Murder in Chianti

by Camilla Trinchieri

  “I have a hunch,” Nico said. “If it’s right, maybe we won’t have to wait for forensics. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Why do you think I asked you to get involved?” Perillo asked. “Make all the suggestions you want.”

  “I only have one.”

  NINETEEN

  Gianni showed up at the carabinieri station at seven o’clock sharp, still in jeans and his Ferriello T-shirt. He ignored Perillo behind his desk and walked over to Nico sitting in a chair a few feet away. “Did you talk to Stella?”

  Before Nico could answer, Perillo said, “You’ll talk to Nico about your love problems later. Normally, I don’t allow people not officially involved in an investigation to sit in, but at your request, I made a concession this morning, and I’m making it again tonight. You consider Nico a friend, and I want you to feel comfortable. Now please sit.”

  Gianni sat in the chair placed in front of Perillo’s desk. He was still looking at Nico. “She isn’t picking up or answering any of my texts.”

  “Let us proceed with the matter at hand, please,” Perillo said in a cutting voice.

  Gianni reluctantly turned to face him.

  “Brigadiere Donato has typed out what you stated this morning in your home.” On cue, Daniele got up from his post in front of the computer and brought the two typed pages. Perillo read quickly, then summed up the contents. “You stated that you found the hundred-dollar bill at the Coop here in Greve after a man, who turned out to be Roberto Gerardi, stared aggressively at Stella and you confronted him. You did not find any other money. You never saw Gerardi again. At the time of the murder, you were home asleep. Your mother brought you a caffelatte at seven-thirty, as she does every workday morning. You did not kill Roberto Gerardi.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

  Perillo held out the pages for Gianni. “Please read it carefully before you sign it. Making a false statement is a serious offense.”

  Nico noticed the slight tremor of Gianni’s hand as he turned the page.

  Gianni looked up. “Can I have a pen?”

  Nico leaned forward in his chair. “Gianni, before you sign, I think there’s some things you need to know.”

  “Like what?”

  “When you confronted Gerardi outside the Coop, did he tell you why he was staring at Stella?”

  “He didn’t have to. She’s beautiful.”

  “She is, but that’s not the reason.”

  “Who cares what the reason was? I didn’t like him looking at her like he was going to swallow her whole.”

  “He stared because he thought he was looking at his daughter.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? No way is Stella his daughter.”

  “You’re right. She isn’t, but he thought she was.”

  Gianni shook his head, laughing. “No, he didn’t.”

  “Why don’t you think so?”

  Nico’s question silenced his laugh. Gianni stared at Nico for a few beats before answering. “Because, well, it makes no sense.” His voice was loud. “She’s Tilde and Enzo’s daughter. She’ll inherit the restaurant one day, and I’ll help her run it.”

  Perillo intervened. “Do you know Maria Dorsetti?”

  Gianni shot a surprised look at Perillo, as if he’d forgotten he was there. “No.” The word came out as a spit.

  “She’s one of your mother’s Friday-night canasta friends.” Gianni’s mother had told Perillo when he’d gone to the post office to check on Gianni’s alibi.

  Gianni ran his hands through his hair, his face flushed. “I don’t know their names.”

  “Stella is Tilde and Enzo’s daughter,” Nico said in the soft, calm voice he’d always found useful. “What’s important for you is that Gerardi, who was a millionaire, thought differently. He was dying, and he wanted Stella to inherit most of his wealth, but he needed to talk to her first. He had important things to get off his chest. Unfortunately, he never got to meet her or make official the will that would’ve given Stella more money than she could ever dream of. He was murdered, so the money goes to his sister, Maria Dorsetti.”

  Gianni leapt up to his feet, knocking down his chair. “No!” he yelled. “You’re lying. You’re all lying! Stella had nothing to do with that man.”

  Nico picked up the chair from the floor and set it back in front of Perillo’s desk. “Sit down, Gianni. Yelling is what got you in trouble with Stella. It will get you into even more trouble here. If you sit down, Maresciallo Perillo will show you we’re telling the truth.”

  Perillo pushed the copy of the handwritten will Gerardi had kept in his safe-deposit box across his desk.

  “Read it,” Nico ordered.

  Gianni continued to stand and read, his lips quietly forming the words, eyes darting over each sentence twice. He turned to Nico when he was finished. “I’ve lost her for good now.”

  “Stella will want the truth.”

  “It won’t win her back.” Gianni slumped down in the chair and, with a grim expression, faced Perillo. “Well, here it is, then.”

  By the time Nico got back to Sotto Il Fico, the restaurant was empty of patrons. He walked in with Enzo, who’d just driven his mother home. He called Stella and Tilde in from the kitchen. Alba, their helper, had already left.

  “Please, sit down,” he said. “I have some sad news.”

  “Someone died,” Tilde said.

  “No.”

  “Thank God.” Tilde sat at the corner table and raised her arm to invite Stella to sit next to her. Parental instinct taking over, Enzo sat on Stella’s other side. The yellow light from the lamp above them cast a shadow under their eyes.

  Nico sat down and faced them with the painful knowledge that he was about to wound his goddaughter’s heart.

  “Well, what is it?” Stella asked.

  “This evening, in Maresciallo Perillo’s office, Gianni confessed to Roberto Gerardi’s murder.”

  Tilde gasped. Enzo wound his arm around Stella’s shoulders. Stella stared, wide-eyed.

  “Why?” she finally asked.

  “He says Gerardi’s sister offered him a thousand euros, to start with. After she inherited, she was to give him an additional hundred thousand euros.”

  “He said so?” Enzo asked.

  “Yes. And Maria Dorsetti is being questioned right now, I believe.”

  “She’ll deny it, of course. Does Gianni have proof?”

  Gianni had kept proof, which he’d played for Perillo—two conversations with Maria recorded on his iPhone.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t say. I shouldn’t even be telling you this much, but Salvatore Perillo is a friend.” So much a friend he was going to ask Della Langhe not to mention Stella’s name when he talked to the press. Her name would have to come out at the trial, but the wheels of Italian justice turned very slowly, a blessing in this case. It would give Stella time to brace herself, develop some armor against long-kept secrets that weren’t hers.

  “I understand,” Enzo said. “It’s hard to believe Gianni’s the killer.”

  Stella shook her head in disbelief. “He killed a man for money?”

  “He said he was tired of living with his parents,” Nico said. “He wanted to get his own apartment. He needed a new motorcycle.” These weren’t Gianni’s main reasons, but he didn’t want Stella to blame herself.

  “It’s not my fault, is it?” Stella asked as the lamplight illuminated the tears on her cheeks.

  Tilde stroked Stella’s hair. “Of course it’s not.”

  “He thinks he did it for me, doesn’t he?” Stella said. “That if he had lots of money, I wouldn’t go to work in Florence. That I’d stay right here and marry him.” Stella wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Poor Gianni. He’s so self-involved he can’t see reality. I fell in love with him at first because I confused that with
strength. Shit! I can’t believe this.” She slumped forward on the table and buried her head between her arms. No one said anything while she sobbed, then slowly regained her breath. After two or three minutes, she looked up and asked Nico, “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “He’s being driven to a jail in Florence, if he’s not already there. Eventually he’ll be put on trial.”

  She sat up. “I’m going to see him.”

  “Stella!” Tilde cried out. “He’s a cold-blooded murderer.”

  “I’m sorry, Mamma, but I’m going to see Gianni tomorrow.”

  Enzo squeezed Stella’s hand. “You’ll need permission. Let me talk to Salvatore, and then I’ll drive you.”

  “I want to go alone.”

  Tilde covered her mouth to keep from intervening again.

  “Please, let me drive you. You’ll be upset.” Enzo knew that on the way back, Stella’s eyes would be too full of tears to see the road. “Thank you, Nico, for telling us about Gianni. I’m sure it wasn’t easy, but I’m glad we found out from you and not the carabinieri.”

  “I’ve always thought bad news is best delivered by someone in the family,” Nico said. As a homicide detective, one of his roles had been the total stranger announcing the death of a family member. He’d hated every second of it.

  Tilde stood up. “Thank you,” she said, and gave him a quick hug. Stella and Enzo followed suit.

  “Good night,” Tilde said as she was leaving. “If you’re up to it, I could use you for lunch and dinner tomorrow.”

  “I’ll get here early.”

  “We’ll cook together. Food is a great medicine.” Tilde linked her arm through Stella’s. “Come on, darling. Let’s go home.”

  Nico followed the three of them out of the restaurant with a heavy heart. It would take some time before their family would find peace again, but he would do everything he could to help.

  TWENTY

  Nico picked the last Sunday in October to celebrate Aldo’s grape harvest with a cookout in his garden. Everyone needed a pick-me-up after the shock of Gianni’s arrest. Nico had helped Tilde cook countless Tuscan meals in the past month. Now it was time for his Italian family and friends to be introduced to some old-fashioned American food. Not hamburgers and hot dogs, which they could find anywhere. Spare ribs lathered in barbecue sauce, accompanied by cole slaw and potato salad. If nothing else, the food would be a distraction, a conversation piece.

  Tilde had resisted closing Sotto Il Fico for one day, even though the tourist season was almost over and fewer diners were coming to eat. To Nico’s surprise, Elvira sided with him. “It will be good for Stella,” she declared. It was what Nico hoped. Stella had become so withdrawn after her visit to Gianni. Nico suspected she still thought she was somehow to blame for what he’d done. Nico tried to talk to her, but she kept repeating, “I’ll be fine, Zio Nico. Don’t worry about me, I just need time.”

  Just days before, Nico had bought a grill, two bags of charcoal and some wooden chips. That morning, Aldo and Arben had driven over two long tables and helped Nico set them up. Tilde and her family arrived early. She brought the restaurant’s cutlery, plates and napkins, insisting that plastic and paper had no place in a celebration. Luckily, Nico had already brought down his armchair for Elvira. She let him peck her cheeks, sat down, spread her green flowered housedress over her lap and went to work on the Settimana Enigmistica crossword puzzle. Stella, looking too thin but still beautiful, hugged him. He hugged her back tightly. He noticed she’d attached the rabbit’s foot he’d given her to her belt. The results of the museum exam hadn’t been announced yet. While Tilde and Stella set the tables, Enzo watched Nico light the charcoal and asked what ingredients were in the sauce.

  Fourteen people were coming. Only Jimmy and Sandro had declined, as there was no one to staff the café for them, but they’d provided two large thermoses of coffee and refused payment. As more guests arrived, their generosity overwhelmed him. Nico had specifically told everyone to come empty-handed. Not a single person had listened. Luciana brought two aster plants that she put at the center of the tables. Enrico, a basket filled with his olive loaves. Signora Perillo offered a raspberry jam crostata and a smile, as Perillo stood beside her, happy his shy, pretty wife was willing to expose herself to what she would consider a crowd of strangers.

  Daniele introduced Rosalba to Nico with blushing cheeks. He had never expected Rosalba to accept his invitation. He was sure her mother would prevent her from going; she had good reason.

  “I hope there’s enough for everyone,” Daniele said as he handed Nico a wide dish filled with tiramisu, made by him in Signora Perillo’s kitchen.

  Nico thanked him. “A taste is all we need.”

  Aldo had insisted on supplying the wine. Cinzia brought what she insisted was just an appetizer, “in no way competing with the bones Nico is going to serve us.” Her “appetizer” turned out to be a huge bowl of cacio e pepe spaghetti, which was devoured before it had a chance to cool. Nico understood it was Cinzia’s payback for declining to celebrate the solution to Gerardi’s murder with her and Aldo back when the news had first come out.

  Perillo thanked Cinzia repeatedly, overjoyed to coat his stomach with cheese, pepper and spaghetti to protect him from whatever concoction his American friend was going to serve. Signora Perillo, on the other hand, stayed away from Cinzia’s Roman dish. To be on the safe side, she had eaten at home.

  Nico was tending the grill when Luciana cried out with her usual oversized enthusiasm, “That one’s one of your best, Nelli! The very best.”

  “Thank you,” Nelli said, and kept on walking.

  Nico turned around. She was coming toward him, dressed in a yellow skirt and a light-blue blouse. It was the first time he had seen her without paint-splattered jeans. She looked lovely. “I’m glad you could come,” he said.

  “You sound surprised. I told you I’d be here.”

  “You did.” Now he felt stupid.

  “You don’t take things for granted, then?”

  “I don’t know if that’s true.” Stupid, and now embarrassed.

  “I brought you this.” She handed over a small framed painting of Gravigna as seen from a few miles away. It was the same view he saw each morning on his run. He always stopped to stare at the town while catching his breath before turning back home. He had bought her painting of OneWag at her show two weeks earlier and asked to buy the landscape.

  Nelli kissed his cheeks. He brushed his lips quickly against her cheeks. “You said it wasn’t for sale.”

  “I wanted to give it to you.”

  “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s no need for anything more than a thank-you. Who’s the beauty with Daniele?”

  “Rosalba Crisani. She sold the charm bracelet to Gerardi.”

  “Robi got it all wrong, didn’t he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s got his nose and his smile.”

  “Oh,” was all Nico could say.

  “I’ll leave the painting inside the house, okay?”

  “No, prop it up on that olive branch so we can all enjoy it.” His yard had one runaway olive tree from Aldo’s grove. He was moved by the gift and wanted to keep looking at it.

  Nelli did as he asked and walked away with a wave of her hand. “Ciao, Nico. I’m going for a glass of wine. Want one?”

  Nico lifted his untouched glass. “Got it, thanks.” He looked over at Rosalba, laughing with Daniele. He couldn’t see any resemblance, but then, Nelli had known Gerardi when he’d been Rosalba’s age. “Send Perillo over, will you, please?”

  She smiled. “Got it.”

  Perillo made his way over quickly. “I don’t know anything about grilling, so I can’t help.”

  “Nelli just told me something.”

  “Rosalba?”


  “You knew?”

  “Thanks to Daniele. Last night I walked into my office to get my cigarettes and found Daniele at his computer. The minute I walked in, he shut the screen off. It’s not the first time he’s done it—I thought he was looking at pornography. He can do that all he wants, but not on the station’s computer. This morning I asked him, ‘What were you looking at last night?’

  “He said, ‘Nothing.’

  “I told him to show me, and he did, albeit reluctantly. What he was looking at was Rosalba’s birth date. She was born six months after Gerardi left. I suspect her mother didn’t know she was carrying Gerardi’s child when she broke up with him. She would’ve been only two months pregnant.”

  “Gerardi should’ve at least entertained the idea when he found out Irene had a daughter.”

  “Maybe he had too much anger toward her for rejecting him. Or too much guilt about the rape. A daughter from the terrible thing he did, someone he could compensate, would have made his guilt easier to bear.”

  “Was Daniele upset you found out?”

  “He pretended not to be, but I’m sure he wanted it to be his secret. There’s nothing like knowing someone’s else’s secret to make you feel close to them.”

  “Ehi, Nico,” Nelli called out by one of the tables. “Gogol’s here.”

  A welcome interruption, Nico thought as he walked over. Enough with anything that had to do with Gerardi. As the Italians said, “Basta!”

  Gogol had brought himself and his overcoat, but he’d left behind the powerful cologne. The left-behind cologne was his gift, Nico thought as he welcomed him. Nelli hugged him. OneWag sniffed the hem of his coat and his shoes and waited for the old man to acknowledge him. Perillo introduced Signora Perillo, who smiled with a slight bow of her head.

  Gogol grinned at her. “You should be proud of your hero Ulysses, Signora. He took a mad leap and flew with swift wings and the plumes of great desire.”