by Wendy Tyson
Injustices never ceased.
It was ten o’clock before Allison met Vaughn in the hotel’s small dining area. She’d taken advantage of the free breakfast and was picking at a banana, a strawberry yogurt, and a cup of coffee. She’d spent the last two hours rearranging client appointments and arguing with a very angry Jason. He’d taken care of Brutus the night before but was irate that she and Vaughn had headed to Ithaca once again.
“Really, Al, you didn’t learn your lesson the last time when you were nearly killed?” he’d said, referring to her brush with the Main Line murderer earlier that year. “Leave this one to the professionals.”
“Tried that. The professionals didn’t seem too interested.”
“Try again.” He’d slammed the phone down after an exasperated, “My God, Allison, you’re impossible.”
He had a right to be angry. They were on dangerous ground. But she’d come this far. She really didn’t think she had a choice.
Vaughn sat down across from her. He was wearing the same khaki pants and button-down blue shirt he’d had on the day before. At least his clothes look clean, Allison thought. She was also wearing the same outfit—something she intended to fix as soon as they could stop at a store—and her clothes were filthy. The hotel had no cleaning service and a rinse in the sink clearly had not been enough.
“Good morning,” Vaughn said. He dove right into a plate of reconstituted eggs. He’d had a stack of papers next to him, and these he pushed across the table toward her as he chewed. “From Jamie.”
So he had contacted Jamie after all, Allison thought. She accepted the stack with a smile. “Anything good?”
“I haven’t had a chance to read everything. He sent me the email a half hour ago. I just printed these papers in the hotel’s excuse for a business office.”
Allison sipped hot coffee and paged through the documents. “These are mostly on Benini Enterprises. Tax forms, corporate filings.”
“You wanted information about the Italian shareholders. And the board members.”
“Yes, thank you. Anything of importance?”
“A lot of numbers. Jamie said he would scour everything, too, and he’s still looking at the company. But he wanted to give us these in the meantime.”
Allison turned to the last few pages. One was a photocopy of a wedding announcement for Gina and Paolo Benini. It was in Italian. An old, grainy photograph showed a cherub-faced, very young and very plain woman wearing a simple white gown and a white veil, her hair peaking from beneath in smooth tendrils. Paolo stood next to her, tall, thin and dapper in his tuxedo. Although it was a formal portrait and old-fashioned, even for the early 1950s, their bodies touched in a way that suggested they were happy about the union. Allison stared at that photo. Again, she saw Dominic reflected in his mother’s eyes and slightly bulbous nose. She saw Maria and Alex in Paolo’s intelligent and defiant stare.
This was the same woman in the portrait that graced the Benini parlor, although that woman had looked solemn, serious. She wondered what happened to Gina between the time this picture was taken and the day she decided to end her own life. What could have been so bad?
The last paper was simply a print-out of an email from Jamie to Vaughn. It said, “Gina Benini, nee Pittaluga, originally from Genoa. Married at 18 (Paolo was 26). Moved to the United States two years later. Dominic was born in 1963 when Gina was 25. Alex was born three years later in New York State (at home). Gina died on January 8, 1979 at the family’s home in Ithaca, New York. Death ruled a suicide.”
Allison looked up. “Do you know where Jamie found that?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Hmm. When did Francesca move to the United States?”
“I don’t know the year, but she was young. Still a teenager. Seventeen or eighteen.”
“Interesting.” Allison looked at the information again. Her mind sidled sideways, assembling bits of information, creating a story she wasn’t yet ready to posit aloud.
“There’s more.” Vaughn took out his phone, tapped it a few times and handed it to Allison. It was a text from Angela sent at 2:46 that morning. It said: “John and Enzo Pittaluga” and gave an address.
“Relatives?”
Vaughn nodded. “Gina’s brothers. Her parents had ten kids, nine boys and Gina. Two of her brothers immigrated to the United States shortly after Gina did. They were older than Gina and are very old now. One is eighty-eight, the other ninety-two, but they live together on a small farm not far from here.”
“Our first stop, then,” Allison said. “After I read through corporate paperwork.” She looked down at her grass-stained pants. “And after we buy some new clothes.”
Twenty-Four
As they drove through the farmland region of the Finger Lakes, Allison stared out the window like a child seeing the countryside for the first time. Her family never vacationed. Her father had worked two jobs most of his adult life, and her mother suffered from debilitating migraines and then Alzheimer’s. As a result, there was never time or money for something as frivolous, in her parents’ view, as a family trip. But from a young age, Allison would pore over books, reading about faraway lands and interesting locales, and one of the places she had always longed to visit as a kid was a farm. A real, working farm. Seduced, perhaps, by books like Charlotte’s Web and Anne of Green Gables, she’d envisioned farm life to be idyllic, a place where fathers didn’t beat kids, mothers weren’t always sick, and there were plenty of secret hideaways.
The Pittaluga farm looked like the farm of her childhood fantasies.
Situated on a hundred acres twenty-two miles outside of Ithaca, the property was a patchwork of mowed fields and corn crops. A barn, freshly painted a deep red, sat on a hill overlooking a pasture. The house itself was a white Victorian.
Not large, but neat and well-maintained, with a wrap-around porch. A porch swing hung from two I-hooks on one end, next to two white wicker chairs. Flowerpots dotted the porch, their ceramic interiors overflowing with festive red, pink and white geraniums and trailing vines of vinca.
“Wow,” Vaughn muttered. “Either these guys have found the secret to longevity or they are paying someone a lot of money to take care of things.”
Allison had to agree. The grass around the house was a well-manicured green. Perennial flower gardens had been planted along the walkway from the driveway to the house, and waves of brightly-colored perennials lined the front of the home, against the porch. The trees surrounding the house, now in full summer glory, provided restful shade. As they climbed the porch steps, Allison admired the view. Farmland in every direction, hills in the distance. Overhead, the sky was blue and the sun, vibrant. Here, it was almost possible to forget that two clients were missing and one woman was dead.
Almost.
Vaughn knocked on the screen door. After a few moments, a woman in her early sixties answered the door.
She said, “Can I help you?”
The woman was slender, with wispy white hair and hard eyes that stared at them with suspicion.
Vaughn said, “We’re looking for Enzo or John Pittaluga.”
“For what purpose?”
“Just to talk,” Allison replied. “We have a few questions about a relative of theirs.”
The woman continued to stare at them through the screen door. She had one hand on the storm door, which she looked ready to close, when a deep, thickly-accented voice behind her said, “Let them in, Carol.”
The woman pursed her lips in disapproval, but she opened the door and moved aside. Allison entered an immaculate foyer. The walls were pristine white, the floors, gleaming oak. Behind Carol was a stairway, its risers also white, the center lined by a rich Persian runner. To Carol’s right, the foyer entered into the dining room. An antique-looking walnut table and matching buffet took up most of the room. The walls were painted ecru, a crystal chandelier had
been hung over the table. To Carol’s left, blocking much of the entrance to a nicely appointed, albeit old-fashioned, living room, stood a short but very rotund—and very old—man. He had white-yellow, bristly hair, cropped short, a sallow complexion and eyes so dark they looked like pools of ebony.
“Who are you?” he said. He was holding a cane, despite impeccable posture.
Allison introduced herself and Vaughn. “We’d like to talk about your sister, Gina Benini.”
The man looked at her for a long time, shifting his gaze back and forth between her and Vaughn. Carol had moved to the dining room, and Allison caught her staring at the man, her eyes searching for some indication that she should show these strangers out. But he surprised Allison by saying, his voice hearty, “I’m Enzo Pittaluga, Gina’s brother. Come into the parlor. Carol, some iced tea for these people, please.”
Carol nodded, a sour expression still on her face. She gave them a distrustful once-over before heading toward what Allison assumed was the kitchen.
Allison and Vaughn followed Enzo. He made his way slowly but steadily to a pair of deep green loveseats in the living room. The couches were positioned across from one another, in front of a stone fireplace, with a floral Queen Anne chair at the end between them. Enzo sat on one couch, Allison on the other, and Vaughn on the chair. Carol returned a few minutes later with three glasses of iced tea on a tray. She placed the tray on a black coffee table and disappeared quietly into another room.
“Our nurse, housekeeper, security guard. Carol does it all. But she can be overly protective. She means well.” Enzo smiled. Allison saw capped teeth, gleaming white. He took a sip of tea, put the glass back down and said, “So you want to talk about Gina? All these years and someone wants to talk about Gina.” He looked at Allison. “What do you want to know, my dear? And if I might ask, why do you want to know?”
Allison debated how much to say, but realized there was little point to being coy. “I’ll start with the why, Mr. Pittaluga. Francesca Benini is my client. Francesca disappeared last week under suspicious circumstances. Her niece, Maria Benini, died yesterday. While Maria’s death looks like an accident, it seems awfully coincidental. Anyway, both ladies mentioned your sister. We don’t know if there is a connection, or if there is, what it could be. We’re just trying to understand what happened to Gina. Her life in the States and the circumstances surrounding her passing.”
“Passing. Such a euphemism, Ms. Campbell. And you can call me Enzo, by the way.” He looked at Vaughn. “You both can.”
“She took her own life?” Vaughn asked.
“She did, indeed.”
“Any idea why?” Allison said.
Enzo toyed with his cane, passing it back and forth between two meaty hands. “Gina moved here first. She was our younger sister. Our parents thought maybe she needed some family, so they sent John—my brother—and me to the States, too. When we arrived, we found our sister had aged considerably. She was only eighteen when she married Paolo, in her twenties when we saw her next. She and Paolo had tried for years to have a child and it didn’t work, she was upset. She felt like a failure, a bad wife.”
“But she did conceive. Twice,” Allison said.
“Ah, eventually, yes. But imagine the pressure, Ms. Campbell. Paolo was a good man, but his grandmother was a tyrant. She wanted an heir. It was only Francesca and Paolo and when it became apparent that Francesca would never marry—not that the daughter was as important, especially back then—the responsibility fell to Paolo.” Enzo shook his head. “And in the ways of many families, it was the wife, not the husband, who was blamed when no child was produced.”
Vaughn looked skeptical. “But Gina was only around forty when she took her own life. By then, her youngest at least ten. She’d achieved her goal—heirs for the Benini estate. Not one, but two male children.”
“The years in between had taken their toll. They’d tried for seven years to have their first child, Mr. Vaughn. Do you have any idea how much abuse she took in that interim?”
“Physical abuse?” Allison asked.
“No, subtle abuse. Mental, emotional.”
“By Paolo?”
“I believe he loved Gina. In fact, I think Gina was his true love, if you believe in such things. He was a weak man.” He let out a sad sigh. “He just couldn’t make her happy.”
Vaughn said, “But Paolo’s grandmother was in Italy. How could she have affected her here?”
Enzo turned his body to look at Vaughn. “My sister was a child when she married. My parents were old-fashioned. Peasants, really. They brought her up to believe she was good for one thing: child-rearing. Her sole purpose in life was to marry and bear children.” He turned toward Allison, smiled apologetically. “I’m sure that sounds absurd by today’s standards, but back then…well, it was the norm. Have you been to the Benini home?”
Allison nodded.
“Then you know how big it is. It would be easy to get lost, to feel lonely in that house. And she was there by herself, feeling dejected and like a failure, for seven long years. Constant questions, constant pressure. No one to confide in. And she was young. So young.”
“She had you and your brother,” Allison said.
“We were close enough, but not in that way. And Paolo was growing the business here in America. As a consequence, he was rarely home. I’m sure my sister felt restless, a caged animal used for breeding and failing even at that.”
A caged animal. Like Francesca?
“Still,” Vaughn shook his head, skepticism in his eyes. “She killed herself more than ten years later.”
“She was depressed. She hadn’t received treatment. It happens.”
Allison said, “Enzo, when Francesca arrived, did that help alleviate her loneliness? Were they close?”
“Yes and no.” A look passed over his face. “Francesca was very young. Barely seventeen when she showed up at the Benini estate, another casualty of Antonia Benini, the grandmother. Francesca helped care for the two boys, but in the beginning, especially, she was yet another burden on Gina, who by then was older and used to being in charge. Of the house, at least.”
The look on Enzo’s face, one of unspoken stories, made Allison say, “There’s more.”
“You’re very perceptive, Ms. Campbell. There’s always more, of course. These are stories passed through the filter of an old man’s brain. And don’t let this handsome façade fool you. I’m almost ninety.”
Allison smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind. And it’s Allison, please call me Allison.”
“Allison, Francesca was hated by her grandmother, but adored beyond belief by her father and her brother, Paolo. In their eyes, she could do no wrong. And in her younger years, she was quite lovely.”
A sudden glimmer in Enzo’s eye made Allison wonder if there had not been more there. Perhaps a love affair between a younger woman and a debonair older man, for she believed Enzo was probably quite the catch in his younger years. Allison’s mind flashed to Alex and she felt a flush creep across her face. She looked down before Vaughn or Enzo could notice.
“So Gina was angry and jealous?” Vaughn asked.
“No.” Enzo sighed. “That was not Gina’s way. Her way was to internalize, play the role of the martyr. My sister could be very passive aggressive. I’m sure she did her best to show Francesca she was neither welcome nor wanted.”
Allison thought about that. A big, isolated house. Sisters-in-law vying for the attention of one man. Nothing to do but wander those halls and dote on two small boys. Such a limiting life.
“And you,” Allison said. “Were you there often?”
“John and I went when we were invited. Not frequently, I’m afraid.”
“Did you get along with Paolo?”
Enzo smiled. Suddenly, he looked tired. Tired and old. “Everyone got along with Paolo. That was his gift.”
“Ah, yes.” Enzo struggled to his feet with the help of the cane. “I’m afraid this visit will have to come to a close. My brother is not well. I need to attend to him. Carol will see you out.”
Allison watched him disappear through the dining room and into whatever rooms existed beyond. Carol followed them back out onto the porch, shooing them along like she would an unwanted stray dog.
Once on the porch, Vaughn pointed to the corn fields. “Do Enzo and John take care of the fields?”
Carol shook her head. “No, no. The land is subleased to a local farmer. The brothers used to do a little farming themselves, but not much.”
“What else did they do? For a living?” Vaughn asked. “This is an impressive piece of property.”
“They owned a local bakery. John was a genius in the kitchen in his time. Enzo, a keen businessman.”
“A bakery, huh?” Vaughn said.
“Fireside Bakery,” Carol said. While it was clear she wanted to end the conversation, she couldn’t keep the admiration out of her tone or her eyes. “Best bread for thirty miles. And Italian pastries like you wouldn’t believe.”
“And they never married?” Allison asked.
Carol’s eyes stormed over. That stern expression was back. “Never. The brothers are devoted to one another.” She frowned, started to close the door. “I have food on the stove. Enjoy your day.”
As they climbed back into Vaughn’s BMW, Allison took one last look around. Carol was watching from the dining room window, waiting for them to leave in spite of her cooking. But it was another face that caught Allison’s attention.
Upstairs, curtains had been pulled aside, and a man was watching them pull out of the driveway.
