The Dead Don't Get Out Much

by Mary Jane Maffini

  * * *

  The fog lifted by noon, leaving a soft, glistening green behind on the mountains and pastures and the odd wisp of mist. I prepared to set out with a packed lunch from the now friendly signora and many good wishes from several of the good people of Berli.

  I was surprised Orianna hadn't been there to say goodbye. She'd done so much to help me, and I wanted to thank her one last time. I decided to trot down the ruella and knock on her door. As I tossed my bag and backpack into the Ka, I spotted her.

  She was running up the steep road, scarf flying in the wind like a victory flag. I straightened up and waited.

  “Grazie a Dio,” she said. “I was very afraid to miss you.”

  “I wouldn't have left without saying ciao.”

  She threw her arms around me. “I have wonderful news!”

  London, United Kingdom

  February 13, 1945

  My dear Miss Wilkinson,

  I hope that my attentions have not been in any way responsible for the termination of your engagement to Harrison Jones. If I have contributed to this, I apologize profusely. However, I would like to add that Sgt. Jones turned out to be a most shortsighted and foolish man, if you will pardon my unsolicited opinion.

  I would hope that, at some time, we will find ourselves in a congenial setting where we might resume our discussions about music. Although you are a most intelligent woman, I cannot share your view of the works of Shostakovich, and would appreciate an opportunity to make my case more fully on the topic.

  Yours very sincerely,

  Walter Parnell

  Eleven

  You found her?” I shouted.

  Oriana's face fell. “Sorry. But I have found a partigiano for you. Someone who was here in the war and who was connected to everything that went on. He was connected to many partisan brigades. My mother remembered some people who knew some other people, and we were finally able to locate him. He is eighty-seven years old. I spoke to him on the telephone, and his mind is still very clear.”

  “Thank you. This might be just what I need.” Of course, it might also be a total waste of time. I didn't say that. If Mrs. P. had been there, instead of on the run, she would have shouted, “Onward into the breech!”

  “I hope so. His name is Luciano Falcone. He was a famous partisan. They called him il Falco.”

  “The Falcon. I'll write down the information,” I said, reaching for my bag in the car.

  “I have already written it, with his address.” She handed me a small piece of paper, with neat European style handwriting and a name, address and telephone number. “He is expecting to hear from you and will be happy to talk about his time in the mountains here.”

  “He's in Florence?” I said.

  “Yes. Firenze. Is that a problem?”

  “Of course not,” I said, although I had a plan, and Florence didn't figure into it. No point in disappointing Orianna after all her efforts. I'd just keep going south to Montechiaro and head back up to Florence afterwards if I didn't locate Mrs. P.

  “It is just a few hours from here,” she said. “You Canadians are used to long distances.”

  She had a point. What was a couple of hours? Florence it would be, after I'd exhausted the towns on my list. After a final round of hugs and cheek-kisses, I got into the Ka and turned the key. I gave a wave at the send-off party, a cluster of ancient farmers, Orianna and the still smiling proprietor, who reached through the Ka window to give me a bearhug.

  Italy always took a bit of getting used to. I pulled away to a chorus of ciao! ciao! ciao!

  I soon whipped past the tiny main street and headed down the steep and winding mountain road. As I had promised myself, I pulled over and stopped at every point I could on the way down. I found no skid marks and no silver Opels lying crumpled at the foot of rocky hills.

  I was surprised at how soon I was passing through the nameless village, where I'd spent the first night. I'd forgotten there was a cross-roads. I pulled over, checked the map, and concluded after some poking around, that if I took one road, it could knock some mileage off my approach to Montechiaro.

  A small group of cars was clustered outside the bar, and people were standing around enjoying the absence of fog and the presence of sunlight. That dashing young man about the village, Dario, pulled up behind the Ka in his red Alpha Romeo. I waved, and he hopped out of his car, looking like a billboard ad, all that bedhead to go with the bedroom eyes. Good thing my affections were committed.

  “Bella!” he shouted. What the hell, maybe he'd heard something. I got out of my car, and he greeted me with a triple cheek kiss. He made a valiant attempt to entice me into the bar to eat something.

  “No, thanks.” I remembered to get back into character. “I was wondering if you'd heard anything about my grandmother. Did she drive through here on her way from Berli?”

  “Sorry, I didn't see her. I am not on this road all the time. Just when I am fortunato.”

  “Can you ask these people, please, Dario. Remind them she was driving a silver Opel.”

  “Of course.”

  No one claimed to have seen her on the road. It had been foggy, they reminded me. And it was still nippy, even if the sun was shining. Dario said, “They told me to tell you it's a good day to be inside drinking grappa with your friends. They think you might want to try that too.”

  “Not a chance.”

  I knew enough about grappa to stay away from it. There are potent drinks, and there are really potent drinks, and then there is grappa.

  I was distracted by a minor fuss. A tiny old man, bent nearly double, was jabbering at Dario, in a high-pitched whine. I didn't remember this man from my visit the day before. He wasn't a type you could forget easily.

  Dario nodded and nodded and laughed.

  Everyone else laughed too.

  I waited. Finally I could wait no more.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he saw an old woman driving very fast. Like a Formula One driver.

  “That's my nonna,” I said proudly. “Which way did she go? Dov'è andata?” That was one of my better Italian phrases, and one which I figured I would get to use again at some point.

  Dario pointed to the road that went south, the one I would take if I were to head to Pieve San Simone.

  This seemed to enrage the tiny man. He jumped up and down, and shouted at Dario. He gave him a whack on the backside for good measure. The crowd howled.

  “Scusate, zio,” Dario kept saying, laughing.

  The small man turned to me and pointed emphatically in the other direction.

  “Grazie,” I said and stammered out something in Italian that was supposed to mean “Did you see a Mercedes following her?”

  No results there. I was at the end of my useful Italian. I turned to Dario. He shrugged. He was going to end up with a lot of wrinkles on that pretty face if he kept using those expressions.

  “Please, Dario. Ask him again. I really need your help.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “Sure, for you, bella,” he grinned and turned to the elderly man.

  A torrent of Italian followed. Everyone joined in. A few more people, who had been inside drinking grappa, emerged to join the chaos. The Mercedes excited a lot of chatter.

  “What are they saying?” I asked Dario.

  “Different things,” he said. “What would you like to hear? You can have your many choices.”

  I nodded in the direction of the small, fierce gentleman. “What does this man say?”

  “Now he says a car stopped in the fog. He doesn't know what kind of car, and he doesn't know which way the car went. He says maybe someone else in the village will know. If you are not in a hurry, he will ask everyone.”

  I kept a straight face. “Thank him very much for me, but I have to leave right away. I have an appointment. I guess it means the Mercedes…”

  “…with your uncle driving,” Dario added helpfully.

  “Yes, I guess it means he didn't see w
here my grandmother went.”

  “I think that is true,” Dario said.

  “Well,” I said, keeping the grin of relief from spreading across my face.

  I thanked the old man and shook his hand. Dario beamed on the sideline. He sidled up next to me and said, “Do you have a cellulare, bella?”

  “My cellphone doesn't seem to work in Italy.”

  “I will give you my number. I will let you know if we see your nonna again. I will find out for you.”

  “Terrific. I'll check in with you later.”

  Dario scribbled a number on a piece of paper, and I dropped it into my purse. I was eager to get away, especially since Mrs. P. was driving like a race driver. I hopped into the Ka before I got another hug. I'm not all that huggy and kissy as a rule. Even without Ray in my life, I wouldn't have been looking for a weekend romance in a strange country. If I read Dario's body language right, that's what he had in mind. I'm not the girliest girl, and I wouldn't have thought that an unglamorous widowed lawyer wearing running shoes would be his type, but I didn't have time to fret about that. The old man seemed certain about the direction she'd driven off in. Southeast, unless I was mistaken.

  I thought about it as I turned the key. None of the towns on our list were in that direction. Was Mrs. P. just trying to give her so-called son the slip? That made sense. It didn't give me any guidance about where to go next. The profound feeling of relief I'd experienced evaporated. Italy might be small compared to Canada, but it was still a hell of a lot of territory to comb looking for one very fast and tricky elderly lady who definitely didn't want to be found.

  Of course, a new thought came to me.

  Southeast would lead me to Florence.

  Firenze.

  The home of Luciano Falcone. Ridiculous coincidence? Or belated stroke of luck?

  The thought of driving in Florence made my stomach hurt. Florence was a spectacular medieval city renowned for its art, architecture, magnificent piazzas, jaywalking tourists, gouging prices, suicidal scooters and other frenetic Italian drivers, not to mention five-hundred-year-old streets that switched from one-way to two-way at whim. I was going to have to negotiate those ancient streets in my mobile dehumidifier. And for all I knew, Mrs. Parnell could have just waited to give that Mercedes the slip and headed for one of the other destinations.

  Any decision was better than no decision, I knew that. There was no way to be sure I was doing the right thing. It was important to do something. A new thought dawned on me, as I thought about Florence and the navigational chaos I would encounter in the middle of the city. There was something else in the middle of Florence.

  The letters O, R and E. ORE, the one word we hadn't been able to figure out on the list on Mrs. Parnell's telephone book. To hell with Pieve San Simone, Montechiaro and Alcielo.

  My decision was made.

  * * *

  During the trip, my brain worked overtime. I tried to think like Mrs. Parnell. What would she do after she gave this guy the slip, which I was sure she had? Was this direction just a diversionary tactic? Did she still intend to visit the other towns? Had she ever intended to visit them? Did he have the same list of towns? If so, it was just a matter of time until he found out where she was. The first thing she'd do would be to ditch the Opel, which was large and noticeable. She'd decide on camouflage.

  Florence was a major centre, and I knew from personal experience that all the car rental agencies had offices in the city. It would be easy enough to switch cars, even if you had to pay a penalty. Mrs. Parnell is always willing to pay for what she wants. If my memory served, the car rental spot I needed was not too far from the railway station and near the highway leaving town. Knowing it and finding it were two different things, of course.

  Eventually, tired, cranky and unbelievably lost on the outskirts of town, I parked the Ka and sought out a small, pleasant trattoria. I asked for a telephone book along with a menu. I gobbled a calzone without tasting a bite. I found the address for the car rental Mrs. P. had used and picked up a flurry of conflicting directional advice from the staff and the other diners. I was on my way.

  No one said it would be easy, and it wasn't. After a ridiculously long time, I wedged the Ka in a half parking space and scoured the area on foot. I was hot and tired, when I found what I was looking for.

  “Hello.” I smiled brightly at the middle-aged man behind the desk. He looked tired, irritable and bored, in equal parts. “I hope you can help me. I believe my grandmother planned to exchange her vehicle for one that was easier for her arthritis. She was renting an Opel from you. Her name is Violet Parnell. I am hoping to catch up with her before she leaves the city. She needs a bit of help with her trip. I can just wait around if she hasn't been in yet.”

  The rental agent didn't seem to have any concern with checking out the information for me. I'd learned that a grandmother is the one key that opens all doors. He nodded, and after a few taps on the keyboard, I had my answer.

  “Sorry, signora. We have no one by that name.”

  I felt myself deflate. Had I been wrong in assessing her strategy? I didn't think so. She would have to use her real name. She'd probably had to show her passport. I now knew her maiden name since reading some of those letters. No harm in trying. “Sorry,” I said. “I meant to say Violet Wilkinson. Parnell was her husband's name.”

  Bingo.

  Pretty sneaky, Mrs. P. Two can play sneaky games. She had indeed returned the Opel, the agent told me. Her new car wasn't ready yet.

  “I'll wait,” I said.

  “Domani mattina, signora.” He smiled. “Scusate, it will not be ready until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I said. “That's fine. I'll just check in with her at her hotel. She's at the Paris Hotel, is she?” I gave the name of the hotel Paul and I had chosen on our honeymoon. I held my breath to see if he would fall for this new ploy and reveal the place she was staying. My usual concerns about the value of privacy were well overwhelmed by my need to know and know fast.

  He frowned at the screen. “Strano. It seems we do not have a local address. She will be picking up the new vehicle at one o'clock.”

  “That's fine,” I said. “I'll find her. What kind of car was she able to get this time? Was it a Ka, by any chance?”

  “Ma no, signora! A Ka! No no no no. No. She selected a Volvo sedan. Very nice. Molto elegante.”

  “She likes those,” I said.

  I left the office and ambled along the sidewalk. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of places to stay in and around Florence, so there wasn't much chance I could find her hotel.

  I decided I needed a place to stay. I could use the time to check out the partisan, signor Falcone, then pounce on Mrs. P. at the car rental. Since it had been a what-the-hell kind of day, I decided on the Hotel Paris. It would be a nice treat and a trip back in time. I allowed myself plenty of time to find the hotel, counting on being lost. It took even longer. Lucky me, there was a room available. That's the nice thing about the foggy old off-season.

  I got a reasonable deal on a room on the fourth floor and dragged my sorry ass up the stairs. I had fond memories of the historic mansion with high ceilings and casement windows that opened over the narrow street outside. The decorations were vaguely Florentine, with frescos and curlicues. The bed was welcoming. I conked out seconds after getting into the room and slept for a while. That was one bad habit I'd need to drop, and soon.

  I spent a half hour in the shower and emerged, shampooed, clean and rested. I changed from my jeans to my black pants and jacket. I slipped on the leather loafers, because a woman wearing running shoes would not get taken seriously in Florence. I fiddled with the silk scarf until it looked right and finished with a slash of the Graffiti Red. I was ready to deal with the Florentines.

  I used the hotel phone to call the number for L. Falcone. No answer.

  Okay. No problem.

  The Paris Hotel was within easy walking distance of the historic centre of Florence. I had plenty
to keep myself busy until someone answered. Just to be on the safe side, I headed downstairs and double-checked with the front desk. Could they show me how to get to this address?

  I left with a map. The route to Luciano Falcone's house was marked out in yellow highlighter. No more than a forty-minute walk. A piece of cake compared to five minutes behind the wheel in this town.

  First, I headed along the street to find a payphone to check in on the home front.

  * * *

  Alvin took seven rings to answer the phone. I reminded myself that we were being nice to each other and said, “Glad you could bring yourself to answer. Have you heard anything from Mrs. Parnell?”

  “That means you haven't either.”

  “No luck so far.”

  “That's so bad. Where are you?”

  “I'm at the Paris Hotel in Florence, if you need to reach me, and, believe me, I'm thinking of nothing else but finding her.”

  “Florence? You're in friggin’ Florence? With Violet at death's door? You're at the Paris Hotel? Sounds very cushy. Too bad you're not here answering the phone, and I'm not over there trying to find Violet. It's not like we got all the time in the world to find her, before she has a heart attack. I don't really want to be planning a funeral.” Alvin's voice went up at least an octave during this.

  I kept my own voice level. “I know it's urgent, Alvin. You don't need to remind me about that. And I am not in Florence on an art tour. Mrs. Parnell is here.”

  “Florence wasn't on the list.”

  “Remember that fragment? Ore. Think about it. There's a man here who might be able to help. Anyway, any luck on tracking down the son?”

  “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.”