Chapter 3
Naples began and ended at the sea. It spread along the waterfront, then rose to the cliffs that regarded Mt. Vesuvius across the bay. The rough crescent cliff tops were studded with cypress trees like a bowl turned on its side, Natalia thought when she was ten and saw her city for the first time from the water.
Hers was a melancholy city, its ancient stone streets, cathedrals and palazzos darkened by time. Yet it was also a Mediterranean city, scored with light. Palm trees sprouted around many piazzas and in the Comunale, a once-noble park that paralleled the docks. Tropical flora bloomed in the Orto Botanico, whose rusted gates were often shut for lack of funds.
The visiting cruise ships reminded Natalia of giant wedding cakes when she was a girl. Freighters and giant container ships loaded and unloaded goods twenty-four hours a day. Nights, they sparkled like miniature cities.
Natalia’s first boat ride was on one of the passenger ferries that crisscrossed the harbor regularly. Most were en route to and from Ischia and Capri. Natalia and her parents chose Procida for their one summer vacation when she was twelve. Procida was the quieter, poorer sister island where fishermen still plied their trade, and goats wandered among scrub and lemon trees.
She tossed the remnants of her lunch to the gulls and turned away, walking inland past dingy Chinese restaurants and a handful of trattorias that catered to sailors and stevedores, passing hotels and a few government towers, concrete relics from the 1950s and 60s. Natalia strolled by the dingy buildings and came upon the opulent Palazzo Reale, a rosy jewel fringed by grand palm trees—the castle home of the Bourbon King Charles III, where Natalia had spent college holidays immersed in the paintings and frescoes hung in the overwhelming riches of its huge, lush rooms.
She tread past the ordinary and the extraordinary: the opulent Reale palace and along twisted streets blackened with dirt and age, the splendid glass arches of the Galleria Umberto II and then the opera house, broken down vendor carts and little latte trucks.
After a few blocks, grandeur faded as she tramped through her cramped but charming neighborhood in the old city’s center, its humble buildings pockmarked. Laundry crisscrossed overhead, and shrines—mostly simple glass boxes with pictures of the departed flanked by votive candles—ornamented every block. The more elaborate shrines held carvings and pictures of saints surrounded by offerings of flowers amid costume gems.
The poor crowded into street-level living quarters the locals called bassi, half a dozen tenants to a room. In one of them, her neighbor Assunta Sanzari birthed eight children and raised them alone after her husband fled. Some humble bassi had been elaborately renovated and decorated for the better heeled. Plazas and weathered monuments completed the mix, relics of Bourbon rule.
Natalia recognized Tomasso, the caretaker, sweeping the sidewalk in front of the imposing palazzo where Director Garducci resided. Tomasso was ninety if he was a day and used to work with her father as a street sweeper.
A little early, Natalia stopped in the sundries shop on the ground floor. The proprietress played with her baby granddaughter propped up on the counter beside a hand-carved humidor. The place was unchanged. Cigars and cigarettes lay displayed in heavy glass cases with hardwood frames. Along the wall, more modern display cases filled with beauty products, their packaging yellowed and faded. Natalia surveyed the shampoos and picked up a bottle of conditioner. She was a sucker for hair products, though so far none had tamed her frizzy curls. A couple of German tourists by the door spun a creaky rack of yellowing postcards of Naples, faded black-and-white shots from the twenties.
Natalia made her purchase, tucked it into her shoulder bag, then entered the courtyard and rang Garducci’s bell. His flat was on the second floor. She walked up. Garducci met her at the door dressed in designer blue jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, his gray hair youthfully styled. A ruby stud flashed in one earlobe.
“Please. Come in. Sorry it’s such a mess.”
Mess? The immaculate flat was spacious, light and airy, the wooden floors bleached almost white. Everything was white—walls, drapes, floors—except a black couch. A giant cobalt blue vase held one giant white bloom. Not a thing looked out of place.
“How can I help you?” he said, inviting her to sit.
They settled on his plush couch, Garducci with his arm slung over the back, half turned toward her.
“Such a bizarre tragedy,” he said. He sounded almost nonchalant.
“One of the victims, Vincente Lattaruzzo, was an employee of yours at the museum.”
“That is correct.”
“Carlo Bagnatti—did you know him as well?”
“No.”
“You know who he is.”
“Who doesn’t? A distasteful creature from all accounts. Perhaps someone decided to do us a favor.”
“Do you have any idea who may have resented him enough to kill him?”
“No idea. Must be quite a list. Are there any promising suspects yet?”
“One or two. How long did Vincente Lattaruzzo work at the museum?”
“Five years or thereabouts. I’ll get his work record for you if that would help.”
“Thank you. Perhaps later. If you will excuse my saying it, rumors have reached us. Rumors about you and Vincente Lattaruzzo. Namely, that he was preparing to leave his boyfriend to live with you, Director.”
“That is … that was a fact. Not a rumor at all.”
“So Vincente Lattaruzzo was going to reside here? With you?”
“As soon as he got things in order and got rid of his collection.”
“His collection?”
“World War Two memorabilia. It wouldn’t fit in here, obviously. I suggested he donate it to a museum. Not ours.”
“He agreed?”
“He didn’t like it. Said it was a deal breaker. But he was joking.”
“How did Stefano Grappi react to the news that his lover was leaving him?”
“He was such a damn coward.” Garducci fussed with his earring.
“Stefano Grappi?”
“No, Vincente.”
“He hadn’t told him?”
“Correct. Vincente procrastinated. He was waiting for the right time, he said. I told him there isn’t one.”
“Your relationship seems to have been an open secret. Your staff knew. Surely Stefano Grappi had heard of it as well.”
Garducci shrugged. “You’d have to ask him.”
“You were Mr. Lattaruzzo’s boss—a conflict of interest at the very least. No?”
“Sadly true. He had just quit because of it. But there was plenty of freelance work offered him. And both of us had many contacts in the field.”
Natalia looked up from the notes she’d made earlier interviewing Stefano Grappi and gazed at her host.
“Mr. Grappi gave me the impression he and Vincente were—aside from the usual ‘dalliances,’ as he put it—devoted to one another. He said Vincente had no plans to go anywhere.”
“Then he is deluded,” Garducci said with a dismissive wave.
“Perhaps. But what if it was you whom Vincente misled? What if he made promises he couldn’t bring himself to keep? You had sacrificed your marriage, risked your career. Meanwhile, Vincente was doing well by you. Two promotions this past year, promoted to senior curator, sent to New York to bid in a major auction on behalf of the museum. The poor boy had made good.”
“All totally deserved. He was extraordinarily able. No one would deny that.”
“The museum faced serious budget problems, hours curtailed, people being laid off, and you assigned Vincente a new private office almost as nice as yours.”
“Your point?”
“What if, after all that, he informed you he wasn’t going to live with you?”
“That’s simply not true.”
“Really?”
“See here. Officer Monte, is it?”
“Captain.”
“I suggest, Captain, you save your tactics for those more deserving�
�the professional criminals, for instance. Isn’t that your job? You are wasting your time here. And certainly wasting mine.”
Carabiniere Angelina Cavatelli went over her interview notes with Natalia in the station’s canteen.
“They were a golden couple—Stefano Grappi and the victim, Vincente Lattaruzzo—until Director Garducci entered the scene. Everyone knew Garducci and Vincente were conducting an affair. Stefano took it hard. Missed important meetings, grew distracted and distant and wouldn’t take off his dark glasses at work.”
“So theirs wasn’t a brief fling,” Natalia said.
“Not according to the gift store manager, for one. She worked late a couple of weeks ago, went outside for a cigarette and practically stumbled over Director Garducci and his protégé in the sculpture garden.”
“Oops.”
“Yeah, kinky.” Angelina closed her notebook. “Do we have a preliminary alibi for Stefano Grappi?”
“Claims he was presenting a paper of his at the university.”
“And Director Garducci?” Angelina inclined her head.
“Doesn’t have one. Says he was home the night Vincente Lattaruzzo died. There’s no way to corroborate. According to him, he called Lattaruzzo a couple of times, left messages. We’re awaiting the victim’s phone records and checking his message machine.”
“If Vincente had jilted Stefano, and if Vincente was moving in with Director Garducci after all—” Natalia paused. “—why might Garducci kill him?”
“Because his lover was also having it off with the other naked horseman sharing his midnight ride?”
“Point taken. But Grappi goes to the top of the list.”
“We have the time of death?” asked Natalia.
“Dr. Agari says between ten and eleven P.M.”
“Good job. You finding your way around okay? Anyone giving you a hard time?”
“Yeah, a couple of cracks about my hair, but mostly I’m being treated like a human being. If it gets out I’m gay, that could change, though.”
“Angelina. It’s nobody’s business if you’re gay.”
“Right. It didn’t quite work that way where I came from. Bad enough I was a female and didn’t put out.”
“If there’s the barest hint of sexual harassment—even so much as a comment—you come to me, and we take it to Colonel Donati. Fabio Donati won’t stand for it.”
Angelina looked relieved.
Natalia decided to change the subject. “You think your Giuletta will adjust okay to Naples?”
“I do. She won’t start work for a couple of weeks, so she’ll have time to scout an apartment for us. Meantime, the Vomero is great but I don’t have much privacy at my aunt’s, and her teenager is on the cusp of puberty. She’s a darling girl but presents a bit of a challenge.”
“I can imagine.”
“What’s next?”
“Nothing for today. Go home and take off your bulletproof vest. Put your feet up. Tomorrow will be here soon enough. Good work, by the way.”
Angelina left to sign out, and Natalia made ready to go. The phone rang. Dr. Francesca Agari was announced on the line. Natalia punched the lit-up line button.
“Captain, I found Vincente Lattaruzzo’s missing parts.”
“Where?”
“In the other man.”
Chapter 4
Natalia took her coffee out to the balcony. Swallows, hundreds of them, patterned the morning sky. Natalia’s grandmother, her nonna, had always insisted they portended the future. While her floors were drying, Nonna would study their formations from the balcony, often with her granddaughter at her side. Depending on which direction they swooped, she’d make her predictions. If they veered north or west, it meant someone would come to harm. Maybe the neighbor who cheated her on a carton of eggs or the woman who stole away her first love. But if the birds winged south or east, Natalia would marry young and produce a brood of healthy children.
After Nonna’s oracles flew off, Natalia got a large slice of homemade torte di cestagno and a warm glass of milk. The chestnuts were delivered from a childhood friend of her grandmother’s once or twice a year. Those not used for the baking were roasted and taken on picnics.
Finishing her coffee, Natalia wondered whether she might have taken up divining signs, too, if she hadn’t won the university scholarship. Truth be told, she’d unraveled more than one difficult case with Dame Intuition firmly by her side.
Her cell phone alarm sounded. It was nearly time for her first appointment.
“What a beautiful space,” Natalia said, as the countess greeted her before leading the way to the living room, a vast space with soaring lavender walls trimmed in gold. Not much furniture: a simple wooden desk and a sleek chair and one plum-colored velvet lounge. Several crystal chandeliers caught the sunlight and shot it around the floor.
“I live simply. But I always choose good pieces. Makes life more civilized, don’t you think?”
The countess looked beautiful in black linen pants and a caftan—creamy silk with a design of pale blue flowers. Drop earrings to match. Sapphires? Mariel would have known. Natalia’s friend from childhood was raised in wealth. She rarely wore jewelry more flashy than a strand of pearls, but nonetheless, she could tell paste from real in a glance.
“I helped Dr. Agari design her living space,” boasted the countess. “I’d be happy to consult with you.”
“I’m not sure it would help,” Natalia laughed. “I’m a bit of a pack rat.”
“Interesting. As I get older, I value the physical world less and less.”
“You mean, it’s natural?”
“One de-acquisitions as one prepares to leave, I suspect, yes.” The countess gestured for Natalia to be seated. “Sorry if I kept you waiting. My yoga class ran late today. She’s fabulous—a Swedish girl. Woman, sorry. You’re all girls to me. She has a cute studio on Vico di Pace. Either I go to her or she comes to me. If you’re interested, I’d be happy to treat you to a private session sometime.”
“That’s kind of you, but I’m not permitted to accept such generosity.”
“Of course. Forgive me. But you must have a lot of stress in your line of work. Yoga certainly helps. Nonetheless, I barely slept last night. Those young men murdered. It’s so unsettling.”
“I had a talk yesterday with Stefano Grappi, Vincente’s boyfriend. I wanted to check something with you.”
“I never had the pleasure of meeting him. I think it’s wonderful these days that people are free to choose whom to love.”
“According to Stefano, you and Vincente were in the habit of meeting for lunch once or twice a month. When we spoke yesterday, you told me you had met at a function for the museum and saw him at board meetings. I wondered why you omitted mentioning your luncheons.”
“I didn’t mean to leave you with that impression. I think I was a little unhinged is all.” She shrugged. “And some of what I told him was embarrassing. That may have played a part in my being less than clear about our connection.”
“So you met with some regularity?”
“Vincente was fascinated with the war, and I was able to tell him some stories, anecdotes about how it was in Naples in that period. Also I interpreted photographs taken then. Primary research, he called it.”
“I’ve heard accounts from my grandparents. Did Vincente tell you why he was researching the war?”
“For an article he was working on that he hoped to turn into a pictorial book based on his and other people’s collections of wartime artifacts and photographs. He had notions of curating a show and possibly making a documentary. I wanted to be helpful. The material deserves preserving.”
“You say you interpreted photos?”
“Yes. He often didn’t know what he was looking at. He had pictures, for instance, of Neapolitan women sewing from odd-looking materials. I explained there wasn’t any fabric. So we made dresses from curtains, coats from blankets. I still have mine. Vincente badly wanted them for his collection. I
’ll show you sometime if you’re interested. You and Dr. Agari should come by for lunch.”
“That would be nice. Maybe when things quiet down.”
“Excuse me for saying this,” the countess said. “I have a habit of saying what’s on my mind. It’s gotten worse with age.”
“Please,” Natalia said. “What is it?”
“You girls. Women. Sorry. Francesca, of course. And now that we’ve met … the kind of things you are exposed to. I’m sure the work is fascinating. Compelling. Nonetheless …”
“Thank you for your concern. If you don’t mind, what was the embarrassing part?”
“The humiliation of having been so reduced. Broken in body and mind. It is traumatic to remember the war. We had no bread, no produce. We roasted acorns for coffee. The only meat—well, innards at best. Stray cats disappeared from the streets. Then pets.” She shuddered. “Can you imagine breaking into the aquarium and taking the lovely fish? My parish priest … the poor man was half mad from hunger. He made curios and tried to barter them for flour or military rations. Carved from human bones he had taken from the ossuary beneath his church. You can’t imagine the conditions unless you were here. Girls sold themselves for food in the Santa Lucia district. We lined up for hours to get a bucket of water from the Red Cross. And then Vesuvius erupted and covered the city in ash. I fled with my parents to the family farm in Cantalupo, where I had been born.”
“It was better in Cantalupo?”
“Marginally, but yes.” She shook her head slowly, remembering. “A woman who had lost two sons to the war, who had nothing, insisted I take two precious tomatoes from her garden. So there were, even among these horrors, heroes and heroines—great kindness.”
Natalia glanced out the window. The garden in daylight showed evidence of a firm hand. Carefully trimmed roses and hydrangeas, clearly marked paths. Lemon trees flourished along one wall. An enormous straw hat rested on a white iron chair next to a watering can. All signs of the carnage had been removed.
A pair of feral cats took up seats just outside and stared at Natalia expectantly.
“Speaking of hungry,” said the countess, “do you like my babies?”
A Few Drops of Blood Page 3
