“No, thanks.”
“Where’s Rocco?”
Nico shifted weight from one foot to the other. He had the feeling this wasn’t a friendly visit. “I left OneWag home. Why did you come here? You have news?”
“No. I was hoping you had something to tell me.”
Nico stopped himself from speaking. It was impossible to remain loyal to Tilde and be truthful with Perillo.
Noticing how tense Nico was, Perillo put a hand on his shoulder. “Halfway down the hill, there’s a side street that leads to a terrace with benches. A good place to talk, unless couples have gotten there first.”
The terrace was empty. They sat on the bench closest to the railing. In front of them was a sea of black, dotted with a few distant lights. Crickets made their usual racket.
“You once asked me why I became a carabiniere,” Perillo said in a low, soft voice. “I gave you an incomplete answer.”
“I don’t need to know.” One intimate revelation would demand another.
“I want you to know. You noticed a reaction of mine when you told me about Gogol witnessing a rape. I heard the surprise in your voice, just as I heard the lie when you said you were working at the restaurant tonight. I’m certain you have the same ability. It’s a skill that comes with our work, from years of watching reactions, listening to lies.”
“Yes, I’ve counted on that ability, but I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”
“Don’t we all? I felt like one big mistake as a kid. I had a mother who didn’t give a damn and no idea who my father was. So I lived on the streets, grabbing food from garbage cans, stealing whatever I could get away with. When I was eleven, I got caught with my hand in a woman’s handbag by a carabiniere, Maresciallo Francesco Esposito. Instead of dragging me to the station, he took me home to his wife. He cleaned me up, fed me and told me what I made of my life was up to me, that I had choices. ‘Stay with us for a month, follow our way of life and see if you like it. If not, you’re free to leave.’”
“That’s a pretty easy choice.”
“Yes, if you have at least a shadow of common sense. I ran away after two nights. I missed my street friends, especially this wonderful girl, Ginetta. She was older, thirteen or fourteen, and always looked after me. If she had food or money, she shared it with me. And I did the same with her. I went looking for her and didn’t find her. My street pals avoided me. I thought it was because I’d stayed with the maresciallo for two nights.”
“They saw that as a betrayal?”
“That’s what I thought, but I kept asking where Ginetta was, and finally Mimmo—he was the oldest of the group—told me the truth. Ginetta had gone looking for me in another part of town. The carabinieri found her hanging from a tree wearing only her bra. She’d been gang raped. Afterward, she tore her dress into strips to commit suicide.” Perillo leaned back on the bench and pressed a hand against his eyes.
Nico had no words.
Perillo slowly took another cigarette from his pack and lit it. “I was ready to kill. I wanted to find whoever they were, smash their heads in, slash them to pieces. I wandered all over Pozzuoli, asking questions armed with a knife. I got beaten up for it more than once, but finally I remembered the man who took me in. A week later, I was at his door. If anyone was going to find Ginetta’s rapists, it was his people. He took me back in and promised the carabinieri would look for them.”
“Were they ever found?”
Perillo shook his head and took a long drag of his cigarette. “Ginetta, Francesco and his wife, Bice, made me a carabiniere. I still miss all three of them.”
“Francesco and his wife died?”
“Yes, nine years later. One after the other in a matter of weeks. Cancer.”
Nico eyed Perillo’s cigarette pack. Perillo handed it over.
Nico took a cigarette and lit it. “Thanks.” They leaned back on the bench and listened to the crickets for a few moments.
“As you know, I was kicked off the police force,” Nico said.
“The reason for that is yours to keep.”
“One confession merits another. Rita was dying when I did what I did. My captain found out from my partner and offered me a deal. Instead of publicly denouncing me, which could have gotten me a two-year jail stint and given his leadership a bad name, he officially kicked me off the force for some trumped-up infraction.”
“And the deal?”
“Keep my mouth shut.”
“Fair enough. Any regrets?”
“I miss some of the men I worked with. I miss not helping to find justice, but what I did was right, so no, no regrets.”
“I’m glad,” Perillo said. “And now, to our problem at hand. I’ve been trying to understand the reason for the date on the charm bracelet. Could it have to do with the rape Gogol witnessed? I thought it was perhaps a birthday instead, but Daniele’s checked the birth records of Gravigna and nearby towns. Gravigna, zero births. In nearby towns, seven boys. I doubt the bracelet’s for them. Have you spoken to Gogol again?”
“I have.”
“Did he tell you when he witnessed the assault?”
“I didn’t ask. I should have, but I didn’t want to upset him again. I’m sorry.”
“Please talk to him if you can—the information he has is very likely what we need to solve this case. I should be the one to ask, but I’m not his friend. I’d get Dante for an answer, and I don’t believe The Divine Comedy talks of dates.” Perillo noticed Nico had withdrawn, become a reluctant investigative partner, and after seeing Stella tonight, Perillo thought he knew why. “Gogol knows who the woman is, then.”
“If he does, he didn’t tell me.”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
Nico said nothing.
“I understand,” Perillo said. Family came first. “You’re under no obligation to tell me anything.” And maybe he was wrong. Stella’s green eyes weren’t necessarily proof. Perillo put out his cigarette and stood up. “Good night, Nico. Tomorrow or Monday, we’ll know more. I’ll call you as soon as that information comes in.”
Nico looked up. It was too dark for Perillo to see if there was surprise on his face. “We’re still in this together, yes?” Perillo asked.
Nico slowly nodded, a gesture Perillo guessed at rather than saw.
Late Sunday night in Greve in Chianti, the madhouse of the Chianti Classico Expo was over for another year. How many tickets and wine had been sold would be tallied Monday and bragged about Friday in the regional paper. The sixty-one exhibitors were gone, their stands dismantled. The carabinieri had gone home as well. A tired sanitation crew was busy putting Piazza Matteotti back to its pristine condition. Under one of the arches, Maria Dorsetti sat at a café table. The café was closed, but she had convinced Yunas to leave one table out for her. In the spur of the moment, she had splurged on a bottle of Fontalloro. At home, she would have been alone. Here she watched the crew working and the people sauntering home. The wine was an extravagance, but money was coming her way. Robi had no one but her. She knew he hadn’t married. He’d told her as much in one of his emails after she’d asked. She deserved this money. She deserved this superb wine. It was her time to get.
At the farmhouse, Nico roasted the red, yellow and orange peppers he’d bought that morning at the Panzano market. He was discovering that cooking absorbed him and pushed any other thoughts, pleasant or not, away. He wanted to offer Tilde a new recipe. It was time-consuming but worth it, he hoped.
Once the skins had blackened, Nico removed the peppers from the oven and sealed them in a sturdy paper bag to let them steam. It made it easier to remove the skin. Once cleaned of skin and seeds, each half was laid out on a cutting board and joined by some crumbled sausage meat and onion Nico had sautéed earlier. He carefully attempted to roll the pepper half around the meat, but the filling kept falling out or the pepper tearing. Another fiasco.
Nico washed his hands, poured himself half a glass of wine and went out to sit on the terrace. OneWag followed.
Nico lifted the dog onto his lap. He needed to think how he could protect Tilde and Stella once Perillo figured it out. It was clear he was already suspicious. All he could do was stand by them and beg the maresciallo to be discreet.
At eleven o’clock that Sunday night, Daniele and Perillo were still in the maresciallo’s office. To pass the time, Perillo was teaching Daniele how to play Scopa, a card game Neapolitans loved. Emptied dishes sat piled on the maresciallo’s desk. His wife had sent down dinner, a dish called “stingy spaghetti” because it had no meat, just garlic, oil, pecorino, potatoes and string beans. Perillo was too anxious for news to care what he ate, but Daniele happily cleaned his plate. He was now beginning to figure out how to use the strange-looking cards when Perillo’s phone rang. The maresciallo rushed to answer, scattering his cards on the floor.
Barbara from Della Langhe’s office in Florence was on the phone. Gerardi’s lawyer hadn’t sent anything yet, and she was going home. “I’m sorry, Salvatore, but you have to remember that California is nine hours behind Italian time. The chances of anything coming through tonight are very slim. Unfortunately, tomorrow Della Langhe will be back, and I’ll have to show whatever information comes in to him first. I can’t sneak anything to you.”
A tired and frustrated Perillo let out a string of obscenities.
“Salvatore, please understand, it’s too big a risk,” Barbara protested. “That man is waiting for the chance to get rid of me and replace me with some young busty blonde.” Barbara was fifty-two and liked to boast an airplane could land on her chest.
“Forgive me, Barbara. Of course I understand. Thank you for giving up your Sunday.”
“Glad to. Gave me a chance to read a good book in holy peace. Let’s keep our fingers crossed the information comes in overnight. The boss never gets to the office before ten. I’ll get in at eight, and if anything has come through during the night, I’ll send it over directly.”
“Good idea, thanks.”
“Good night, Salvatore. Golden dreams. Give a kiss to Dani.”
“You too. Good night.” Perillo put the receiver down and stood up.
Daniele handed him the cards he’d picked up from the floor. “Tomorrow’s the day, then.” He was unable to hide the relief in his voice. They could quit waiting. He was having a hard time keeping his eyes open, and he had never liked playing cards. He always lost.
“Tomorrow, the next day, who the hell knows.” Perillo threw the collected cards on his desk. “Our beds are calling. Check your machine by eight tomorrow morning, in case Barbara has sent something. By the way, she sends you a kiss.”
Daniele’s eyebrows swept up. “Why? She doesn’t know me.”
“She thinks you have a sexy voice.”
Daniele’s cheeks responded for him.
“Good night, Dani.”
In a dream that night, it was Rosalba who thought Daniele’s voice was sexy. Even in sleep, he blushed.
SIXTEEN
At eight fifteen Monday morning, chewing on a ciambella filled with strawberry jam, Daniele turned on his computer. He was able to take two more bites before the desktop came on. Jam dribbled on his chin as he clicked on Barbara’s email. “Good morning,” followed by two emojis—a thumbs-up and a kiss. She had included an email from the lawyer with an attachment labeled “The Last Will and Testament of Robert Garrett.”
Daniele’s stomach did a flip as he knuckled the jam off his chin, put what was left of the ciambella aside and sat down. The lawyer’s email had come in on Monday, 5:15 a.m. Italian time. In his email, the lawyer explained that the banks were closed Sundays, and so he was unable to access the safe deposit box. He planned to go to the bank on Monday afternoon after taking care of some urgent matters regarding other clients. He left his phone number in case there were any questions.
After taking a deep breath, Daniele clicked download and called the maresciallo.
At Bar All’Angolo, Nico was having his usual breakfast with one eye on the door, hoping to see Gogol shuffle in with his overcoat and overpowering cologne. Instead, Nelli walked in, bringing with her the smell of oil paints and Marseille soap. Not an unpleasant combination, thought Nico as he pulled out a chair for her. He was glad to see her, and Gogol would be too, were he to come by.
“Sorry, I’ve been working,” Nelli said as OneWag jumped onto her lap. An orange streak adorned her cheek. Multicolored dabs covered her T-shirt. She wore no makeup. “I have a small show at the art center next week. I hope you’ll come?”
“I’ll be glad to, though I don’t know much about painting.”
“In my case, that’s good. I did a small portrait of this little guy—it didn’t come out too badly. I see he’s wearing his collar today.”
“He took to it right away but not the leash. Whenever I attach it, he lies down and refuses to budge.”
“He wants to maintain the freedom of being a stray.” Nelli’s wide eyes, a light, transparent brown flecked with black, rested on Nico’s face for a moment. “You look a little glum. I hope it’s not because of Gogol. You have to give him time. He knows you’re a friend.”
How to answer. He couldn’t tell her what made him sad. He took a bite of his cornetto, chewed slowly and swallowed. An idea came to him. “I failed at cooking a dish. More than one, in fact. My last attempt was roasted peppers rollatini stuffed with sausage and onions.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“It sounded delicious to me too. I wanted to surprise Tilde and offer it to the restaurant. It’s labor-intensive but relaxing. I was so sure it would work out, which shows how arrogant I am.”
“Mix everything together and add some Parmigiano Reggiano, and you’ve got a wonderful sauce for any pasta.”
Nico smiled at Nelli. “Fantastic. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you were so focused on one thing, you didn’t consider the other possibilities. It’s a male weakness, I think.”
“Not this male.” Perillo suddenly appeared behind Nelli. He was dressed in a freshly pressed plaid shirt, pressed jeans and his usual suede boots. “A one-track mind wouldn’t get me far in my job. Good morning to the two of you.”
“Ciao, Salvatore,” Nelli said. “You look sleepy.” She looked at both the men and sensed she was now a third wheel. She put the dog down and started to stand. Perillo stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“No need to leave. I just need Nico to translate something into English for me. I’ll bring him back.”
Nelli got up anyway. “I have work to do.” She resented Salvatore’s assumption that she wanted Nico to come back, even if it was true.
As Nico went to pay for his breakfast, Perillo said, “I have a question for you, Nelli. Nico told me what Gogol asked you.” He didn’t want to utter the word “rape” in front of a woman. “It makes me think Gogol really did witness the violence.”
Nelli gripped his arm. “You have to believe him. He doesn’t invent things.”
“Did he tell you when it happened?”
She let go of his arm. “Nothing specific that I remember. He asked me about it maybe three weeks or a month before Robi left.”
“Thank you.”
Nico came back. “Ciao, Nelli. Thanks for the cooking tip. I’ll try to keep my mind open to all the possibilities.”
“I’m counting on it,” Perillo said as Nelli watched them walk out. She realized that she was counting on it too.
“You have news?” Nico asked, feeling his stomach clench.
Perillo nodded and kept walking until the two men and the dog reached the terrace where they had spoken last night. Luckily, it was still empty.
They sat on the same bench, which in daylight offered a view of the rooftops of the newer part of town. Beyond them, a dis
tant patchwork of vineyards, each one going in a different direction. OneWag scouted the area for interesting tidbits, found none and wandered off.
“The lawyer scanned the will over,” Perillo said. “We got it this morning. The sister inherits seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which sounds like a good motive to me. Gerardi’s manager and three employees get the winery and vineyards and three million dollars to run it. They all knew Gerardi was dying, which removes any reason to have him killed.”
Greed wasn’t the only reason people killed, but Nico wasn’t going to point that out. “Didn’t Maria Dorsetti know he was dying?”
“Not according to her statement. She said she hadn’t been in contact with her brother in four years, since her husband died.”
“You only have her word for that.”
“That’s true. There are generous bequests to the gardener, the housekeeper, other employees. Our victim was a very generous man. Even Aldo gets something. I guess it’s penance money for the wine Gerardi siphoned off and the loan.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars. Not enough to kill for.”
“Thank God. I like my landlord.”
“There’s more. Remember the piece of land next to Aldo’s property? Where Gerardi got killed?”
“The one Aldo had tested for planting vines?”
“Yes, where the ground was decreed too loamy for wine making. Gerardi bought it eighteen months ago. Maybe Daniele was right to suggest the people who tested the ground were paid to declare the land wasn’t wine-friendly.”
“If so, that puts Aldo back on the suspect list.”
“Daniele is getting another tester to check the ground.”
Nico stood up and walked the perimeter of the terrace. “Need to stretch my legs. I ran too far this morning.” What might come next was getting to him. There was nothing wrong with his knees. “So,” he said, on his second round. “Who gets the land?”
“The will predates Gerardi acquiring the land. The lawyer added the information because he thought it might be connected to the murder.”
Murder in Chianti Page 24
