tone conversational. “By a beautiful boy named Dario who is almost certainly the grandson of Annalisa Franchini.”

  “I am most sorry to hear it, Ms. MacPhee. This is a dangerous situation. I did advise you to mind your own business.”

  “This is my business. I know what happened during the war. I believe everyone should be told about it.”

  “Cos'è, Violetta?” The old man quavered.

  “Niente, Sergio,” Mrs. Parnell said.

  “Nonno,” Lucia said, “sta’ tranquillo.”

  “You can't do this on your own, Mrs. Parnell. Leave it to the police.”

  “The police have been less than efficacious over the years, Ms. MacPhee.”

  “I know about Harry. The police know all about him too. And I think I know something you don't.”

  “You're a very ineffective fibber, Ms. MacPhee. Now for the last time, this does not concern you. The next time you might be more than almost killed. I would not be pleased about that.”

  “Glad to hear it, Mrs. P. This does concern me, not only because I would like you to get proper medical care, not only because I was attacked, but also because signor Falcone, a nice old man I was planning to see, was run down near his home in Florence. You knew him too.”

  She kept the emotion off her face. Her hands were clenched, knuckles white. “Yes, poor signor Falcone.”

  “Now another nice old man, signor Braccia, has to hide out with his son.” I held up my hand. “Don't interrupt me, Mrs. P. Your old friend, Hazel, was struck on the head and left for dead, and that really concerns me. I like Hazel a lot. Plus, the Villa Rosa in Pieve San Simone burned down last night.”

  She slumped in her chair. “I am distressed to hear it.”

  “As I was saying, it's my business, because I am your friend. No matter what. And so is Alvin. You're just plain stuck with that fact.”

  She recoiled. “Dear God, is young Ferguson here too?”

  “He's at home. It's no safer over there, until we get this settled.”

  “I capitulate. Of course. We can meet and discuss this later, Ms. MacPhee. Will that satisfy you? I'll give you my coordinates.”

  I cut in, “Here's what I think happened…”

  She slammed her hand on the work table. Jars and cans jangled. “I do not wish to hear.”

  I kept talking. “In 1944, a Canadian bomber crashed in Berli. On it was Perce Connaught. The rest of the crew perished. Somehow Perce escaped. Perhaps by luck, perhaps by engineering. Who knows. We do know that Perce was already in hot water because of his shady black market dealings. The rumour was out that he may even have been about to face a court martial. Then along comes this convenient crash. Perce parachutes out and tosses his dog tags into the smouldering wreckage with the bodies of his colleagues.”

  I glanced at her face and got no reaction. Of course, she already knew this. I kept talking. “You see, I thought it was Harry Jones in that plane. But Harry would never have joined the RCAF. He was afraid of heights. Harry joined the army.”

  Mrs. Parnell said, “Poor Harry wouldn't even stand on a chair.”

  I continued. “Perce, of course, was a lucky devil, everyone said that, always landing on his feet. This time especially. Nothing escapes the notice of the partisans hiding in the hills. They are more than willing to hide a Canadian airman. The women like him, even with the burns on his face and his broken arm, I guess. A girl named Annalisa from a nearby village takes a particular shine to him. Over a few months, she spirits him from the mountains near Berli to her home town of Alcielo, or nearby anyway. Annalisa is plugged in. She has connections through the partisan network. Perce will be able to get back to one of the Canadian contingents pushing the Germans up through Italy. I suppose we'll never know how he managed to meet up with Harry Jones. I suppose Perce would have been well aware of what regiment Harry was with, and the partisans would have been able to find out where that regiment was. Any arguments so far, Mrs. P.?”

  “This is not the right time, Ms. MacPhee. I urge you to leave this alone.”

  Fat chance. “Then all of a sudden Harry is caught in a surprise ambush by a small group of Germans, or so we're told. Harry Jones barely escapes. His face is burned, and he's left with a broken arm. He is hidden by a local family, until he is finally able to get word to the Canadians using the Palazzo Degli Angeli as a temporary HQ. He never gets back to his original company. No one questions his story. Why would they? Harry Jones is a fine fellow, a good fighter, a good friend. It's obvious now what really happened. Harry Jones was lured out to meet Perce. Perhaps Perce used his girlfriend's connections to get a message to Harry. Perce is able to dispatch Harry and his colleague and to take Harry's dog tags. Harry and Perce were the same physical type, tall, fair, well-built.”

  “The golden boys,” Mrs. Parnell said, a faraway look in her eyes.

  “One more unknown soldier dumped in the Italian mud. Without tags, Harry's body will never be identified, and Perce has solved his problem. Meanwhile, things are going well for Perce. He's now installed as Harry in or near the Palazzo Degli Angeli. Must have felt like a candy store. Even better, because he's been injured, he'll be sent to England to recover and wait out the war, as Harry Jones, with whatever loot he can smuggle. Most likely, he stashed some of it here with Annalisa, who was certainly in on everything. We'll never know all the details.”

  “I will. Even if it is the last thing I ever do,” Mrs. Parnell said.

  “You should know that Perce started using Harry's name while he was still in the mountains near Berli. A partisan who helped him get back closer to his regiment remembers that name.”

  She was quiet, stunned perhaps at the possibility that Perce could have caused t
he crash, in order to launch his plan to become Harry Jones, rather than merely taking advantage of a situation.

  I said, “You'll probably never know for sure whether Perce had his eye on Dorothea Brockbank before he faked his death or not. Or was he just fortunate enough to come back and have a plain, sad, girl, mourning her dead brothers and her fiancé end up as his hospital visitor? Luck or cunning? Never mind, it's not a crime to marry a girl for her money or her family's art and antique business. Reprehensible yes, criminal no.”

  “I have my theories.”

  I said, “No question that it was a lucky break for a man who'd dabbled in the black market and who'd developed a knack for unloading paintings and objets d'art. Perhaps that's how they connected. Whatever. One thing leads to another and presto, they're engaged, and he's in her family business. I'm assuming some of the detail, but you can see how it would have been.”

  Mrs. P. stared back at me. I was close enough to see how haggard she was. She might keep her stiff upper lip, but I knew she was deeply affected by what I was saying, even though it was obvious she'd already worked it out for herself.

  I said, “Of course, after the amount of cunning it would take to fake his own death and Harry's murder, and assuming Harry's identity, hooking up with a lonely heiress would be a piece of cake.”

  Lucia stood staring at us, holding her cardigan tightly closed despite the oppressive warmth of the room. Her grandfather sat silent, hunched in his wheelchair, listening openmouthed.

  “There's more, isn't there?” I said. “It gets worse.”

  Mrs. P. met my eyes. “Yes.”

  “There are two serious impediments to Perce getting away with being Harry.”

  She nodded.

  “His fiancée, Violet Wilkinson, is dealt with firmly. She is the one person who will know instantly that he is not Harry Jones. And most inconveniently, she's stationed in England with CWAC. She's also enterprising, loyal and a whiz with a truck. Exactly the type to drop in for an unexpected visit. Violet would have no trouble getting past the fiercest of nurses. Harry has to drop Violet and make sure she stays dropped. Violet gets a crisp letter telling her she's no longer needed.”