temptation in florence 03 - bankers death

by boeker, beate

  Garini took a handkerchief from his pocket and pulled the briefcase forward with care. He opened the flap and looked inside. “It is empty,” he confirmed. “Do you have any idea what might have been in it?”

  Carlina didn't reply.

  He looked up. “What is it? You know more, don't you?”

  She clenched her fists and braced herself. “I think I know what may have been inside.”

  He lifted his eyebrows and straightened in slow motion. “Yes?”

  Carlina swallowed. “He . . . I . . . it seems he brought a bottle of champagne and a cooler with him.”

  His face turned into a wooden mask. “Really? And where are these interesting accessories now?”

  “The . . . the bottle was covered with blood spatters.” Carlina felt as if every word drove another nail into her coffin. “It stood over there, on the low table. So obviously, the family decided to remove it.”

  “Obviously.” His voice was dry. “Where did they remove it to?”

  “They drank it, and Mama got rid of the empty bottle by throwing it into a glass container that same night.”

  “A very busy night for all of you.”

  She decided to ignore this remark. “And the cooler went back to Uncle Teo's kitchen after it had been cleaned. That's where it came from.”

  His eyes looked hard as stone. “Did you know Valentino would come to see you that evening?”

  “No.” Her voice sounded brittle. “I told you so. I had no idea. I didn't like him, and I had made it clear. But he had a hide like a rhinoceros.” Helplessness swamped her. “I'm aware that this sounds like a very thin story, but it's the truth.”

  “Why didn't you want to go out to dinner with me that night?”

  Carlina pressed her lips together.

  “Carlina?”

  She hugged herself and averted her gaze. “I was afraid of what my family would do, and I wanted to keep an eye on them.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Please don't tell me they planned to kill him.”

  Carlina stared at the tips of her shoes. The phone calls of the afternoon echoed through her mind. We can poison him by accident . . . I'll make love to him, and the knife will just happen to fall . . . She took a deep breath. “Well, you know them.”

  “You mean they did.”

  She nodded.

  “Madonna.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “Do you know who did it, Carlina? Don't lie to me. Please.”

  His gaze mesmerized her. “No.” For once, she was glad to answer. “I really have no idea. I wish I did.” She squared her shoulders. “I don't believe it was Mama.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was livid about the place the murderer chose. She kept saying it was a stupid idea to do it in my apartment, because we . . . we needed your cooperation, and we would not get it if . . . if you thought I had cheated on you.”

  “You mean she would have approved completely if only the murderer had killed Valentino somewhere else.” His voice was dry.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Charming.” He shook his head.

  “The same argument goes for everyone in the family,” Carlina said. “It was a stupid place to kill Valentino.”

  He gave her a limpid look. “Unless you wanted to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Get rid of the unwanted boyfriend, and get rid of the unwanted cousin.”

  Something cold rushed through Carlina and froze her to the spot. “No . . . that . . . that would not work. The murderer would have to be extremely conceited to get away with such a scheme. No, really, Stefano, I don't think anybody thought like that. Besides, they all counted on your cooperation.”

  “You mean they would take the more practical approach - accept me as long as they needed me and only get rid of me later on?”

  This is a nightmare. A wave of tiredness swept over Carlina. She dropped into the armchair and hid her face in her hands.

  “I can think of another scenario.” He remained standing. “What if your family organized a professional killer but the briefing went awry?”

  “No.” Carlina shook her head. “Never. They would never do that.”

  “Unless you happen to have a professional killer in the family. That would change matters, wouldn't it?”

  “We don't have a professional killer in the family!” She jumped up again.

  His gaze seemed to pierce her. “Do you want the murderer to be found, Carlina?”

  She clenched her fists. “Yes, I do.”

  “Even if it was someone from your closest family?”

  She rubbed her upper arms but the frozen feeling didn't go away. “I . . . yes. Yes. I think that's preferable to hanging in there, not knowing, besides . . .” her voice petered out.

  “Besides?”

  She met his gaze. “Besides, our relationship is doomed if we can't find the killer.”

  “True.” His face didn't betray any emotion.

  Her voice trembled. “It might be doomed anyway, after Valentino's stunt in my apartment. I mean . . . it does look fishy, and I can't blame you if you don't believe a word I say, but--”

  “I believe you.”

  Her heart missed a beat. “You do?” She swallowed hard. A tiny flame of hope flickered inside her, but she felt insecure, not sure if it would survive. “Thank you.”

  “I just don't understand why you didn't trust me with the truth in the first place.”

  “But I told you . . .” Carlina spread her hands. “Everybody will laugh at you, everybody will assume that you were cuckolded by me and--”

  A scream rang through the house. It was high and full of panic.

  The hair on the back of Carlina's neck stood up. She turned to the door and started running.

  Chapter 9

  I

  Garini overtook her on the stairs.

  “It's coming from Mama's apartment!” Carlina gasped in fear. What had happened? The scream sounded exactly like it did the night of Valentino's murder. Had Simonetta found Fabbiola dead? Had the murderer taken steps to ensure that Fabbiola's trap would not work? Oh, no, oh, no. Please, Madonna, not Mama.

  She raced downstairs, two steps at a time. The door to her mother's apartment was closed. With trembling fingers, she fumbled out her key and tried to introduce it into the lock, but her hand was shaking too hard.

  Garini covered her hand with his, warm and firm, and helped her.

  The scream exploded in her ears when the door swung open. The sound of running steps came from downstairs, anxious voices, questions. Carlina ran to her mother's kitchen, right on Garini's heels.

  Simonetta stood in the middle of the room, her gaze fixed on one of the coarse sacks lying in a corner. Her finger was pointed at it, and her whole body shook. “There! There!”

  It took all of Carlina's courage to look. Was her mother in one of these sacks, dead? Her stomach turned over.

  Garini grabbed Simonetta's arm. “Be quiet!” His voice was strong and commanding.

  Simonetta gulped and stared at him with wide opened eyes. “I . . .” she took a shuddering breath.

  Carlina pulled all her courage together and opened the sack.

  The bag was half-filled with grain.

  Innocent, small, brown wheat grains.

  Nothing unusual.

  She looked up, her face slack with surprise. “What is it?”

  Simonetta took a step back. “It's so disgusting.”

  Carlina's gaze met Stefano's. She could see his impatience with Simonetta's theatrical behavior, and for a second, it felt as if they were friends again.

  “Tell us what happened, Simonetta.” His voice was calm.

  “I opened the sack to take out more corn, so we could grind it for tomorrow's bread . . . and . . . and I found . . .”

  Carlina held her breath. “What did you find?”

  Simonetta shook herself. “Bugs.”

  “Bugs?” Carlina didn't trust her ears. “You're
kidding.”

  “Oh, no.” Simonetta pointed at the bag. “Just look at it. They're small and shiny and black. Tons of them.”

  Carlina looked inside the bag. She couldn't see anything. With a cautious movement, she shook the corn inside the sack to the side and flinched. True enough, a black beetle was crawling through the corn. “Yuck.”

  Fabbiola burst through the door. “What is happening here?”

  Simonetta pointed an accusing finger at the sack. “Bugs!” Her magnificent voice filled the whole house. “We have bugs in the grain!”

  Fabbiola clutched her hand to her chest. “Oh, no.” She advanced with a frown and peered into the sack Carlina was holding out to her. “I've read about it. It's not good . . . not good at all. Now what can we do?”

  Ernesto charged through the door and slid to a stop. “What happened?” His eyes were wide. Behind him, Rafaele poked his head into the room.

  “Simonetta found black bugs in the sacks of grain.” Carlina suppressed an urge to giggle.

  Ernesto's mouth went slack. “What?” He directed an accusing look at Simonetta. “Is that why you screamed blue murder? Just because of a few bugs?”

  “They're disgusting.” Simonetta held her head high.

  “Ah.” Ernesto gave his best friend a look that spoke volumes.

  Rafaele advanced with his typical, slow movements and looked into the sack. “It looks like a grain weevil.”

  “A grain devil?” Fabbiola stared at him with wide eyes.

  “Weevil.” Rafaele corrected her. “My mother had them once.”

  “What did she do to get rid of them?” Fabbiola asked.

  “Screaming didn't help.” Rafaele frowned in thought.

  Carlina suppressed a gurgling laugh. Rafaele had not sounded ironic.

  Simonetta drew herself up. “I didn't scream to scare away the bugs.”

  “No?” Rafaele shrugged. “I thought you did.”

  “Is that how you screamed when you found Valentino?” Ernesto asked with interest.

  “Yes.” Carlina said. She was beginning to enjoy herself. “Exactly like that.”

  “You might wish to change your screams,” Rafaele advised Simonetta. “Bound to confuse people, if you scream in the same way, for murder or bugs.”

  Carlina's eyes met Garini's.

  She was shaking with suppressed laughter.

  He rolled his eyes.

  Fabbiola looked from her daughter to Garini and seemed to notice him for the first time. “What are you doing here, Commissario?” she asked.

  “I was talking to Carlina,” Garini said.

  “What about?”

  “You need to wash the grain.” Rafaele said.

  Fabbiola whipped around. “Wash the grain? Why?”

  “To get out the bugs. They will drown.”

  “But we have three sacks of grain!” Fabbiola said. “How on earth can we wash all of it?”

  “In the bathroom.” Rafaele sounded like an authority on the treatment of bugs. “Then you have to kill the ones who try to swim away.”

  Fabbiola's eyes bulged. “What?”

  Rafaele didn't seem to notice her reaction. He seemed to be busy grappling with an internal thought and stared into space like someone who was trying to remember something important.

  “I guess you'd better throw it all away.” Carlina said.

  Fabbiola rounded on her. “Have you gone crazy, Carlina? All over the world, people are starving, and you say you want to throw away perfect grain?”

  “It's not perfect,” Carlina pointed out. “It's got bugs.”

  Fabbiola looked crestfallen. “It's terrible.”

  Simonetta, who had tried to get a word in edgewise without success, straightened. “I can't scream on command.”

  “Can't you?” Rafaele eyed her in surprise. “I thought you were an opera singer. Isn't that what you do?”

  “We'll have to get Maria's help,” Fabbiola made a decisive motion with her hands. “Then we'll wash the corn together.”

  Rafaele managed to concentrate on the matter at hand again and nodded in his slow way. “Now I remember. You need to dry it afterward. After the bath, I mean.”

  “The grain?” Fabbiola stared at him.

  “Of course. What else? On large sheets.” Rafaele nodded again.

  “Maybe we should take black sheets,” Carlina couldn't prevent herself from saying. “Then, if the bugs come back, at least you won't notice them anymore. If they keep still, that is.”

  “Ugh.” Simonetta made a face. “That's disgusting.”

  “You need to turn the grain from time to time,” Rafaele volunteered. “To avoid mold.”

  “It sounds like a full-time job,” Ernesto looked at the sacks of grain with dawning respect.

  “Mama, I know that people are starving, but don't you think it's better to get rid of all of it, now, at once?” Carlina looked at her mother. “You don't want vermin in the house.”

  Fabbiola straightened her back. “I refuse to do something as immoral as throwing away good food.” She bent over the other sacks. “Besides, we don't yet know if the bugs are everywhere or if just one sack is affected.”

  A hand grabbed Carlina's and pulled her to the side.

  She looked up in surprise.

  Garini made a motion with his head toward the door.

  She smiled and followed him outside.

  He took her by the shoulders. “Your family is not normal.”

  “I know.” She grinned. “Wasn't it hilarious? I thought I would drop dead when Simonetta said “bugs”. I had been expecting something unspeakable.”

  “I noticed you were amused.” His voice was dry. “Promise me one thing.”

  Her heartbeat accelerated. “Yes?”

  “Don't try to hide the truth from me anymore.”

  She opened her mouth, but before she could reply, Fabbiola rushed through the door.

  Carlina felt like stamping her foot.

  “Here you are, Commissario!” She placed her hands onto her hips. “You haven't answered my question. Why did you want to talk to Carlina?”

  “We were establishing some facts.”

  Fabbiola frowned. “Facts? What do you mean?”

  “Well, for example we found out that you have nobody in the family who specializes in paid murder.”

  Fabbiola's bosom lifted in outrage. “Really, I have to say--”

  Carlina felt her patience wearing thin. She was sick and tired of her mother interrupting them all the time. She was old enough to manage her own life, and she didn't want to lose Garini for good. “I have to tell you one more thing, Commissario.” She knew he would notice that she was addressing him with his title. “My mother decided to prepare a trap for the murderer.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Is that so, Mrs. Mantoni-Ashley?”

  Fabbiola lifted her chin. “Yes. And I won't tell you what it is. It's my secret.”

  “You're crazy, Mama.” Carlina shook her head. “This is not a game, you know. It can be very dangerous.”

  “I am aware of that.” Fabbiola said with dignity. “But obviously, someone here has to do something, if the police are not getting anywhere. And my trap will snap shut. Soon.”

  Garini bottled up his anger. “Don't mess with murderers, Signora Mantoni-Ashley. It's extremely dangerous, and you might get yourself killed.”

  Fabbiola snapped her fingers. “Pooh.”

  II

  Carlina was late for work. She accelerated the speed of her Vespa and turned around the corner, one eye on the newspaper booth. Ever since her almost-accident, the newspaperman with the mustache waved at her whenever she zipped past, and she waved back. It gave her a nice feeling, a feeling of being at home and welcome. Today, the booth was open, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  She was almost past the booth when she spotted a slight woman at the side, doubling over as if in pain, clutching her midriff. She seemed familiar. Carlina swung the Vespa around and slid to a stop next to h
er. “Maria!” Carlina jumped down. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

  Maria shook her head. Her light-brown curls tumbled forward and hid her face. “Oh, Carlina.” Her voice was breathless. “I'm so glad you're here.”

  Carlina gave her a hug. How tiny she is; I can feel the bones of her shoulders. “Can I help you?”

  “Just a moment.” Maria took a deep breath. “Just a moment.” She straightened with care and looked at Carlina with tear-filled eyes. “I . . .” she gulped. “I found a . . . a body.”

  “What?” Carlina's mouth dropped. “When? Where? How?”

  “It's . . . it's the newspaperman.” A sob racked Maria's body. “I wanted to buy the “Quotidiano” for my father, and . . . and at first, I thought he wasn't there. I turned away, but then, a headline caught my eye, and I bent closer to read it, when inside the booth, suddenly, I saw--” She interrupted herself and shuddered. “I saw a knee. That's all I could see. I . . . I stood on tiptoe.” She huddled against Carlina. “I think he's dead.”

  “You think he's dead?” Carlina blinked. “Do you mean you didn't check?”

  “I . . . oh, no.” Maria's teeth chattered. “I felt so sick, and I turned to the side, all dizzy, and then you came, so--”

  “Sit down.” Carlina guided her to the curb. “Just sit down here and don't move.” She waited until Maria had obeyed, then ran to the newspaper booth, her hands clenched into fists. She looked over the partition into the booth, and sure enough, a huddled form lay on the floor. Maybe he had a heart-attack. She raced around the booth, to the back, and looked for the entrance. Nothing. Every centimeter of the back wall was covered with newspapers, and she couldn't make out how to get into the booth. Finally, she spotted a handle, half-hidden beneath a glossy magazine. There it is! She turned the handle and rushed inside, then bent down next to the dark-haired man. It was dark inside the booth, but she could see that it was her friend with the mustache all right. Her throat tightened. She had no idea what to do next. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? She'd only done that once, for her driving exam, years ago. She felt sick. It smelled of freshly printed newspapers and something else, something she couldn't quite place. It was . . . her brain connected the smell to a word the second her gaze fell onto his chest.