The Dead Don't Get Out Much

by Mary Jane Maffini

  I straightened up, as much as I could. It's not like me to go down without a fight. What's more, that wasn't going to happen. I could almost imagine Mrs. Parnell shouting, “onward into the breech.” Of course, Mrs. Parnell was far too cagey to get herself get blocked in a place like this without back-up.

  What did I have going for me? Cavelike opening, dark, dank, low ceiling, floor covered in debris of some sort. Impossible to see. Difficult to move around in. Definite weaknesses.

  The cave wasn't really visible from the tunnel, so that was a strength, although it could be found by someone either crawling, such as I had been, or searching with a light. I was safe only as long as my pursuer didn't find the opening, or come back with a flashlight. I could have done with a bit more imaginary sympathy from Mrs. Parnell.

  The damp from the earth floor seeped through my jeans. My thighs felt numb, my bum itched, my teeth chattered. I could hear them. Could someone else? The broken bricks and stones dug into my legs. I'd cut myself on a very pointed one. Hey. If it could hurt me, it could damage someone else. I scooped up the brick. I moved my arms to see how I could best deliver a projectile to disable someone crawling toward me. What if he had a gun? Broken bricks aren't much good against a bullet. If he did have a gun, wouldn't he have fired it at me as I was fleeing, when there was enough light to see? No one would have heard a thing. So no gun. A knife maybe.

  Trying to be silent, I gathered brick bits and stones. My hand tightened on the brick with the sharp end as a splash sounded in the passageway.

  I listened intently.

  Something slithered past my back. I was getting used to that. This was different. Squish, squish. Footsteps, soft-soled shoes coming closer, stopping nearby. I heard a scraping, an ooof, and then the slow, measured sound of someone inching his way into the opening, moving toward me.

  Adrenaline shot through all my systems. Fight time. Never forget the element of surprise, Mrs. Parnell whispered in my head.

  His breath rasped. Or maybe that was mine. I thought my lungs might burst from trying not to gasp. Nice girls, even lapsed Catholics, are not programmed to hurl dangerous objects at others. That kind of thing is trained out of us in school, home, church. And a good thing too.

  I needed to break free from constraints of law and decency. My pursuer had. He would not be expecting an attack. I lobbed my first brick. I followed with every piece of debris I could reach. The brick bits were lighter than the stones, but sharper. My fingers were so cold and stiff, it was hard to grip them. Keep going, I told myself, or you'll be colder than this forever.

  I heard a grunt of pain.

  Within seconds, I'd hurled every projectile in reach. I heard a yelp. Then nothing. Holding a stone in my hand, I crawled the short distance toward the spot where I hoped the opening was.

  I bumped into a soft, inert form. I crawled over the warm body, trying not to vomit. Was he unconscious? Was he dead?

  I felt for the opening and crawled through. I stood up in the passageway and gulped the air.

  Who was lying there? I had no light. My desire to flee was tied with my desperate need to know. Of course, the useless cellphone! Was there enough of a charge left? I kept a rock in one hand, while I dug in my pocket and fished out the phone with the other. I flipped open the lid and fumbled to turn it on. The pale light on the small screen flicked off almost immediately. I bent forward, pressing keys to keep the light on. I gasped. I was expecting the dark-haired middle-aged man who claimed to be Mrs. Parnell's son. Or the balding, chiselled face of her burglar. Instead, I saw the dark trickle of blood that worked its way across the handsome unconscious features of Dario, my most flirtatious friend.

  My cramped muscles screamed as I raced through the tunnel, stumbling many times. I kept looking behind me, half expecting Dario. I found the stairs and clattered up them to the deserted street. The mist turned to solid rain as I limped toward my hotel and Ray.

  I lurched through the dark streets, slipping on the damp cobblestones. The piazza was dim, storefronts shuttered.

  A black Mercedes sat among the Fiats and Golfs and Opels along the edge of the square. I stopped and stared.

  Had Dario been the man in the Mercedes all along? But Dario drove an Alpha Romeo, and I could see it parked at a brazen angle on the edge of the piazza. Dario had been the one to tell me of the son. No one else had ever mentioned him. Dario had told me he was in a black Mercedes. At the time, I'd been quite appreciative.

  The vicious little bastard. There'd never been a black Mercedes following Mrs. P. And no false son, just misinformation to get me off track.

  I jerked my head at a shadow. A dark figure approached through the misty piazza. I yelped and raised my arms to strike out.

  “Camilla. Where the hell have you been?”

  I capsized into Ray's arms and burst into tears. How girly was that?

  March 17, 1980

  Dear Vi,

  I think you could get off your high horse one of these days and answer some of the letters I have sent over the years. I go to quite a lot of trouble to find out where you are. I have lost my third quite lovely husband, a man who was kindhearted all of his life. He had a hard couple of years. I guess he's in a better place now. I sure hope so. My point is, we're all off to that same location sooner or later, so we shouldn't waste a single day on old grievances. Let's face it, the dead don't get out much.

  I'd really love to see you and have a grand laugh about the good old days. For instance, do you remember the time that Perce managed to get that cow up on the roof of the school? Poor Harry got the blame for it, and him afraid of heights! I remember you told the principal you thought the cow on the roof must have been an act of God. I thought Betty would die on the spot when she found out her precious Perce was the culprit. She kept her mouth shut, though. Couldn't have the family lose face, I guess.

  I have met a lovely widower from South Carolina. Sam Thurlow is his name, so I am about to become Hazel Fellows Stiles Murphy Thurlow now. Practically the whole alphabet. Sam is at loose ends too and very gallant. Unlike the others, he has no youngsters. That's all right, I have plenty of step-grands to love and buy presents for. I am happy to report that the Southern girls dress up a bit more than we do.

  Don't go thinking that I keep writing to you because I have no life. I have wonderful friends, fine step-children, well the second and third batch anyway, and a lot of fun every single day, although I've given up on hats and there's nothing on at the movies. Even so, I am not about to take up golf like Betty!

  Still waiting,

  Your friend,

  Hazel

  Seventeen

  You don't have to get so huffy, Ray. I'm a functioning adult. You were sound asleep. I let you rest. It wasn't even dinner time. I'm sorry I gave you a scare. It seemed safe to go out.”

  “Functioning adult, eh? Look at yourself. Where were you? You're covered with mud.”

  “Somewhere in the tunnel at the reconstruction site.”

  “Christ on a crutch.”

  “We have to send the paramedics down there. He could be dead. I might have killed him.” I felt my stomach heave.

  “Killed who?”

  “Dario.”

  “You're shaking, Camilla, and no wonder, you're like ice. And your jeans have holes in the knees. We'll get you to the hotel. Then we'll deal with Mario, whoever the hell he is.”

  “Dario. I told you about him. He gave me information back in the mountains. He's the person who chased me.”

  “Oh, right, I really want to give him a helping hand,” Ray said.

  “Yeah, well, it's okay for you to talk tough. You didn't whack anybody in the head with a rock, even if it was for a good reason. I don't want to end up killing him. I don't even know what he wanted. What if he wasn't even chasing me? What if he just wanted to tell me something?”

  “You know what? You can talk to the police when you're warm and dry.”

  “I should talk to the police now. What if…”

>   “No what ifs. We're almost at the hotel. See?”

  As Ray helped me limp through the foyer, he signalled to the unfamiliar desk clerk. “Polizia.”

  “Very good,” I said through chattering teeth.

  “It's the only word I know besides vino and amore. I looked up that last one.”

  The polizia took their sweet time. At first I thought it was good, since I needed a hot shower. I was still shivering after I'd dried myself. My jeans, sweater and jean jacket were fit for the garbage. Even the scarf was slathered in mud. I put on all my remaining clothes. Ray wrapped me in the blanket. He disappeared downstairs and returned with a glass of brandy. He pressed it into my hand.

  “I'll have to go down there again and show them where he is,” I chattered.

  “Not a friggin’ chance,” Ray said.

  * * *

  I'm told I was snoring with my mouth open when the police arrived. One of them spoke English. Ray stepped out of the room and took it from there. I got the news update when I finally woke up.

  Ray said, “Good morning. You can start your day right. This Dario's unconscious, but alive.”

  “I have to talk to him.”

  “That won't be happening, Camilla. First of all, the police will not let you in to see the guy who attacked you. I wouldn't let you either. Call me crazy, I'm a cop.”

  “We need to know why he did it. What's Dario's connection to Mrs. Parnell? Or is it just me?”

  “Give it up. This is the kind of incident that can blow up in your face in a foreign country. You don't want them to interrogate you at the police station. We don't know how their system works. Anyway, you're in no shape for that.”

  “I should be talking to them directly.”

  “Bad idea. Anyway, I've told them everything you told me. And I put a call in to the Canadian consulate in case Dario wakes up and spins a credible counter story, and the locals haul you in.”

  “Dario's not from around here. They'll need to locate his family.”

  “The police know who he is.”

  “You mean he's a criminal?”

  “I mean he lives in Alcielo, Camilla. Right up the opposite hill over there.”

  “But why would he have been in the little mountain village outside Berli two days ago? It's hours from here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Can't have been a coincidence meeting him. Maybe he was tracking Mrs. Parnell. I played right into his hands. I asked questions. He fed me wrong answers. He seemed to be related to people there. They all knew him. That is weird.”

  “Not really. You live in Ottawa, I'm in Sydney, a three-day drive apart. You still have relatives in Sydney. I'm hoping to have relatives in Ottawa someday.”

  “Holy crap, I sent him the e-mail with the guy's picture, and I told him I was in Alcielo. Wait, let me guess. Dario lives with his grandmother, signora Annalisa Franchini.”

  Ray nodded. “You got it. And Mrs. Parnell was going to talk to her. We didn't make that connection earlier.”

  “There was no reason to suspect it. It's starting to make sense now. Annalisa Franchini's supposed to be visiting relatives in the mountains. I bet she'll turn out to be from that same village originally. Which is the nearest place to Berli.”

  Ray said, “And that's the spot where the plane went down.”

  “On the way.”

  “That's just too much of a coincidence. It has to be connected.”

  “Okay, so, Dario must have been watching for Mrs. Parnell and anyone else with her. In those villages, everyone knows when a stranger hits town. He missed her when she went through. Then I played right into his hands. He might have even paid a few people to keep their eyes open. I told him lots of stuff, where I was going, and the names of the towns. Everything. What a jerk I am. No wonder he was on to us.”

  Ray scratched his five o'clock shadow. “That means he already knew she was on the way. How could that be? He couldn't have been working alone. He must have had a source in Canada.”

  “Oh boy, and we e-mailed a photo of the source right to him.”

  Ray leaned forward. “You are not leaving my sight until we get a handle on this.”

  “Sure, sure. Can you go back to the cops and find out if this Annalisa Franchini was a partisan during the war? She might have been one of the people who found the airman who survived. That makes sense.”

  “They don't want me meddling. You know that. And they're tied up with some crime that happened outside of town. I'll have to wait.”

  It's not like Ray to look shifty-eyed.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing to worry about.”

  “Then why won't you look at me when you're talking?” I said.

  He sighed. “Okay, I guess you can take it.”

  “Take what? Oh, God, Mrs. Parnell. She's dead, isn't she? What happened?”

  Ray put his hands on my shoulders. “Not Mrs. Parnell. Relax. Breathe deeply.”

  “Don't treat me like a helpless idiot,” I said, helplessly and idiotically.

  “I'm not. Sorry. It's just that you don't know what you've been like. You had nightmares, you tossed, you screamed a few times. I just thought you didn't need this right now.”

  “I don't need you to beat around the bush. What the hell happened?”

  “When I was explaining what happened to my English-speaking contact at the station, I asked if they knew anything about Guy Prendergast. He's a decent guy. He made a call to Pieve San Simone. It turns out that Villa Rosa burned down last night. They were fighting the fire until morning. There's already a rumour that the State Police think it was arson.”

  I gripped his hand. “What about Guy Prendergast?”

  He wrapped his arms around me. “They haven't found his body, the site is too hot.”

  It's not like me to blubber, especially twice in twenty-four hours, and I hate it when it happens. Ray's used to that kind of thing. He's had practice with the teenage daughters.

  ***

  Eventually Ray agreed to go back to talk to his contact at the cop shop and find out more about Guy Prendergast. He said he'd nose around about Dario and his grandmother too. There were strings attached.

  “I'm happy to grovel in front of them if you promise me that you won't go break into Annalisa Franchini's house, or interrogate the neighbours, or try to get into the hospital to grill Dario.”

  “Please,” I protested, “give me some credit.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You have nothing to worry about. I'm going to spend a bit of time making calls. I've got to get in touch with Alvin as soon as it's late enough, and I'd like to give my family a buzz. How harmless is that?”

  * * *

  A stranger answered my phone. My heart thumped.

  “Alvin, please,” I said. Had something happened to him too?

  A scuffling noise ensued, and a slightly breathless Alvin finally said hello. It was a bit hard to hear because of the background noise.

  “What is going on there? Is that a drill I hear? Why is Gussie howling?”

  “Don't know what you're talking about, Camilla.”

  “Grant me strength. What's the word on Hazel?”

  “Good news. Hazel regained consciousness.”

  “That's a relief. Is she going to be all right?”

  “She's not out of the woods yet. But she was very worried about her hair. I think that's a good sign.”

  “And was she able to identify the man in the photo as the person who attacked her?”

  “Not really. She's confused.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She thought it was the guy in the other picture, the one of Mrs. Parnell's group of friends.”

  “You mean Harrison Jones? There's some kind of connection with him for sure. You know what? I think it could be one of his sons.”

  “No. Not him.”

  I felt a shiver. Had we been led astray? Sent to Alcielo on a fool's errand? “Was it Guy P
rendergast?”

  “Will you let me finish?”

  “Fine, finish.”

  “She said it was Perce Connaught.”

  “Perce is dead.”

  “I know. He died in the war. That's what I mean. She's still confused. Head injuries, right?”

  “Holy crap,” I said. I could almost hear the pieces clinking into place.

  “What?”

  “I think I'm starting to understand. We've been on the wrong path. Call Conn and tell him Hazel's in danger. She shouldn't be alone there, even in the hospital. Conn should light a fire under the cops in Kingston.”

  “I can go myself. I can stay with her.”

  “I need you to do some other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like confirm how Harry Jones was wounded, and in what part of Italy. Guy Prendergast mentioned that Harry Jones’ regiment was moving north through Eastern Tuscany in 1944. I didn't think much about it at the time; I don't think the RCAF would have regiments.”

  A long, loud whine echoed in the background, and Alvin raised his voice. “Squadrons, I think. Not regiments. I'll see what I can dig up online. Then I could pay a visit to the war museum. Don't hold your breath. I still haven't heard back about the other women that Violet served with.”

  I don't know if he heard my goodbye with all the racket in the background. Whatever was going on, I was better off not knowing.

  ***

  If you have promised to be good, you might as well be in Tuscany on a day that has turned out to be dry and sunny. I put on my wool pants and blazer, slipped into my loafers and picked up my sunglasses. I told our worried desk clerk that I'd be in the piazza buying a new lipstick.

  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.