“And you don’t think what I’ve been telling you is solid enough.”
“Well, let me ask it this way. How sure are you about what you’ve been saying?”
“About which part?”
“About the weird part; that the fall came first, that she was already dead before she was shot.”
“Well—”
“No fancy explanations, no lectures.”
“No mumbo jumbo,” Gideon said with a smile.
“Right. Just how sure are you? Say on a scale of one to ten.”
“Come on, John, I can’t do that. Look, when I say that if you’re conscious when you fall, you’re going to land on your feet, I’m making a generalization. You realize that, don’t you? I don’t know that it works that way every single time. How could I know? How could anyone? And even when we say that a bullet traveling through the middle of the brain always produces instant loss of consciousness, how could we possibly know something like that for a certainty? And when we say—”
John tossed back his prosecco in a single impatient gulp. “Goddamn it, it never fails. It’s exactly what my boss says about you. You come on the scene, you throw a monkey wrench into everything, but then, when we want to act on it, the first thing you do is cover your rear end. ‘Gosh almighty, folks, I’m just making a generalization here, don’t hold me to it.’”
“That’s not fair, John. I can tell you what I find and what I conclude from it. I can’t tell you what I don’t know. I’m not going to make stuff up.”
John shrugged. “Okay then, tell me what you do know. What are the statistics? What percentage of conscious people land on their feet, and what percentage don’t? Because you can damn well bet it’s gonna get asked in an Italian court if this ever gets there, so give me some figures. Something Rocco can work with.”
“John, you can’t—”
“You don’t have any percentages, do you? There aren’t any, are there?”
Gideon leaned back with a sigh. “Boy, in your next career, you know what you ought to be? A defense lawyer. You sound like the kind of gorilla-for-hire that comes after me in cross-examinations. ‘Can you tell the jury, Doctor Oliver, exactly what percentage of proximal tibial epiphyseal unions are complete by age twenty-two and one half among Hispanic females with one non-Hispanic maternal grandparent, as compared to that among Hispanic females with—’”
John cracked a smile. “Okay, okay, but seriously, are there any statistics? I’m just asking you: do you think Rocco should go back and stir this kettle up again unless you’re pretty sure it needs it? I mean, even if he reopens it and it goes nowhere—especially if it goes nowhere—he’ll still have a bunch of important people ticked off at him.”
“Let me put it this way—”
“Statistics,” John demanded.
With a sigh, Gideon leaned back in his chair. John had a point, but what he wasn’t taking into account was that forensics didn’t have the advantages of the experimental sciences. You couldn’t push a thousand conscious people off a cliff to see how they landed, and then shove a thousand more unconscious ones over the edge to find out how the two groups compared. All you had to work with were the suicides, murders, and accidents that happened on their own, without your help—and of those, only the ones that happened to come your way or happened to get written up, which the great, great majority of them didn’t. And even in those you were familiar with, you could only rarely be certain that a supposed suicide really was a suicide, or an accident an accident. Not after the fact.
Bruno returned with another basket of coccolini and even two more proseccos (without additional cost, presumably). John happily busied himself with them.
True, Gideon thought, there were experiments in which dummies or pig cadavers had been dropped from cranes, and those were instructive, but dummies, even anthropomorphic ones with weight distributions precisely like people’s, weren’t people. The upshot was that your forensic conclusions were often grounded on a shockingly small database, a compilation of your own experiences and those of a few others, along with an intuition that (you hoped) was based on years of subliminal information-processing But there wasn’t any point in going through all the ifs, buts, and maybes with John, who’d heard it all before anyway. “If what you’re asking me is, could I prove, to the certain satisfaction of a judge and jury, that she was still alive when she fell, still conscious, then my answer has to be no. Nobody could prove it because it’s unprovable one way or the other. Do I believe she was? Yes, definitely, and I’ve got some decent scientific backing for my opinion. But would I bet my life on it? No way.”
John shook his head. “Oh, that’s just great.”
Gideon pondered for a moment longer, gaze turned inward, finger to his lips. “Your life, maybe.”
That won a laugh from John. “Okay, so what do you think? Is there enough there to suggest that maybe this was a double murder, not a murder-suicide? Or let me put it this way: if it were you, would you push the buttons to get the case reopened? Considering that, if it didn’t come to anything, you’d be in the doghouse for the next five years.”
Gideon leaned back. “Well, before I did, what I’d really want would be to have a look at the other skeleton, the husband’s skeleton. See if it’s got anything to say for itself. But—”
“Rocco said it’d been cremated.”
“That’s right, he did. But wait a minute.” He put down the prosecco he’d been sipping. “There’s bound to be a report of some kind from the medico: an autopsy or something like it.”
“An autopsy of a bunch of bones? Be pretty short, wouldn’t it?”
“Probably, but you never know what you might find. You know, I think I’ll ask Rocco if he can send me a copy.” He searched for and found Rocco’s card and flipped his cell phone open.
As he began to dial, the sound of a welcome voice floated over his shoulder. “Well, you two weren’t very hard to find. We just followed the words ‘skeleton’ and ‘murder,’ and here you are.” She grinned at the woman standing next to her. “Do we know our husbands or don’t we?”
Gideon looked up laughing, but with a catch in his throat too. It was ridiculous, really; almost a decade of marriage, and the unanticipated sound of Julie’s voice, the sight of a smile—just for him—on that lovely face, still squeezed his heart and sent a surge of gratitude for his good fortune through him. He jumped up.
“Julie, hi! Marti, how’s it going? How was your day? Did you make it to the Bargello?”
The Museo Nazionale del Bargello was one of Florence’s smaller art museums and a little out of the way, but a real gem, housed in an especially beautiful fourteenth-century palazzo, with airy, high-ceilinged, evocative old chambers and sculptures by the likes of Michelangelo, Donatello, and Cellini. Best of all, unlike the perpetually jam-packed Uffizi, there was plenty of room to wander, and no need to elbow anybody out of the way to get close to the art. It was Gideon’s and Julie’s favorite museum in Florence, and Julie had been looking forward to showing it to Marti.
“Oh, we got there, all right,” Julie said.
“All the way to the door,” Marti put in. “Which was closed, and on which a little sign was pasted. In English, sort of: Museum close, becowse on strike.”
“Too bad. Will it be open tomorrow? We’ll still be here in the morning.”
“That information,” Marti said, “was not forthcoming.”
“But we did get to the Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens,” Julie said, “so, all in all, it was a good day.”
John gestured to the two unoccupied chairs. “So, join us. We promise, no more talk about skeletons and murders.”
Marti began to sit down, but Julie stopped her. “I wouldn’t count on that, Marti. I’m looking forward to a nice, long, two-hour Italian dinner, and I don’t know about John, but I doubt that Gideon can go that long without skeletons creeping into the conversation. Let’s go freshen up and let them get it out of their systems.”
“No, really
—” Gideon said.
Marti shook her head. “Nup, Julie’s right. You two were right in the middle of something. At least finish that. Anyway, I need a touch-up. We’ve been out all day.”
“Well, I might as well finish getting that call to Rocco out of the way, then,” Gideon said as the women left in search of the restroom. “Shouldn’t take long.”
Rocco picked up at once. “Pronto.”
“Rocco, it’s Gideon.”
“Hello, Gid. Look, we’re just about to eat. Could I maybe call you a little later?”
“Sure, but this’ll just take a second. I’d really like to have a look at any medical reports that were made on the husband’s skeleton. Would it be possible for you to e-mail me copies down in Figline Valdarno?”
“Yeah, it’d be possible, but it’d take about a year to get the clearance to do it. If you could come back into Florence, you can look at them here.”
“Can’t. Class until one, and then we head straight for Figline. How about the day after?
“Thursday’s not so good for me, I’m kind of tied up. Unless you could be here before things start, say eight o’clock?”
“Will do. I’ll be there at eight A.M. sharp. I expect John’ll be there too.” He threw an inquiring glance at John, who responded with a shocked “Eight A.M., as in eight o’clock in the morning?” John was not known as an early riser. “Are you kidding me?”
“He says he’s greatly looking forward to it,” Gideon said. “Where do we come?”
“Regional headquarters. Borgo Ognissanti 48. It’s not that far from Santa Maria Novella, not even a ten-minute walk.”
“Thanks, Rocco, see you Thursday. Sorry about interrupting your dinner.”
“No problem,” Rocco said, and then, mostly to himself: “Just let me jot this down. P. Cubbiddu report for—”
Startled, Gideon jerked upright. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything. What’d you think I said?”
“Cubbiddu.”
“Oh. Yeah. I know, it’s a weird name—Sardinian. These people—”
“We know these people,” said Gideon. “We know these people. That’s where we’re going tomorrow, to the winery, to Villa Antica. That’s how come I know Figline Valdarno.”
“You’re kidding me! Why didn’t tell me that before?”
“Now, how could I tell you that when you never told us—”
“Okay, okay, you’re right, but how do you come to know them? Oh, jeez, I really gotta go. I’m gonna get my head handed to me if the food gets any colder. Tell me about it later.” And he was gone.
Marti and Julie had returned while Gideon was on the phone.
“Who were you talking about the Cubbiddus to?” Julie asked as she took her seat.
“Rocco Gardella. A lieutenant in the Carabinieri.”
“A carabiniere? Has something happened in the case? Have they found them?”
“Yes, both of them, Pietro and Nola. Their bodies.”
They waited for more, but Gideon just sat there, abstracted, hands steepled in front of his mouth, and it was John who had to fill them in on the afternoon’s events.
Julie had been watching her husband. “Gideon? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing, really, it’s just . . . well, it’s kind of . . . I don’t know, disconcerting . . . disturbing . . . to suddenly find out that the bones you’ve been handling so casually and treating like . . . like specimens of some kind, belonged to someone you know, a person you’ve talked to and dined with. It just brings you up short.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. Just a brief funk.”
Julie nodded her understanding. “I know.” She waited a moment for him to come all the way out of it. “Gideon, why do you suppose Linda didn’t even let us know they’d been found?”
She was referring to Linda Rutledge, an old friend of theirs who was married to the middle son, Luca Cubbiddu, and who was the reason the four of them were heading down to Figline Valdarno the next day to spend the rest of the week at the Villa Antica.
“Well, the investigation was wrapped up only a few days ago. We’re not really that close to them, and I guess she figured it could wait until she saw us. After all, it’s not as if anybody thought they could still be alive after all this time.”
Bruno showed up with a fresh basket of coccolini and two proseccos for the newcomers, and menus for all. The arrival of two attractive women at his table had brought a fresh smile to his face. “Complimenti della casa,” he announced, with a far deeper bow than he’d given Gideon and John. Even his voice was a richer, more seductive purr. With a flourish he peeled back the checkered cloth like a magician revealing a wonderful surprise. “Coccolini.” And waited for his applause.
Julie accommodated him. “Mm,” she said, trying one. “Meraviglioso.”
Bruno dipped his chin in gratitude and backed away a few steps before turning and going into the kitchen. Naturally enough, Marti wouldn’t touch, let alone eat, anything deep-fried, but—thank goodness—she wasn’t one of those people who went out of her way to make you feel guilty for indulging. She simply ignored them. She sipped her prosecco, though. With wine she had no quarrel.
There were more questions now, and when Bruno showed up again to take their orders, John and Gideon were still explaining. Not having had an opportunity to examine the menus, they asked Bruno for his recommendations. Julie and Gideon took them: the antipasto platter, followed by ravioli stuffed with porcini mushrooms and black truffles, and then veal chops with roasted cherry tomatoes. And a liter of the house red, a Carmignano rosso from nearby Brucianesi. No dessert. Gideon then interpreted for Marti, whose hold on Italian was even shakier than John’s. Tuscany, of course, is justly famous for its beef and meat dishes, so finding something for her on the menu wasn’t easy.
He requested the minestrone for her, a dinner-sized portion. Bruno nodded, writing on his pad. He approved, but not wildly.
“But can she get it made with vegetable stock, not chicken stock?” Julie asked in Italian.
Bruno was shocked. “Ma certamente non!” But then he got it. He gestured at Marti. “Ah, vegetariana?”
She responded with a vigorous nod. “Si.”
He waved a magnanimous hand. All would be well. “I take care of. You leave to me. You will like very much.”
“Thank you, Bruno. That sounds wonderful. Mera . . . meraviglioso.” She expressed no reservations or caveats about salt or fat. When dining out, she very sensibly allowed herself considerable leeway.
Bruno, pleased, turned to John. “Signore?” He tried a little levity. “Sorry, no more Chicken McNug’, ha-ha.”
“Ha-ha,” said John.
Gideon knew that John was longing to try Florence’s famous bistecca alla fiorentina, a reliably gigantic slab of prime porterhouse served ultra-rare and usually simply flavored; nothing more than salt, olive oil, or butter, and perhaps a little rosemary or lemon. But with Marti there, even though she would make no comment, it would dent his pleasure with a tinge of guilt. “I’ll have what they’re having,” he said, making his request clear by gesturing at Julie and Gideon.
As Bruno, pleased with his tableful of americana after all, hurried to the kitchen to place the orders, Gideon’s cell phone emitted its soft bip-bip, the least intrusive sound he could find on its ringtone menu. When he opened it, Rocco was at the other end. “Hey, Gid, I was thinking more about all this. You said you’re going to be spending some time with the Cubbiddus the next couple of days?”
“Right. We’ll be staying with them till Sunday.”
“Well, look, let’s keep all this stuff to ourselves for now, okay? I think it’d be better if they didn’t know about these questions that have come up. In fact, I think it’d be better if nobody knew.”
“If you mean our wives, I’m afraid you’re a little late.”
“Well, tell them to shut up about it too if they know what’s good for them.”
“Oh, right. We’ll do just that.
”
“Slap ’em around a little if they don’t like it.”
“Yeah, right, excellent idea, I’ll make a note of that.” He closed the phone and slipped it into a pocket. “Rocco’s asked us not to mention any of this to the Cubbiddus.”
“He’s planning on reopening the case, then?” John asked.
“Thinking about it, I guess. He didn’t say.”
Bruno returned with the wine and poured a little for everyone. They clinked glasses and settled back.
“You know, I think I’m going to give Linda a quick call while we wait,” Julie said, clicking buttons on her own phone.
“But—” Gideon began.
“No, not to talk about Pietro and Nola, just to touch base and make sure we’re all still expected. What with the bodies having just been found, and this police determination of murder-suicide . . . Linda?” she chirped. “Hi, this is Julie. . . .”
Linda Rutledge was their connection to Villa Antica and to the Cubbiddu clan. Julie and Linda had met more than a decade earlier when they were both nineteen-year-old students enrolled in culinary arts programs. (Linda had been interested in wine and food even then; Julie had been going through a hotel-management phase before switching to a multidisciplinary degree program in wildlife studies, psychology, and national-park management.) To cut costs they’d shared a hotel room at a hospitality-industry exposition in Chicago and had become fast friends, a relationship that continued even after Julie married and Linda remained single. A couple of times a year, Linda had flown from her home in Tennessee to spend a few days with the Olivers, and every once in a while, Julie had returned the favor to go on some kind of brief jaunt with her old friend, who was by then the food and beverage director at a big Memphis hotel.
Then, a few years ago, Linda had met two of the Cubbiddu sons—Luca and Nico—at a winery conference in Basel. Luca and Linda had fallen head over heels in love, and six months later she was married and living happily with her husband in Tuscany, in one of the spacious “noble apartments” of Villa Antica. Since then, Julie had heard less from her, but a year ago, when she and Gideon were on an Italian vacation, they’d accepted her invitation to visit her there; it had been only a month or so before Pietro and Nola’s disappearance. Expecting to stay only overnight, they’d wound up canceling their other reservations and remaining for a week. They’d gotten to know and like Luca, and they’d met the others at the mandatory (by order of Pietro) daily family luncheons; noisy, spirited repasts of five or six courses, mostly simple, hearty Sardinian or Italian fare built around a main dish of spit-roasted rabbit, goat, or lamb that had been turning over a charcoal fire all morning. And always there were bottles of the same hearty, rustic wines that Pietro’s father and grandfather had made back on the farm, wines that Pietro had been drinking every day of his life since the age of five, and that were still closest to his heart.
Dying on the Vine (A Gideon Oliver Mystery) Page 8
