Gogol gave one last look at the clearing where Nico had found Gerardi. “He left in shame. He came back to die for it.” He handed the dog to Nico and they set off for his old-age home.
Perillo was at the café next to the station, having his midafternoon espresso, when Nico called and related what Gogol had said.
“That’s all I could get out of him.” Gogol hadn’t spoken a word during the ride back. On seeing Lucia at the front desk, he’d proudly shown off his basket of precious mushrooms and hurried off to the kitchen.
Perillo paid for his espresso and walked out, not to be overheard. His stomach tightened into a fist. “Do you believe him? I mean, his circuits are a little jammed up, aren’t they?”
“Gogol’s not crazy. I want to believe him. He was overwhelmed with pain and shame. He must have witnessed a rape, and that could be the killer’s motive.”
Perillo tried to release his muscles by letting out a long, silent breath. “Maybe he just saw heavy-handed sex. People get off on being rough sometimes.”
Nico walked out onto his balcony, needing to rest his eyes on the soaked colors of nature. “We have to at least consider that a rape may have occurred and look into it.”
“How?” Perillo stood rooted in place, his stomach still tight. “Even if the victim went to a doctor, her files will be private.”
“Asking around. Jimmy at the café says you can’t fart without the whole town knowing about it.”
“And yet no one knows who Gerardi’s love was. Besides, there’s no shame involved in farting. Embarrassment at most, which is not the case with rape. And how the hell would you ask someone if they’ve been raped?” Perillo searched his jeans pocket for his cigarettes. “Mother of God and all the saints!” He’d left them on his desk. “When did this supposedly happen?” He started walking to the station. “Did he at least tell you that?”
“Gogol said, ‘He left in shame.’ I take that to mean it happened not much before Gerardi took off. It might even be the incident that prompted him to leave. It could also explain why Gogol attacked the man with that tree branch.”
“That’s one supposition after another grounded on very threadbare fact.” Perillo spoke sharply and instantly regretted it. He needed to calm down, and a dose of nicotine was exactly what he needed. “Let me get to the office.”
Nico waited on the phone, surprised by Perillo’s resistance to the news. The possibility that a woman had once been raped by Gerardi was tragic and a very strong motive for murder, even after all this time. He’d expected the maresciallo to want to look into it immediately.
Perillo walked into the station, nodded as he hurried past Vince, who quickly stood and shoved his mortadella sandwich into a drawer—there was no eating allowed on front-desk duty. In his office, he put the phone back to his ear. “I have a possible suspect.”
“That’s good news.”
“Remember when I told you that a woman had called with news?” He wiped his face with his handkerchief. “Well, she took her time showing up, but it turns out she’s Gerardi’s sister—younger, by the looks of her. She didn’t seem in the least bit upset that he was dead. She was up-front about them not getting along, angry that he hadn’t been helping her financially.” The maresciallo grabbed his cigarettes and walked back out. The mortadella sandwich was back in Vince’s mouth. Perillo ignored him and parked himself under the eave of the entrance to smoke. “She’s hungry for his money, that’s clear. Immediately asked about his will. A strong-willed woman is the impression I got. And not a very nice one. I know that doesn’t make her a killer, but she has an obvious motive. She has no one to corroborate that she was sleeping in the villa she works at early on Monday morning. I’ll call her back for more questioning once we hear from the police in California. We can’t move forward until they answer our questions. Did Gerardi have a family there? Did he have a will? Who benefits from it? Was he in contact with anyone here? We have to wait, that’s all.”
“I hope you’re not going to ignore what Gogol said.”
“I won’t. We’ll talk about it some more face-to-face, and I hope to come up with some delicate way of asking around that won’t get me kicked out of town. Not tonight, though. We’ve got the Chianti Expo opening in a few hours, and I have to show up with my men armed and in uniform to reassure the crowd that we’ll protect them.” He looked up at the now-clear sky. Good. No hint of more rain. “Come hear the band play. They’re pretty good.”
“I do miss the old days when people didn’t show up wielding AK-47s,” Nico said, “but I’m sure you and your men will do a wonderful job.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in touch as soon as Della Langhe has news for us.” Perillo headed back to the café for a shot of grappa. The cigarette hadn’t helped. Gogol’s revelation had brought back the violence of his childhood—he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t even taste the grappa.
Nico showed up at Sotto Il Fico near the end of the lunch hour. He was hungry and hoping to catch Enzo and Elvira so he could ask them about Gerardi. Enzo was at his usual post behind the bar, making two espressos. Elvira commanded the small room from her rickety gilded armchair in one of her seven housedresses, this one dark gray with pale flowers, matching the gray light of the day. Her hair, freshly dyed, sat like a matte black cap on her head. She didn’t look up from her weekly crossword magazine. Of the five tables in the room, only one was taken, by a German couple, judging by Elvira’s shoe classification. Sandals with socks, soaked through.
“Sit, Nico, sit,” said Enzo as he brought the espressos over to the couple.
Nico leaned his umbrella in a corner by the door and wiped his shoes on the doormat. “Let me say hello to Tilde. She was expecting me later.”
“I hear you,” Tilde called out from the kitchen. “You couldn’t wait, could you?” She sounded angry.
“Sorry. Hunger got the best of me.”
“Is the dog with you?”
“Left him at home. I was afraid it was going to rain again.”
Tilde popped her head out of the door that led to the kitchen. She had wrapped her hair in a blue bandana, and her face was sprinkled with flour. “Too bad. I had some good tidbits for him.”
“I’ll take them home. You’re making pasta?”
“Olive oil cake,” Tilde snapped, and withdrew her head.
“She’s nervous today,” Enzo said apologetically. “Stella’s taking her museum exam Monday afternoon in Florence.”
“Wonderful,” Nico said. “Does she need a ride? I’ll happily drive her there.”
“I wish you could. Gianni’s taking her on his motorbike. He’s suddenly discovered being nice to her pays off.” Enzo leaned over the bar and lowered his voice. “He says he has you to thank. Don’t tell Tilde.”
Nico laughed. “I won’t.”
“Stop muttering, you two, and you, Nico, shouldn’t settle for dog food,” Elvira said. “Tell her to give you the chicken rags.” Her voice was loud enough for Tilde to hear. “It’s an old recipe of mine.”
“It was your mother’s, not yours,” came from the kitchen.
“My mother was mine, therefore the recipe is mine. My cranky daughter-in-law has finally deigned to offer it to our patrons.”
Nico sat down. He knew the chicken would appear without his asking for it. One did not deny Elvira without good reason. Enzo poured him a glass of the house red, an unlabeled Sangiovese that came straight from a barrel. “Now we know who it is. Poor Robi. I knew him. He used to eat here a lot. Mamma had a soft spot for him. Gave him extra portions. Tilde wasn’t in the kitchen then.”
Elvira looked up at her son. “But she was here every day. I was convinced she came here looking for Robi.”
Enzo lifted his arms in exasperation. “Mamma! Stop it. We were engaged already.”
“Well, women often change their minds. In my heart, you are th
e handsomest son a mother could have, but Robi, well, ‘la donna è mobile,’ as Signor Verdi puts it.” She closed her eyes as if to summon the past. “An Adonis with charm, Robi could inflame any heart, even mine, which as you know is diamond-hard.” She lifted her chin with unabashed pride.
Nico laughed. “Elvira, yours is all an act.”
“It isn’t in the least.” This time all of Tilde appeared at the door, her face now clean of flour. Underneath a long, white chef’s apron, she wore a burgundy dress with ruffled sleeves. “Tell the truth, Elvira. You were hoping I’d fall in love with that horrible man so I wouldn’t marry your son.”
Elvira went back to her crossword magazine.
“Chicken rags coming in a minute.” Tilde disappeared again.
Nico waited while the Germans settled the bill with Enzo. Once they’d left, he asked Enzo to sit with him. Enzo obliged.
“Was Gerardi horrible?” Nico asked.
“No, the opposite in my view. He boasted about his conquests, which is what turned Tilde off, but it was just talk. He was in love with someone.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No, not in words. I’d known him since we were kids. He was older, and I used to look up to him. He was nice to the younger kids. He gave us soccer lessons, refereed our games. He brought us cookies his sister made. He was always kind of serious, but once in a while, all he would do was smile. I thought he was getting high. I got up the courage to ask him if he was doing marijuana or something. He laughed. ‘No, a much stronger drug. The strongest drug there is.’ I assumed he was talking about love.”
“Or heroin,” Tilde chimed in from the kitchen.
Elvira looked up from her crossword. “Robi was clean. A good man.”
Nico asked Enzo, “When was this? How long before he left?”
“At least two years. I hadn’t fallen in love yet, and I wanted to ask him questions, but he never spoke about it again after that once. Said I’d find out soon enough. And I did, when I met Tilde.”
“Love was no drug for you,” Elvira remarked. “You burn a low flame.”
“Which lasts much longer than a bonfire.” Tilde placed the chicken rags plate in front of Nico and kissed her husband’s head. “I love that low flame and always will. It kept me sane. Still does.”
Nico thought of Rita. She had kept him sane too, but her love had been strong. He took a bite of the chicken. “It’s very good.”
Elvira puffed up her chest. “Of course it is.”
“Why the name ‘chicken rags’?”
“The chicken breast is sliced very thin and sautéed with radicchio, cut into strips. A little olive oil, salt and pepper, a dose of balsamic vinegar, push it around the hot skillet and serve. It ends up looking like rags. There’s a beef dish with arugula that’s done the same way, but without the vinegar. Simple, easy to eat and good for you.”
“Thank you. It’s delicious. I’ll try making this at home, and if I ever write a cookbook, I’ll call it ‘Elvira’s chicken rags.’”
“No, ‘Elvira’s mother’s chicken rags.’ Give credit where it’s due.”
“What was your mother’s name?”
“Giuseppina Gioia Maria Consolazione. But stick to ‘Elvira’s mother.’”
Nico drank the wine and finished the rags. While Enzo made him a coffee, Nico turned to Elvira. “What was Robi like, besides being clean and good.”
“Why?”
“Curiosity.”
Elvira crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t lie to me, Nico. The whole town knows you’re helping that idiot Perillo. He needs all the help he can get, and if you want my opinion, find the woman Robi loved and you might have your killer.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Enzo is right. Robi was very much in love. He told me so himself, but when I asked who she was, I got the silence of a tomb. Why not tell me?”
“Maybe she was married.”
“Or engaged.”
Tilde strode out of the kitchen. “Are you implying”—she stopped at Elvira’s feet, towering over her—“what I think you’re implying?” Her voice was knife-sharp.
Elvira stiffened and looked up at her daughter-in-law. “Well, we don’t know who this great love was, do we? And Robi did come here a lot.”
“He came here for good inexpensive food and to chat with his childhood friend, your son.” Tilde dropped down on her haunches. “Elvira, why do you hate me so much?” Her voice was soft now.
Elvira riffled through the pages of her magazine.
Tilde put her hands on Elvira’s lap. “I have a heart as hard as yours. The only person you’re hurting by hating me is your son.”
Elvira looked up with wet eyes. “I miss my husband. He won’t be coming back. I miss my son even more.”
Enzo walked over to his mother and squeezed her shoulder. “Mamma, we spend most of every day together.”
“You go home with her.”
Tilde stood up and retreated to the kitchen. Nico followed her. “I’m sorry you had to witness that,” she said, slipping the olive cake into the oven.
“I wanted to give the three of you some privacy, but I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.” He’d hated every moment of the exchange. It brought back the memory of the conflicts between his own parents, which had always ended the same way.
Tilde wiped the counter clean of flour. “Italian mothers and sons can never be separated. She still insists on doing his laundry and ironing his shirts, which is fine with me. Less housework.” With the counter cleaned, she untied her apron. “I’ve set the oven alarm for the cake. Let’s go outside. It’s cooler and out of earshot.”
“Enzo won’t mind?”
“He doesn’t need me. We have this confrontation three or four times a year. She makes some especially nasty remark, I ask her why she hates me, she goes into her ‘My son no longer loves me’ nonsense. Enzo reassures her of his undying devotion, and for a month or so, she’s nice to me. Then it starts again. My husband has the patience of Sisyphus.”
Nico laughed. “Rita liked to claim that for herself whenever I left a mess.”
“I know full well my lovely aunt was a neat freak. Remember the time she came in here at dawn and scrubbed down the already perfectly clean kitchen? I’ll admit, the pots gleamed for months.”
They walked outside. The storm clouds had floated away. The leaves of the fig tree still drooped, dripping their morning’s load of rain onto the metal tables and chairs, making soothing plink sounds.
“Wasn’t Sisyphus punished for testing his wife’s love?” Nico asked.
“I don’t know, but Enzo’s mother certainly tests mine.” She opened the small window that allowed whoever was in the kitchen to see the tables. Now she would be able to hear the oven alarm. “Enzo told you about Stella?”
“Yes. She’s taking the exam on Monday.”
“God, I pray she gets in. It’s not a great job, but it’s a start. If you still lived in America, I would have asked you to sponsor her. She’s such a bright girl, and I don’t want her stuck with a self-serving jerk like Gianni. He has no ambition, perfectly happy to label wine bottles for the rest of his life.”
“If Stella loves him, though, that’s what matters, isn’t it?”
“That’s the thing. I’m not sure she does. And he’s noticed it. That’s why he’s being so nice to her.” She leaned her head against Nico’s shoulder. “I know, enough. Stella will have to sort out her life by herself, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have jellyfish in my stomach.” She straightened her back and met Nico’s gaze. “You’re here for a reason that has little to do with hunger. I’m ready for the interrogation now.”
“I won’t ask any questions if you don’t want me to.”
She tapped her shoulder against his arm. “Ehi, what kind of detective are you?
”
“A lousy one.” He’d always been diligent at his job, but never a star. He didn’t have the necessary ambition or hardness. “You’re family. I don’t want to pry.”
“If you don’t, Salvatore will. I’d prefer it be you. Ask away. I have nothing to hide.”
“Elvira implied––”
Tilde finished the sentence for him: “That I was Robi’s secret lover. I wasn’t.”
“Do you know who was?”
Tilde stretched out her arm and held her palm up to catch a raindrop from the tree. “I don’t.”
Nico suspected Tilde was lying. Her posture had gone completely rigid, the outstretched arm trembling. If she did know, Tilde must have her reasons for not telling him. He wouldn’t push her for the name. Not today, at least. “Gerardi had a gold bracelet in his pocket when he died, a bracelet he’d bought a few days earlier in Radda. It had a charm with the date January first, 1997, engraved on it.”
Tilde withdrew her arm and looked at the one drop that had fallen in her palm. She could see a fraction of her life line through it. She blew on the drop, and it broke apart. That date explained why—no, it had to be a simple coincidence. January 1, 1997, was a date she would never forget. “That’s the day I told Enzo I would leave him if he didn’t marry me. I gave him a month.”
“Weren’t you engaged already?”
“A we’ll-get-married-someday kind of engagement. Mamma Elvira was holding on tight. I finally got fed up. We got married three weeks later. Elvira has never forgiven me for strong-arming her precious son.”
“No regrets?”
“I’ve got a good husband and a wonderful stubborn daughter, what else could I wish for? I ignore Elvira. So, what else do you want to ask me?”
“I heard some disturbing news from Gogol that might be able to help us with the case. He says he witnessed Gerardi raping a woman.”
Tilde’s face blanched. “A rape? Did he say who she was?”
“No. He was completely silent after that. He was upset he didn’t do anything to help her.”
“No.” Tilde’s hand swiped the air in front of her. “No, I don’t believe it. Gogol gets confused. His mind doesn’t work properly. I refuse to believe a woman was raped. It’s too ugly, too cruel. Let’s not talk about it anymore, please.” Tilde walked back inside, Nico right behind her. “Let me deal just with chicken rags, olive oil cakes and tonight’s dinner menu. I don’t want your help tonight. Go to Greve and taste all the wines at the Chianti Expo. No more talk of hideous crimes, please.”
Murder in Chianti Page 19
