by Grace Brophy
Cenni held Orlic’s gaze, making it difficult for her to look away. He said, “One of my officers spoke to the florist in Rivotorto. You purchased eight peonies on Friday. The remaining lot, twelve to be exact, was delivered to the Casati home shortly after noon on Friday. The florist also said that there were no other peonies to be had from any of the other florists around here, that these were a special order from Turkey. How is it that you now have twenty?”
Cenni wondered if he’d been too quick to reveal what he knew about the peonies, but his doubt disappeared as he watched her hands clench. The only chance of obtaining the truth from Orlic was to confront her.
“The countess brought me twelve peonies on Friday afternoon. Only eight of those are mine,” she said, nodding to the arrangement on the dresser. “I forgot to mention it. The countess asked that I use her peonies in the Easter arrangement that I was preparing for the family vault. I had them with me on Saturday, in one of my flower baskets, as you may remember,” she said boldly. “Since then the vault’s been sealed, so I put the countess’s peonies in a vase with my own flowers. Simple enough,” she said smugly.
“Not simple at all, Signora,” Cenni replied. “The countess gave a sworn statement to me on Saturday that she didn’t leave the house until seven, and then only when she went with her husband to view the procession in the Piazza del Comune.”
The Croatian returned his gaze steadily. How was it possible that he’d ever imagined, even briefly, that she might be dull-witted? She had the intelligence and instincts of a world-class midfielder.
“Signora, again! How did you come to possess twenty peonies?”
“As I just told you! The countess brought them to me on Friday— at about four or five o’clock—I can’t say for sure.” She hesitated before speaking again. “Perhaps she’s forgotten. More likely, though, she’s afraid of the police, the way we all are. Or should be. Ask her again!” she said.
11
IT WAS NOW 5:15 and Cenni was standing outside the San Giacoma gate waiting for his driver to pick him up. The interrogation of Sophie Orlic had not gone well, and Cenni was embarrassed that it had taken place in front of Sergeant Antolini. He had permitted a woman—even worse, one not suckled on Dante—to best him, and not just about the peonies. He had tackled Orlic on a number of inconsistencies:
Question: “The previous week’s flowers, what happened to them? The vases in the Casati vault were empty when Minelli’s body was found.”
Answer: “How should I know? Lots of people have keys to the vault. Anyone could have removed them, even the American.”
Question: “Why didn’t you mention the missing flowers during your interview on Saturday?”
Answer: “You didn’t ask, and I had other things to think about.”
Question: “You deposited eight hundred euros in cash in your bank account on Friday evening. That’s a lot of cash. Where did you get it?”
Answer: “Most of my clients pay me in cash. I hold the money in my apartment until I have enough to make one large deposit. The banks charge each time you use the ATM.”
Question: “We’ve had two men with metal detectors combing the cemetery looking for the key you lost. They found nothing. Again, where did you drop the key?”
Answer: “I found it earlier today. It slipped through a small hole in the lining of my pocket. Would you like to see it?”
Question: “Our forensic team found your fingerprint inside Minelli’s billfold. You said on Saturday that you didn’t touch anything inside her purse.” This final accusation caused a slight, barely perceptible change in her affect. She swallowed before responding. But, as always, she offered the best possible answer. “They’re mistaken. I never touched her wallet.” She refused to budge from this last assertion.
He could have browbeaten Sophie Orlic into a confession, if not for murder than for something: theft, accessory, interference, lying (that would really give the Italian press a hoot— Arrested for lying to the police!). There were far too many inconsistencies in her story—stories! But he hadn’t the heart to bully a woman with her tragic history. And he still believed that she was innocent of Minelli’s murder. Covering up for the countess perhaps, or someone else in the family. Someone had given her the peonies. Just that morning, Carlo had accused him of being soft on criminals. Perhaps there was some truth in that, although he still had the best conviction record in the questura. Grilling suspects into making confessions was more in Fulvio Russo’s line. His convictions came from painstaking detective work.
The car pulled up and he slid into the back seat. He leaned back warily, closing his eyes. His headache was back. Tomorrow he’d have to decide how to handle the problem of Orlic’s print on Minelli’s wallet. Right now, he was due back at the questura for two more interviews—Paola Casati and her well-connected boyfriend. Montoni, now there’s someone I’d enjoy grilling into a confession, he thought, as the car moved silently down the country lane on its way to Perugia.
12
“WHY DID YOU buy the peonies?” the commissario had asked her, looking around the shabby room in amazement, as if she could have no appreciation of flowers beyond the money they brought in. What did he know of her life before Assisi? What did any of them know? Her beautiful home with its highly polished furniture and sage green wall-to-wall carpeting, a woman to help her with the cooking and cleaning, a wild-flower garden that had been featured in two magazines. A lifetime, destroyed in a few hours.
Even the countess, who referred to her as My dear friend, treated Sophie like a servant. Sophie, be a dear, carry this upstairs. Sophie, hand me my glasses, there, dear, right next to the sofa. Sophie, you ironed a crease in that sleeve. Would you mind reironing it, dear? The count is so particular about his shirts. Sophie, dear, what would we ever do without you? The countess had discovered very quickly, not even two weeks after her mother-in-law’s death, that she (and her husband) did very well without Sophie.
On Friday morning, at the wholesale florist in Rivotorto, Sophie had met two women from Assisi, friends of the countess. They had addressed her with great respect—Signora Orlic this, Signora Orlic that—which Sophie knew was not usual from women in their position toward women in hers, women from Eastern Europe who cleaned their houses. Sophie was confident from the way they had praised her flower arrangements that they would soon become clients. A good sign! Sophie was always on the lookout for signs.
And then she caught sight of the peonies, blossoms of true red that shaded softly at the tips to a delicate strawberry color. The single row of wide cup-shaped petals appeared exquisitely fragile against the flower’s green foliage. She couldn’t see the centers but she knew they were the deep yellow of Sicilian lemons. They were behind the back counter, in the small refrigerator where the florist stored his special orders, out-of-season blossoms that he imported from Turkey for his wealthier patrons. Sophie had never purchased any flowers from that refrigerator. The cost of even one flower was dearer than six of most other varieties. But as soon as she had spied the peonies, she knew that she had to have them. It was the very flower that Sergio had picked when he’d made love to her for the first time.
The florist said he was very sorry but that Countess Casati had a standing order for any peonies that came his way. “I rarely get peonies of this quality, Signora, and the countess would be gravely offended if I sold them to you.” But after Sophie had offered double the asking price, he agreed to sell her eight of the twenty that he had in stock. “You’re one of my best customers,” he added, as he wrapped the flowers in tissue paper and handed her a receipt for forty-eight euros, her food allowance for two weeks.
The first time that she and Sergio had picked a peony peregrina, her grandmother had warned her that it was a flower sacred to the wood gods. And now there were twenty of them wilting on her dresser. What could she expect!
13
THE INTERVIEW WITH Paola Casati had gone exceedingly well. Piero had found her at a little after 4:00 PM sitting i
n the Bar Sensi, at one of the back tables by herself, smoking, drinking coffee, and staring off into space. She hadn’t protested in the least when Piero told her that the commissario would like to have a word with her. “Came along like a little lamb,” Piero said. And no members of her family had been around to protest on the lamb’s behalf. Cenni knew he’d have another morning visit from the questore if her grandfather found out, but he trusted Paola. From what she’d told him, she and her grandfather did not get on. Cenni had asked her not to talk to anyone, particularly not to her grand-father about their little talk. “Forget about it,” he’d cautioned her, “I know I will.” Paola was the only Casati he liked; he hoped it could stay that way.
Cenni almost always felt guilty when suspects, even the ones he didn’t like, were too easy to manipulate, perhaps because he hated taking unfair advantage. The police always went into the game with a two-goal lead. He disliked even more the inevitable role of bully, despite knowing that a good part of the job required exactly that, bullying the public into behaving itself. But with Paola Casati none of the usual tactics had been required: no promises, no threats, no charm. “Tell me about McDonald’s,” he had led off, and she had followed with a full confession.
“I swear, Dottore, I had no idea that anyone was inside. I asked Guilio repeatedly what time the last of the staff left. He swore to me—to all of us—that there was never anyone inside after midnight. I don’t think he even checked!” she cried, weeping down the front of her jacket. He gave her his handkerchief, which she had used to wipe her eyes and nose before conscientiously returning it to him, holding it out by its dry hem. He dropped it into the trash when she wasn’t looking and handed her a roll of paper towels that the cleaning people had left on top of the file cabinet.
“She was younger than me, by a whole year,” she cried. “She must have suffered horribly! Burns over ninety percent of her body. It’ll haunt me forever.” Cenni knew she’d forget soon enough, but he didn’t tell her that.
“Seven brothers and sisters. She sent money home every month. I wanted to send them money, but my grandfather wouldn’t let me. He says I must forget that it happened. You mustn’t talk about it, ever, to anyone! You’re worse than your mother! He yelled at me my first night at home.” She looked up at Cenni with soulful eyes. “My parents killed themselves and an old woman who lived below them, while making a bomb. I was only two at the time. My grandfather still blames my mother.”
Cenni had agreed with her—reparation must be made and the best reparation was to send money to the girl’s family—but anonymously, he had urged. “Spending five or ten years in prison won’t help the seven brothers and sisters, and it won’t bring her back. Atonement is better than punishment.” He had been rather amazed at his capacity for sopping up tears and casting forth aphorisms. She had insisted on making a statement, even if he would never use it. It would soothe her battered soul, she’d said. The little lamb had a distinct flair for the melodramatic.
Concerning the murder of Rita, Paola insisted that what she’d told the police on Saturday was the truth, except that she wasn’t alone during her walk, she was with Guilio Montoni. At the end of their walk, close to five, they had stopped for a coffee at a café at the top of Assisi and, afterward, they’d gone in his car to the top of Mount Subascio, where he’d wanted to have sex and she’d wanted to talk. They had a huge blow-up, which ended with her returning his ring. Maybe because they were making so much noise, a family of wild boar had attacked the car. Guilio had never seen cinghiale before. He’d been scared to death and furious at the same time—they broke the radiator of his Porsche. A park ranger heard the noise and helped Paola to chase them off. “Three of them were babies, still spotted,” she said, smiling through her tears. After they’d made a statement to the ranger, they drove back to Assisi and Guilio took his car to the garage below Santa Chiara for repair. It was already five minutes to 7:00, and she went directly to the Piazza to wait for her grandparents.
She added that Giulio had called her the following day— Saturday about noon—when he’d heard about Rita’s murder. He wanted to see her but she had refused. She never wanted to see him again! She had no idea where Giulio was between 7:00 and 8:00 on Good Friday, but she very much doubted that he’d visited the cemetery or that he could have killed Rita. “Wouldn’t have the nerve,” she said scornfully. “Besides he didn’t even know what she looked like.”
Candy from a baby, Cenni said to himself after Paola Casati had signed her statement and left. Not even that. He doubted that a robust one-year-old would let go of a sweet as quickly as Paola Casati had stammered out a full confession. Guilt is a policeman’s best friend, he reminded himself, and smiled at his own banality. He patted the signed statement that he had in his pocket with some satisfaction. Obtained illegally, and not for use against the impetuous Paola, but it might have its uses!
And now to the boyfriend (scusi, Paola, ex-boyfriend), Cenni said to himself as he walked down the deserted hallway toward the interrogation room. Guilio Montoni had bragged, yelled, threatened, bleated, whined, and wept, catalogued in that order in the report that Elena had handed to him over an hour ago, shortly after she had delivered Montoni to the police station in Perugia. He’d had an hour alone in the interrogation room to think and sweat. With any luck, he was scared shitless by now.
He wouldn’t lead off with McDonald’s. Montoni would know that a commissario stationed in the Perugia Questura would have nothing to do with the Rome investigation. Cenni was strongly inclined to agree with Paola that Montoni was not involved in Minelli’s death. He was certain that Minelli had been killed before seven o’clock, and probably before sunset, which on Good Friday was at 6:32. According to Paola, Montoni had been with her between 4:00 and 7:00.
Guilio Montoni might walk away from this one, as he had in Rome, but the least Cenni could do was send a message to the Minister of the Interior that Perugia was not now and never would be the PM’s territory. It appeared from what Montoni had told Paola on Good Friday that he had planned the McDonald’s bombing to shock his parents into noticing him and not in support of any political belief, although bombing a McDonald’s for political belief was beyond Cenni’s comprehension. If McDonald’s and fast food had become the symbol of a world going to hell, then the world had better get on with it as there was little chance at this point of changing direction.
The young man sitting in the interrogation room bore no resemblance to the punk described by the café owner to Piero. The blonde swathe of hair was gone, dyed back to its natural color, over the weekend no doubt, after Montoni had heard about the American’s murder. He had gotten rid of the lip ring as well, which was a good thing as he was chewing rather vigorously on his bottom lip when Cenni entered the room. The boy’s nerves were shot. It would have served him better to let Cenni begin, but his arrogance, which seemed to be his telling characteristic, took over.
“Do you know who I am?” he started off, as he had with Elena, his rich and very important parents his first and last defense, and offense.
“Certo. You’re the son of the Minister of the Interior. Now let’s get down to this business of murder and where you were on Good Friday.”
14
A COLD BEER would go a long way to improving his foul mood, Alex decided as he rummaged through the refrigerator. But his mother had been visiting again. Nothing but yogurt, orange juice—the red kind that he hated—and aqua gazzata. Damn Maria! He’d have to speak to her again about hiding the key from his mother.
A long day! And for lunch, a disgustingly stale panini from one of the vending machines in the basement. It was a wonder that any of the machines were still vending. All five of them had large dents in their fronts and sides, from violent kicks, some of them his. And then, one begging telephone call after another, calling in favors, sitting on friends, two calls to Renato to remind him of his promise to use his contacts. He hated begging and understood why Minelli had despised her mother’s doctor. Cold bast
ard! was mild to what he would have called him.
None of the calls had panned out as he had hoped. The archives in Rome had no record of the Gentileschi document that he’d found in the Casati library. Artemisia was off the hook, for now! Umberto Casati’s finances had taken a leap into the black a few weeks back. Wildcatting in oil futures. Renato had gotten nowhere in his inquiries, blocked at every step, although he did confirm that Umberto Casati was Opus Dei. Be very careful, Alex, his brother had warned before hanging up.
John Costa, Minelli’s New York lawyer, had provided some interesting information. Rita had called him a week before her death asking that he draw up a new will in John Williams’s favor, disinheriting the uncle. The lawyer was sure that she had called from her uncle’s house, as he’d returned the call immediately afterward to confirm the mailing address. Anyone in the house could have listened in on the extension, Cenni reasoned. Her money was to go to Williams, unconditionally, with the request that he care for her child should anything happen to her. Alex was liking Rita more each day.
Whether Williams would ever see the money was another question. The lawyer had mailed the will to Minelli for execution but it hadn’t yet arrived, or if it had, someone had disposed of it. The lawyers would now have a go at it. It was no longer a police matter.
Of course, this gave the Canadian an additional motive for murder, but the priest who’d heard Williams’s confession on Good Friday had called Elena just that afternoon (after speaking to his superior) to acknowledge having second thoughts about what he could or could not reveal. Nothing of what Williams had confessed, he stated emphatically, but he could verify that Williams had been to confession. First in line on Good Friday, at 4:30, he had assured Elena.
The few thousands that Rita had left to a cousin in New Jersey were hardly worth killing over, not that it mattered anyway, as the cousin had never left New Jersey. And the Italian director that she’d met on the plane, the longest shot of all, had been in the hospital recovering from surgery for piles. Hardly a director anyway, just an over-the-hill film editor trying to score. Anna Magnani. Hard to believe that little Rita would have fallen for that one!
