Stefania remembered the disapproving tone with which Tata Lucia had said that “those two”—that is, Giovanni and Germaine—had got married “not even a year” later. They hadn’t bothered to observe the period of mourning for Remo, who had died in early 1946, falling one night into a steep ravine made slippery by rain.
Remo, no less: the smuggler. Who should have known those trails better than anyone. Who fell while wandering around aimlessly, calling Margherita’s name.
The daughter had died less than a year before. The Cappelletti family’s tragedy had played out in the shadow of the great tragedy of the war.
With her pen she made a mark from 1945 to 1947. At that exact point, over the course of those two years, situated somewhere in time and history, lay the solution to the case. Clearly some pieces of the puzzle were missing.
Tata Lucia, who well remembered Giovanni’s years of betrothal, always wrinkled her nose when speaking of the francesa. The elderly woman had told her how the minute the young heiress to the Durand fortune arrived at Villa Regina, she’d had the wallpaper and bathrooms changed, as though the house were already hers at the time.
“I’m telling you, that girl was born to give orders,” she had added.
But then there was that moment when everything had seemed like it might fall through—the “scandal” that had followed Margherita’s death. Everyone in town talked about it, Tata Lucia had said. The French fiancée had prudently decided to stay away for an entire summer, perhaps to see how things went.
Stefania, for her part, did not think that all the problems that were eventually resolved had involved money, as the silence of the local people might lead one to believe. Above all because as far as money was concerned, Germaine Durand had more than enough. So whatever scared her off at the time of Margherita’s death must have been something else, perhaps the fact of being implicated in something unpleasant.
She thought again of her meeting with Madame Durand. Of that blend of tenderness and compassion with which Madame had spoken to her of Margherita in that green sitting room with the fine Sisley painting left out in full view, though worth millions of dollars, simply because it had, in a sense, belonged to the unlucky girl.
Margherita, Margherita.
In mere months Germaine had succeeded in transforming the wool-stockinged girl with braided hair of the earlier photo into the elegant young lady with the pendant around her neck in the portrait she’d seen in that sitting room. A couple of years at most, maybe three. From 1943, when Germaine and her father had first come to Italy—meeting Giovanni and Margherita, among others—to late 1945, early 1946.
Another question arose in Stefania’s mind.
What had the Durands come to do in Italy right in the middle of a civil war that had set the country afire?
Something very important, no doubt, and this “something” must necessarily have had something to do with Remo Cappelletti, whom, moreover, they already knew, at least by reputation.
It certainly wouldn’t have been a chance journey, at that particular moment in history. Business dealings to be continued in Lugano? Perhaps Remo was interested in antique furniture and fancy paintings? She found this hard to believe.
To judge from the family photo, one would never have known: a tall man, well built and sturdy in his hunter’s jacket and boots, a determined expression on his face. His son, too, was tall, though more slender, with his mother’s face, like Margherita. The other daughter, Maria, had instead taken entirely after him: tall and a little ungainly, with a voluminous bust and enormous hands. But no one ever took this daughter into consideration, though she could hardly have gone unnoticed. Even Tata Lucia, after all, had not graced her with the adjective poor, which she normally used when speaking of a deceased loved one.
Perhaps a simpler explanation was that Maria wasn’t dead.
But if she was still around, how old would she be now? Stefania wondered, answering her own question at once: eighty, maybe more.
She noted the question in her agenda. She would ask Tata Lucia as soon as possible.
With her chin still in her hands, absorbed in thought, Stefania heard someone knock discreetly at the door.
“It’s Lucchesi, Inspector. I’ve brought you the fax receipt.”
“Put it over there,” she said, gesturing towards a small table. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Three forty-five.”
Camilla.
She grabbed her jacket and purse on the run and headed for the parking lot. At the first red light she rang the office.
“Lucchesi?”
“Yes, Inspector?”
“I forgot to tell you that there’s something that needs to be done right away. You must call the people in Lanzo and tell them to go to city hall and ask for the death certificates of the following three people: Remo Cappelletti, Margherita Cappelletti, and Caterina Cappelletti. With the cause of death, if possible. Tell them that Inspector Valenti wants the documents on her desk tomorrow morning before noon.”
“Got it.”
“Thanks, Lucchesi. Listen, Cappelletti was Caterina’s married name; I don’t know her maiden name. At any rate, she was the wife of Remo Cappelletti. Margherita was their daughter.”
She hung up, feeling confident about Lucchesi’s efficiency in dealing with red tape.
In front of the school the usual crowd of mothers and parents was lined up and waiting for their children to come out, their cars parked haphazardly here and there on the sidewalks, one right outside the entrance to the take-out pizza joint.
“But where exactly are you going?” asked Camilla.
“To a book presentation.”
“But isn’t it the same if you just buy it and read it at home?”
“In a sense, yes, but the author will be there, and people can meet him and ask him questions.”
“And if you don’t buy the book, will he get mad?”
“Of course not, he’s not there to sell the book. But if you buy the book there, he’ll even autograph it for you.”
“So it’s like going to class.”
“Sort of.”
“So it’ll be dreadfully boring. How will you go there?”
“By car, or bus, or even on foot, however you like.”
“No, I meant how are you supposed to look, what will you wear?”
“It’s not a reception, Cami.”
“So then why has it taken you the last half hour to get dressed, and why have you already tried three different pairs of shoes and two different purses?”
“Cami, don’t you have anything better to do?”
“And who are you going with?”
“With Mr. Valli, whom you don’t know.”
“The guy who called the other day?”
Camilla had an elephant’s memory that worked best when it wasn’t supposed to.
“That’s the one. I’ll be back by eleven-thirty. Be good, both of you.”
As soon as she was outside she quickened her step.
When she got to the offices of the cultural association, Valli was already in the lobby waiting for her. Light-blue shirt, velvet jacket.
“I hope I didn’t make you wait,” Stefania began.
“I just got here myself. Would you like a coffee?”
“Gladly.”
“There’s nobody in the conference hall yet.”
“Are you sure this is the right day?”
Valli laughed.
“One should never arrive on time. The way to do it here is you arrive, wait outside, and exchange greetings and gossip with people. That way you can work on the relationships that matter to you, and every so often cast a glance into the conference hall.”
“To know a little about the book?”
“Just to have an idea. There’s a cafeteria right outside here, just a couple
of steps away.”
“I get it, you need a cigarette,” said Stefania, smiling.
They sat down at a corner table looking out onto the lake. It wasn’t warm enough yet to stroll about in the evening, and the lakeside promenade was almost deserted, apart from a few young men ducking into the little bars cluttering that stretch of lakeshore.
“You look good, a little different from last time. But then you look different every time I see you.”
“Do you prefer the afternoon edition or the evening edition?”
“I’d say I like both.”
“Well, I see you’re in your evening edition as well, though those knickerbockers didn’t look bad on you at all. They would be perfect with a pair of leather suspenders with Alpine stars embroidered on them.”
“A felt hat wouldn’t hurt, either.”
They laughed and chatted for a while. Stefania was a bit at loose ends, and she couldn’t even have said why. She felt light-headed, and a little out of place. She was aware of his eyes on her, and this had a strange effect. No longer accustomed to such attentions, she nevertheless liked the feeling. After coming out of the cafeteria they stopped and sat down on a bench to smoke a cigarette. The lake was ever so lightly ruffled by a gentle wind, and they were unable to keep the lighter lit. Finally Valli managed to cup the flame with his hands, and she leaned forwards to light her cigarette. At that moment her hand grazed his, and as she raised her head she looked into his eyes from close up, for only an instant. A scent of bitter almonds.
“We’d better go now, or else we risk missing the end, too,” said Stefania.
“That’s the best moment, anyway. Normally they’re drinking to the book’s success.”
They continued laughing and chatting, hearing only the last comments in the debate in the reception hall. At that point Stefania looked at her watch: it was almost half past eleven.
“Good God, I have to go. I even have to drive Martina home. I’m sorry.”
“Shall I give you a ride?”
“No, you stay, that way you can tell me how it went.”
“Do you really have to go? I’m so sorry. It’s been a lovely evening.”
Valli squeezed her hand as Stefania was getting up out of her chair. When she was in the doorway she stopped for a moment and turned around. He was watching her. She smiled at him and waved good-bye. Then she went out.
When she was almost home she got a message on her cell phone.
Good night, Stefania. Thanks for a lovely evening.
10
“There was a call for you this morning, Inspector, but they didn’t leave a message.”
“Thanks, Lucchesi, have you already had coffee?”
“No, ma’am. If you want, I can have someone look for the number of the person who called.”
“Wait, it may not be necessary. Let’s have a coffee and then you can have the switchboard call the same number back and put the call through to me. Any other news?”
“Piras is back on duty and apparently has some very good news. Dr. Allevi came by asking about you.”
“At what time?”
“Seven thirty. I’d just come in.”
“One last favor: Call our friends in Lanzo and tell them to hurry up with that information we asked for, the death certificates for those three people. Before noon, if possible.”
She went back into her office and rang Giulio.
“Here I am. Were you looking for me?”
“You should contact Selvini or someone from that department. It would be even better if you went there in person. The overall enlargement of that photo is ready, but now you have to let them know which details, people, or things you’re interested in. They can make further enlargements of specific areas, as with a zoom lens.”
“But can’t they just send the stuff to my office? I have a lot of urgent things to do this morning.”
“They could also dismantle their two-hundred-thousand-euro processor and send it to your office, preferably with two rented technicians. But you’ll have to ask them yourself, okay?”
“Giulio . . .”
“Yes, my dear.”
“I was also thinking they could make bigger prints.”
“The kind you hang from wires with clothespins in a darkroom?”
“Go to hell.”
“I will, my dear, but after you. When are we going out to dinner?”
Stefania laughed and hung up. Giulio was incorrigible.
She was still busy looking for Selvini’s number in some lost corner of her desk when a call came in from the switchboard.
“What is it, Marino?”
“There’s a call for you, Inspector. The same person who called for you this morning. A certain Montalti, if I heard right.”
“Put him on.”
A bustle in the background, then a voice at the other end.
“Inspector Valenti?”
“In person. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“I am Paolo Montalti, I’m calling from Geneva. I was told you were looking for me.”
The man spoke calmly, in a somewhat detached fashion, with a vague French accent to top it all off. He sounded quite old.
“The secretary at the Jewish Documentation Center in Italy passed on your request for information, Inspector. I have to admit we were a little surprised.”
“Surprised? Why?”
“It’s the first time anyone has ever asked us for information concerning Villa Regina.”
“Really? From what I’m told, it’s a home of tremendous artistic value.”
Stefania was hoping her interlocutor would keep talking, and limited herself to feeding him cues to this end.
“No doubt about it, but surely you must know it hasn’t belonged to us for many years. What in particular did you want to know?”
“Mr. Montalti, the first question I’d like to ask you is: when did the transfer of property between your family and the current owners—that is, the Cappelletti family—take place? What were the circumstances of the sale? Assuming, of course, that it was indeed a sale.”
“It happened during the summer of ’43.”
“I’ll make a note of that. Are you certain?”
“I don’t recall the exact date, but it was definitely in June or, at the most, early July, of 1943.”
“Excuse my bluntness, Mr. Montalti, but according to documents in my possession, the villa was taken over by troops of the German occupation force.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“It’s true, but the villa was sold right around that time. The contract was drawn up in Milan, after having been worked out in Geneva, at the firm of the lawyer Durand. They don’t have notaries in Switzerland, you know, there’s a lot less bureaucracy here. At any rate it was a proper sale in every respect, though subject to some unusual conditions.”
“The lawyer Durand, you say,” Stefania said indifferently. “I know some Durands who are antiquarians in Geneva.”
“It’s a branch of the same family,” said Montalti. “I think they were first cousins. The deed of sale was drafted in their law office, between my father, his two brothers, and Signor Cappelletti.”
“Was that when you met Signor Cappelletti?”
“No, I’d met him some time before.”
“Did you also know the Durands who were antiquarians?”
“Personally, no, at least not all of them. My father had spoken about them often. I met Auguste Durand in person at least twice—the first time at our house in Milan, the second time actually at Villa Regina.”
“I have another question for you, Mr. Montalti. Why, in your opinion, would the Cappelletti family have later declared that they acquired the villa after the war?”
There was a long pause, interrupted by some rustlings.
“Inspector, I have just activated the speakerphone. Beside me are some other members of the family who would like to listen directly to what we’re saying. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, go right ahead. But please answer my question.”
Stefania was certain that Paolo Montalti hadn’t forgotten her question, but she just wanted to avoid any stonewalling.
“You just said you’d met Auguste Durand. Was someone in your family interested in antiques at the time?”
A rather lively buzz in the background.
“My uncles and my grandfather Davide were clients of the Durands. They were known to everyone and had been art merchants for generations, being one of the most prominent families during those years. But I want to make this clear: at that moment it had nothing to do with interest in antiques.”
“Then what did it have to do with?”
“You see, Inspector, at that particular moment in history, we Montaltis, like many others, were forced to get rid of a great many precious objects. Paintings, furniture, jewelry. In a way, the Durands, during that period, took back a lot of what they’d sold our family in prior generations. It’s odd, don’t you think?”
“So there must not have been much sympathy on your part towards them, I imagine,” Stefania commented.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, Inspector, but sympathy or lack of sympathy had very little to do with anything in this case. Auguste Durand was an art dealer, one of the most skilled and competent around. But however cultured and refined he might have been, he was still a businessman. He certainly wasn’t tender with us, but, to our great fortune, he turned out to be quite fair. An honest man, in his way.”
She heard more bustling.
“The whole thing was obviously a very good deal for him, Inspector, very advantageous. But just to give a complete picture of the situation, I have to add that he did not behave like a cutthroat. Especially compared to some of the other characters we had the bad luck to cross paths with during that period. The agreed price for the villa was certainly less than its market value at the time, but it was paid in full, down to the last cent, and right away, just as we’d requested.”
Shadows on the Lake Page 13
