The Last Enemy

by Grace Brophy

  Well, no matter. She still thought Piero a fool. He’ll never lose a pound, let alone twenty, and she didn’t care. But with Sergeant Antolini, he’d always be thinking about his paunch, worrying if it offended her blonde sensibilities. Elena didn’t mind his complaining, either. Most of the time she thought it rather funny, that he always had something to moan about and, really, it was mostly about his mother. More important than any of that, he was kindhearted and gentle, and even good-looking in a non-Italian sort of way, like a misplaced Irishman. Tourists were always stopping him on the street, asking him questions in English. When she’d first joined the force, he had covered up most of her mistakes, teasing her about them afterward. And he’d kept the woman-haters in the department—and there were plenty of those—off her back, particularly after the commissario had given her a coveted spot on his team. They would have been good together—she knew that—but if Antolini is what he wants, well too bad for him. She brushed her hair back from her face and stuck out her tongue. “Idiot, don’t embarrass yourself like that again,” she said to the woman in the mirror, and went back to work.

  20

  “DO YOU THINK Italians are liars?”

  Alex looked up quizzically. He was eating a shrimp and egg tramezzini. “Why?”

  “There’s a survey here in the paper. It says fifty percent of Italians are liars.”

  “Does this question have a philosophical or a personal basis?”

  “Both, I guess. Genine said on Easter Sunday that she liked me a lot. She said she was going to introduce me to her mother. And today when I asked her out for Saturday night, she said it’s impossible, that she has a family birthday to go to. It says right here in La Repubblica that sixty-five percent of Italians think it’s okay, even necessary, to lie to family and friends, and particularly to lovers.”

  “Must be true. Says so right there in La Repubblica!” Cenni responded.

  Piero said with extreme irritation, “I don’t like to think we’re a nation of liars.”

  “Would you rather be English or German? And tell people to their faces when they look terrible. Or French? And tell people to their faces when you don’t like them? You worry too much about such things. All people are liars. Italians are just better at it than most. Consider it a sign of superiority.” He pushed his half-eaten sandwich away from him. “I think they’re trying to poison me. We’d better go,” he said, making a face.

  Their waitress stopped them as they were walking out the door. “Commissario, you didn’t finish your tramezzini. Was it okay?” she asked.

  “Better than okay. Absolutely delicious! Watching my weight,” he said.

  21

  AFTERNOON TEA WAS beautifully arrayed on the rosewood pie crust table. Dainty little triangles of white bread spread with smoked salmon, almond thins, and ginger snaps—the last from the Christmas tins that her great nephew Erik had sent from Stockholm—and on the top tier of the lazy Susan, three different chocolate desserts from Pasticceria Sandri. As a special treat, at the end, they would have wild strawberries with dollops of whipped fresh cream. The berries, delicately sweet and deep red, looked quite wonderful piled high in the Chinese blue-and-white porcelain bowl. She and Renato had always served berries in that bowl; their favorites were lingonberries, which they’d loved for their tart sweetness. Renato had often compared them to her, and every year at Christmas Hanna would find a jar at the bottom of her Christmas stocking. Hanna didn’t believe in God, or an after-life, but she wished she could; she wanted so much to see Renato again. She was so lonely. Lately, she seemed to miss him even more than she had immediately after his death some forty years earlier.

  Madeleine, her housekeeper, was very secretive about her sources and wouldn’t tell Hanna where she’d found wild strawberries at the beginning of April. She had never been talkative and hated to gossip, saying it was a sin. She had become even more reticent in the last year, insisted on addressing Hanna as Signora Cenni and keeping a proper distance. She was very religious, praying even while she dusted. Hanna wondered if Madeleine felt prayers were necessary to ward off the evil of working for a woman who had lived in sin for thirty years. Hanna’s daughter-in-law also had concerns in that respect, but more for what her friends might think—or say behind her back—than any fears that her mother-in-law might burn in the fires of eternal damnation. Hanna doubted if anyone even remembered any more that she and Renato had never married. Everyone referred to her as Signora Cenni. Protesting against conventions is such a bore if no one notices, Hanna thought, and then laughed at herself.

  She drummed her fingers on the tea table, then finally picked up one of the ginger snaps and bit into it. She consulted her watch. Of course the silly woman would be late. It was ten after 4:00. Italians are always late, so she probably won’t arrive until 4:30 or worse, and Hanna was hungry. And then she heard the peal of the bell. She counted slowly to see how many seconds would pass before it rang again. Five seconds, then two more peals. Anxiety or hunger? she wondered.

  “Signora Russo, madame,” Madeleine announced lapsing into her native French, which she always thought more appropriate for social occasions.

  The woman rushed across the room before Hanna could get up. “Please, Signora Cenni,” she said, “please don’t get up,” and almost fell into Hanna’s lap in her anxiety to please.

  “Hanna,” she corrected her, with her brightest smile. Signora Russo was a silly woman, but she might like her anyway. Alex had asserted that Grazia Russo would do anything for her husband, who was a fool and a murderer, but Hanna had always preferred people who had wild passions, so much more interesting than those who wrote their lives on ruled tablets, keeping within the lines. But she had promised Alex to use her charm—“your greatest gift,” he had said with outrageous flattery— to find out where Russo was on the night of the American’s murder.

  Grazia Russo was new money, and lots of it. Her family owned the largest fish-packing business in Italy, and that was only what they told the tax collector. Her brother, now head of the family, was a member of parliament and had once been a close advisor of the PM’s. Grazia was Giorgio Zangarelli’s baby sister for whom nothing was too good. Grazia, who was neither beautiful nor ugly, tall nor short, skinny nor fat, witty nor dull, could have had her choice of husbands because of the money, might have chosen someone who liked her or even loved her. Instead, she had fallen for blond good looks and arrogant pretensions, for a northerner who looked down on Grazia’s good southern roots. “He cheats on her with every attractive woman who comes his way, laughs at her to every man who’ll listen, and she continues to protect him,” Alex had said in amazement. “I’m sure she’ll give him an alibi for the time of the murder if she thinks he’s implicated, but see what you can find out.”

  Hanna and Grazia had finished the salmon canapés—and their discussion of Grazia’s proposed gift to the Galleria Nazionale—eaten all but one each of the ginger snaps and almond thins, so as not to appear greedy, and shared the chocolate desserts, one and a half each, when Hanna finally got around to talking about the murder. She began with the usual exclamations of horror, and glee! Gruesome, frightening, terrible to be alone with murderers on the loose, rape, no woman safe in her own bed. Hanna was eighty-eight and wondered if perhaps she had gone too far on the last one. And then she did go too far. She told Grazia that it was just by sheer luck that she’d not visited the Assisi cemetery on Good Friday, where she had wanted to copy some tombstone legends for a new book she was writing on the Etruscans, forgetting for the moment that her frailties alone would give the lie to her last statement.

  “That’s strange!” Grazia said puzzled, helping herself to another dollop of cream. “I always thought the Etruscans hadn’t ventured any farther east than Perugia and that the Assisi cemetery is relatively recent, dating from the seventeen hundreds!”

  How embarrassing! Grazia seemed to know things, Hanna realized.

  “É vero, Grazia. But some scholars contend that the cemetery
is built over an older burial site, and the Etruscans were a very difficult people, you know. They never could stay put!”

  Grazia looked at Hanna, blinked, and attempted to swallow the last mouthful of whipped cream that she’d been savoring, but couldn’t quite contain it. She burst out laughing and some of the cream landed in Hanna’s lap. It cemented their burgeoning friendship.

  After the cream cleanup, Grazia looked at her watch. “Oh I really must go, Hanna. It’s nearly six.”

  Hanna asked if she had to be at home to get her husband’s dinner, and Grazia responded sheepishly that he was working on a murder case and wouldn’t be home until late. She lowered her eyes for a moment, gulped, and then proceeded to tell Hanna very straightforwardly, without any beating of the breast—Hanna hated breast-beaters—that her husband rarely came home to eat: only on Sundays, when her brother Giorgio came to dinner.

  Hanna interrupted her for a moment to ring for Madeleine, using the little silver bell that Madeleine insisted was the only proper way to get her attention.

  “Madame, shall I bring the Signora’s coat?” Madeleine asked. Signora Russo was still comfortably settled in her chair and it was well past teatime.

  “A bottle of Prosecco, Madeleine, and two flute glasses, the red ones from Murano, I think.”

  “But madame, the dottore said. . . .”

  “We have a guest, Madeleine,” Hanna interrupted. “Signora Russo would like some Prosecco!”

  22

  THE COLD CUT into her exposed flesh and she thought longingly of the sitting room fire below. Umberto hated high heating bills. Even on frigid days, he insisted that she set the temperature no higher than sixty-eight. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring transfixed at the thermostat. Just this once, she thought, getting up. Perched once again on the bed, she smoothed the chenille counterpane, poured herself another glass of wine, and waited for the sounds of water guzzling in the pipes, and the warmth to follow. Seventy-five degrees; he’d have a conniption! She picked up the pillbox that Camillo had given her, his last gift, and fingered its delicate ornamentation, a filigree of silver snowflakes. She opened it again and closed it immediately. The number of sleeping pills would be the same as before: twelve.

  Her throat tightened. O God, let me cry, she prayed, but the tears wouldn’t come. Just an overwhelming ache of sadness. God had been merciful to Rita, more merciful than to her. Her niece had died happy, looking forward to motherhood. She’d had all of the joy and none of the sorrow. Imagine a woman of Rita’s age trying to raise a child alone in Italy. What could she have been thinking? It would have been dreadful. Unforgiving stares, repressed snickers, open snubs! Italians don’t like non-conformity. Rita was saved from all that and worse. The child might have died before its mother, as her Camillo had done. Rita was better off now.

  Her niece’s furious rage had come upon Amelia without warning. Month after month, Rita had placidly accepted Umberto’s harsh sarcasm, Artemisia’s cruel mockeries, never responding. She could have stopped them, Amelia admitted to herself. But if she had, Artemisia would have turned on her, so she had let them be. After several months of viewing such torture, Amelia had concluded that Rita was morbidly dull, that she didn’t understand or even care how much she was despised. But she had been wrong. Rita had cared.

  What caused her to strike out at Rita? She had tried repeatedly since Good Friday to remember the exact sequence of events, to record the day’s happenings in some order, to write it all down for Umberto, and the police. Her head ached with trying, but it was still just a jumble of words and accusations. It had begun years ago, this wreckage of her brain, this piling up of detritus, and ended on Good Friday when Dottor Saldelli confirmed what she already knew.

  The burned soufflé was what finally pushed her to consult the doctor. The dinner had been so important to Umberto. Giorgio Zangarelli, multimillionaire many times over, member of parliament, former adviser to the PM, was their guest. Umberto was helping the swarthy Calabrian to research his history, to discover his family’s patrician roots. Zangarelli was determined to become a Knight of Malta and was willing to pay—or do—whatever was necessary to make it happen. And in return, Zangarelli was helping Umberto with his investments. Amelia had begged Umberto not to intercede on Zangarelli’s behalf, not to dishonor their name by supporting Zangarelli in his ridiculous pretensions. “Just because he’s rich, he acts like our equal. We can sell the Sisley if we need money that badly. It’s worth at least a million,” she had proposed.

  “Money is what counts and a million is pocket change. Next to money, all the rest—name, titles, honors—are just trimmings,” he had responded, ignoring her advice as he always did.

  The night of the dinner, of Zangarelli’s introduction to the Hospitallers of Umbria, Umberto had bragged, rather ostentatiously Amelia thought, about her skill in the kitchen. Always the aristocrat, he had laughed it off when Lucia had served supermarket ice cream instead of chocolate soufflé, but for days afterward Amelia had endured his biting comments. He had even accused her of being slovenly. That had hurt more than anything. “House proud,” was how her mother had once described Amelia.

  Ten long years her mother had cared for her father, ten torturous years after the first whispers of Alzheimer’s, as a brilliant, witty mathematician turned into a garrulous child. And now it was the daughter’s turn. Dottor Saldelli had offered Amelia hope, explaining carefully and slowly—too slowly, already speaking as though to a child—about fetal research, new drugs. But what could he know of the torment in store for her family, for Paola . . . for Umberto? Dearest Umberto, who had absolutely no patience. And Artemisia, how would she treat a mother with Alzheimer’s? The thought of her daughter’s reaction terrified her.

  Friday, after lunch in the sitting room, thinking about the future—unbearable to contemplate—she had decided at a little after 4:00 to take the peonies that the florist had delivered earlier in the day to the cemetery. Camillo had so loved valerian pink peonies. “More English than the rose, more English even than my mother,” he had said of them laughingly. Don’t think about Camillo, not yet, she told herself. Concentrate, think of what I should write in the letter first. She closed the filigreed box. It must be perfect, no mistakes.

  I walked quickly through the deserted streets, out Porta San Giacomo and down the cemetery road, through the iron gates that were still unlocked. I removed the roses and threw them into the nearest dumpster before refilling the vases with water from the chapel fountain. When I returned, I found Rita inside, placing a statue of the Virgin—a horrid cheap thing—on Camillo’s altar. I snatched it up and we traded insults, two grown women! Then out of nowhere, Rita said she was pregnant, that she was planning to marry John Williams. She made outrageous claims. The house, our house—seven hundred years in the family—belonged to her; we would have to leave. She had a will that proved her claim. I laughed. It was one of those apocryphal wills that Anna scribbled whenever she was angry at one of us. Remember how we laughed when we found seven of them hidden throughout the house after her death.

  She put down her pen and took another sip of wine. I shouldn’t have laughed, she thought. Rita had had a screaming fit and accused Artemisia of plagiarizing the ideas in her book from a manuscript in the library. And then she accused Paola of being a terrorist, a murderer. Paola would go to prison, she threatened.

  After the humiliations that they had endured, catering to that upstart Zangarelli to save Paola. No, she mustn’t write any of that about Paola . . . or Artemisia. That’s not for the police to know. Mentioning the will is okay though. Thanks to Lucia, everyone in Assisi knew about Anna’s wills. She continued writing.

  I must have struck Rita with the statue. I was holding it in my right hand and Rita was lying face-down on the vault floor. I dropped it and tried to turn her over but I couldn’t. My hands shook so. There was just one tiny drop of blood on the step. I ran for help to the front gates but they were locked. I cried out, but no one came. I let mysel
f out the side gate with my key and walked back to Assisi as quickly as I could. When I came through Porta San Giacomo, I rang Sophie’s bell. I told Sophie everything, even that Rita was pregnant. Sophie insisted that Rita couldn’t be dead; she said she was probably just stunned. She insisted on going back by herself. Stay in the flat, she said. Don’t talk to anyone until I return! Umberto, I couldn’t stop shaking.

  But Rita wasn’t stunned, she was dead. When Sophie told me, I wanted to call you immediately, but Sophie said I mustn’t, that I would go to prison. She had taken care of everything; the police would never know. She even returned with the peonies. They were my excuse for being outside the house. Tell the police you left home to bring the peonies to me, Sophie said. But it all went horribly wrong, and it was my fault. I didn’t see anyone, coming or going, so I thought it would be safer to tell the police that I had been home all afternoon. It all became so complicated, Umberto. Dottor Cenni told me yesterday that he will arrest Sophie, and this morning I heard Fulvio tell you the same thing. I listened at the door, just like Lucia!

  Amelia read through what she had written. It rambled on so. Suicide notes were short and to the point. Forgive me, darling. I love you. Remember me always—something like that, but how else were the police to know what had happened? She owed it to Sophie to tell them, but not those things about Paola and Artemisia. Those she would keep to herself.