Murder in Chianti

by Camilla Trinchieri

  Caught off guard, he waved, cheeks flaring. It wasn’t dignified brigadiere behavior, but she had smiled at him despite what had to be a broken heart.

  Daniele was wrong. Stella felt much better now that she’d gotten Gianni off her chest and her heart. She had the urge to skip out of the carabinieri station, do cartwheels in the park out front. She’d done the right thing. Where there was love, there was trust. Watching her parents had taught her that. Her love for Gianni had been dwindling for some time, and now it was over. Finished. Later on she might cry a little, or even a lot, because she’d be alone. Right now, she was her strongest self.

  As Stella walked toward the door, she asked Nico, “Why is a poor rabbit’s foot lucky?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Tilde waited until the door had closed to sit down again. With arms folded, she gazed at the man she knew not as a maresciallo of the carabinieri, but as Salvatore, who loved her pappa al pomodoro and argued about Sunday soccer moves on Mondays with Enzo. He was fumbling with a sheet of paper, clearly uncomfortable. She was about to put him out of his misery when the bar boy walked in carrying a tray with a water bottle, an empty plastic cup filled with sugar packets and five plastic cups of coffee.

  “The espressos, Maresciallo.”

  “You took your time,” Perillo grumbled, eyes still on his desk. He didn’t know the best way to start with Tilde. With the dead man’s crime? With the hastily drafted new will? The will, yes. It would naturally segue to the rest.

  “Sorry, Maresciallo. Where shall I put them?”

  Perillo looked up. “Renzino!” He raised his eyebrows, held them high, exaggerating his shock. “What the hell have you done to yourself?” The boy’s appearance was a welcome distraction. “You used to be a handsome kid.” He had completely shaved both sides of his head. The top boasted a mop of fire-truck-red hair.

  Renzino’s deep laugh wobbled the tray, almost spilling the coffees.

  Tilde quickly took the tray from him and placed it on one side of Perillo’s desk.

  Perillo’s eyebrows relaxed. “What did your mother say?”

  Another rumble of laughter from Renzino’s nearly sumo-sized belly. “This was her doing.”

  “She must love you very much. Close the door behind you, and have Vince pay you from the petty cash fund. I’ll bring the tray back later.” Perillo looked at the five espressos at his elbow and offered Tilde a smile. “Two each. That’s good.”

  “None for me.” Tilde uncapped the water, emptied the cup with sugar packets, poured from the bottle and drank.

  In the far corner, Daniele did not move to pick up his espresso. He knew what was coming was embarrassingly private and hoped Tilde would forget his presence.

  Silence followed while Perillo drank the first coffee, then the second. “Did you have any contact with Gerardi after he left Italy?”

  “No.”

  “He never wrote to ask how you were?”

  “No.”

  “It seems he got that information from his sister. Gerardi discovered he had a short time to live and came home. But he didn’t come here to die. He was flying back to California the day he was killed. I need to know what brought him back after twenty-two years if I am to solve his murder.”

  “He didn’t come back for me.”

  Perillo knew he was talking in circles, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask the question. “Did you have any reason to hate him?”

  “Not one enough to kill him.”

  Perillo stood up. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” He took the evidence bag with the hundred-dollar bill and quickly walked to the door. In the corridor, he signaled Vince, who came forward with his heavy, rocking gait. “Get in the car and rush this to the lab in Florence. Have them check for blood and fingerprints. Tell them we need the results yesterday.” That message delivered, Perillo stepped outside to light a cigarette. This time, he needed strength more than concentration. After two long drags, he put the cigarette out under his heel and went back in.

  “Sorry,” Perillo said, sitting back down behind his desk.

  Tilde closed her eyes. “Why don’t I just tell you what you want to know?”

  After a moment, she reopened them and wet her lips. “In 1996, I went to a New Year’s Eve party that Nelli Corsi was throwing.” She spoke with no inflection in her voice, as if she was telling a story she had no interest in. “I was supposed to go with Enzo. I was engaged to him by then, but he came down with the flu.”

  Tilde took another sip of water. Why not just say it in three words? She looked down at her cup. It was empty now.

  “I wanted to ring in the New Year with him anyway,” she continued, “but his mother wouldn’t let me, so I went to the party by myself. There were about twenty of us. Sandro and Jimmy from the café. Luciana, Enrico. Robi, who looked miserable. Nelli was in love with him then and tried to cheer him up. We drank, ate, danced to records. It was fun. The New Year came, we all kissed each other and it was over. Outside, it had started snowing lightly. I’d come on foot, and my family lived on the outskirts of town. It was a twenty-minute walk. Friends offered me a ride, but I said no. I’ve always liked walking, even in bad weather, and I’d had too much to drink. The walk would clear my head. I’d just passed Aldo’s winery when Robi came up beside me in his car.”

  Listening to her, Perillo thought of Ginetta. If she were still alive, would she be telling her story years later in the same mechanical way? Would she still be screaming?

  “He offered to take me home. I told him I was enjoying myself, that I was nearly there already. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I need someone to talk to.’” She could still hear his soft, pleading voice. “He’d seemed so down at the party, I couldn’t say no.”

  “He drove for a minute or two and stopped the car next to the small chapel at the edge of the road. He said he knew Enzo’s parents owned Sotto Il Fico and asked me if I was marrying Enzo for money. No, I said. Would I marry him if he was dirt poor, he asked. No, I would wait until we both had good jobs. I wanted to have children. He told me I was a liar, that all women wanted was money. I argued with him. He called me a whore and slapped me, then dragged me out of the car. I was screaming and fighting, but Robi was very strong. Yes, Roberto Gerardi raped me. That’s all you wanted to know, isn’t it?”

  Perillo looked down at his papers, feeling shame.

  “He raped me, but I didn’t kill him.”

  Perillo held out the sheet he’d been fumbling with earlier. “This was found in Gerardi’s safe deposit box in California.”

  Tilde put the empty water cup on the desk and took the sheet. It was a printout of a handwritten letter. She read it twice before putting the paper down. “He wanted to leave three million dollars and ninety acres of land in the town of Gravigna to his daughter, Stella Morelli?” Her voice had turned into a rasp.

  “Unfortunately for Stella, it’s not legal as it is not signed or witnessed,” Perillo said, “but he did want to make this his last will and testament. He had an appointment with his lawyer for the day after his death.”

  “The man was delusional!” Tilde slammed the draft of the will on the desk. “Even if he had signed it”—her face was white with anger—“Stella would never have taken that money.”

  “It would have changed her life. Yours and Enzo’s.”

  “My Stella is not his daughter.”

  “She was born nine months after the rape, give or take a few days.”

  “She was born premature.”

  “Her eyes are the same color as Robi’s.” Thanks to Daniele’s research he could add, “Only two percent of the world’s population has green eyes.”

  “Stella’s eyes are the same color as Enzo’s grandmother’s.” Tilde filled the empty cup with water again and drank all of it down. Some color returned to her face. “Stop being the maresciallo for a moment. What are
you getting at, Salvatore? Do you really think I could shoot a man’s face off?”

  “I’m getting at something you don’t want to say out loud.”

  “What? I’ll repeat it over and over until there’s no breath left in me. I didn’t kill the man who raped me. And I never told anyone I was raped. Not a single person.” It was a lie, but she wanted to keep Enzo out of this. She had told him only after he’d found the paper results from the lab. He had cried with happiness. She hadn’t realized that he too had had doubts about being Stella’s father. On January 1, 1997, they’d been engaged for five months but had not yet made love.

  “How are you so sure Stella isn’t Gerardi’s daughter?”

  Tilde crushed the plastic cup in her fist.

  Perillo turned to Daniele, crouched behind his computer, inputting Tilde’s words. “Dani, please take the bar tray back. They’re in short supply over there.”

  Daniele shot up, grabbed the tray and happily rushed out of the office. Tilde’s story had upset his stomach.

  “Thank you,” Tilde said.

  Perillo acknowledged her thanks with a nod.

  “To answer your question, I had Stella’s DNA tested. They confirmed she was Enzo’s daughter, as I had hoped. If you want, I can show you the lab report.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Why didn’t you want to tell me?”

  “You don’t understand the shame I’ve experienced. Of being raped first of all. And again, for doubting she was Enzo’s daughter. A mother should know.”

  “You had every reason to doubt. Thank you for bringing in the hundred-dollar bill, and thank you for telling me the truth.”

  “You believe me, then.”

  “I do.”

  “Will you question Gianni?”

  He spread his hands in a gesture of regret. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss police matters with you.”

  Tilde rose from her seat and took back her tweezers from the desk. “Well, I’m glad to hear it’s a police matter.”

  Perillo stood up and took Tilde’s hand. A good, solid woman who had gone through something no one deserved.

  “Take care of yourself, Tilde.”

  “I don’t have to. I have a good husband and a wonderful daughter, and Zia Rita has left me the gift of Nico. Bring your wife to the restaurant every once in a while. She deserves a night off.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  Perillo walked Tilde to her car. As soon as she drove off, he smoked a quick cigarette. Daniele walked back from the lounge. “Get into uniform,” Perillo ordered. “We’re paying an official call. Meet you at the car in ten minutes.”

  Upstairs, Perillo hurriedly got into his own uniform and went to the kitchen, where Signora Perillo was sautéing onions. “I’m not going to make it back for lunch.”

  She kept stirring without even turning around.

  On the counter next to the stove, Perillo noticed a box of Arborio rice. “What am I missing?”

  “Risotto with porcini mushrooms.”

  “What bad luck! Can you make it for dinner instead?”

  “You might not be here for dinner, either. I’ll save you some.”

  He kissed the back of her head. “I’ll miss you.”

  “You’ll miss my risotto.”

  He gave her behind a loving pat. “That too.”

  EIGHTEEN

  At the Ferriello Winery, Perillo found Aldo watching over the machine that placed perfectly positioned labels on his wine bottles. In the open adjoining room, Arben was stacking bottles in wooden crates with two Kosovian helpers. “We’ve got a big shipment going off to China in two days,” Aldo said.

  Daniele stood near the machine, transfixed by its seamless automation. His grandfather had labeled his wines with a brush and a bottle of glue, but then, he produced a maximum of thirty bottles in a good year.

  “Why the uniforms? Are you here to arrest me?” Aldo had a grin on his face. The Chinese order they were fulfilling was a big one.

  “No, we need to talk to Gianni.”

  “He came in this morning in a coal-black mood. What’s he done?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “He works for me. Of course I worry about it. Anyway, you missed him. He ran off about ten minutes ago.” Aldo kept his eyes locked on the labeler. It was an old machine, and sometimes it hiccupped, mangling the labels. “Bad timing on his part, but I remember what it’s like to have troubles in love, so I let him go. I expect him back in half an hour. Cinzia’s in the reception room. She’ll give the two of you a glass of red while you wait.”

  “Thanks, but we have to attend to something else. Call me when he gets back, but please don’t mention to him that we’ve come by. That goes for Arben too.”

  Aldo looked up with a frown. “This sounds serious.”

  “It isn’t, but some people get nervous about a visit from the carabinieri.”

  Back in the car, Perillo called Nico. “Are you at the restaurant?”

  “Outside.” He had gone there hoping to find out from Tilde how her conversation with Perillo had gone.

  “You can’t talk?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Gianni’s there.”

  “Very much so.”

  “Keep him there. We’re coming.”

  “Who was that?” Gianni asked Nico, his handsome face scrunched up with suspicion.

  Nico slipped the cell phone in his back pocket. “Luciana, the florist.”

  Tilde had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and told Nico, “Keep him out of my restaurant.”

  Gianni heard her and leaned against the wall under the lamp outside the front door, resigned to waiting. “It’s the only exit,” he muttered to himself.

  Nico grabbed Gianni’s arm and led him to the church steps, always a good place to talk, maybe even to get him to come to his senses. Perillo could take his time. There was no danger of Gianni leaving, not until Stella was present to hear him out. “Come on, let’s sit.”

  Gianni let himself be pushed down onto the steps.

  “Stella is rightfully upset, you agree with that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, yes! I was awful, but she has to understand that she’s my woman. She’s mine and I’m hers. I’m going to marry her. She can’t just leave me. It’s not fair.”

  “Why were you so upset when you couldn’t find the money?”

  “It’s what I was going to use to pay for the hotel. We were going to celebrate. She just didn’t understand how important it was for me.”

  “The celebration or the money?”

  Gianni turned to stare at Nico like he was dumb. “Both. I needed one for the other.”

  “Your reaction was very strong.”

  “And how would you have reacted? I put the money in the backpack, and when I went to get it, the money was gone. The only other person who had access to the backpack was Stella. What was I supposed to think, that it flew away?”

  “Maybe that it dropped out the way it dropped out from somebody’s wallet or pocket in the supermarket. That’s how you found it, isn’t it?”

  Gianni looked at Nico with narrowed eyes. “Stella talks too much. And so do you.” He leaned back on the stairs, crossed his arms and didn’t say another word.

  Eight or ten minutes later, Perillo and Daniele appeared from the side street next to the church. “Gianni Baldi.”

  Gianni sat up and stared at the two carabinieri standing above him. “That’s me.”

  Perillo introduced himself and Daniele. “I have some questions I need to ask you.”

  Gianni scrambled to his feet. “God, don’t tell me Stella filed a complaint against me. I only yelled at her. I didn’t touch a hair on her head, I swear it.”

  “Your treatment of Stella is not the reason we’re here. Your home is just down th
e hill. Anyone home now?”

  “No. My parents are at work.”

  “Good.” Parents only got in the way. “We found the hundred-dollar bill.”

  Gianni’s face did not light up. “Where?”

  “A woman brought it in.”

  “Where was it?”

  “That’s not important. Let’s talk at your home.”

  “Like hell it isn’t. Stella is going to chop my head off.”

  “Hasn’t she already?” An unnecessary comment, Perillo realized too late.

  “You talked to her?”

  “Let’s just say I heard a rumor.”

  Gianni started stomping his feet on the cobblestone. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  “Let’s go to your place.”

  “You want to know about that money? I found it. Right on the floor of the Greve Coop, that’s all there is to it.”

  “I need a few more details.”

  “Can’t this wait? I need to talk to Stella.”

  “Afterward.”

  “I need to go back to work. We’re preparing a big shipment to China. Three thousand bottles.”

  “Afterward.”

  Gianni glanced at the door of the restaurant, probably hoping Stella would appear. “Can’t we talk here? Nico’s a friend.”

  Perillo held out his arm to usher the way. “Let’s go.”

  Gianni turned to Nico. “You come too. I want you as a witness.”

  Perillo snorted. “We’re not going to beat you up. Answer a few questions and it’s all over.”

  “I don’t trust anyone in uniform. If it’s only questions, you can ask them here.”

  “Come on, Gianni. Love can wait.”

  Gianni dug his heels into the cobblestones. “Not without Nico.”

  Perillo let out a long, noisy sigh for effect. He was happy to have Nico come along. The more eyes and ears, the better. “All right. Nico, you come too.”

  Gianni, sandwiched between the two carabinieri, walked halfway down the hill. Nico followed. Going along suited him fine, but he had to remember to keep his mouth shut and be the fly on the wall. In the meantime, two questions whirled in his head like lotto numbers waiting to be extracted from their cage. The hundred-dollar bill. Had Gianni really found it on the floor of the Coop? Had he found more? Gianni claimed he was going to use the hundred dollars to pay for the hotel, but Stella had said they planned to celebrate somewhere fancy. A room in a fancy hotel in Florence cost a hell of a lot more than a hundred dollars a night.