Cape Cod caper

by Margot Arnold

  They had several more and talked wine for a good half hour, then Enrico said casually, "You said you had business here, signore? It is not often an Inglese has business in Colle d'Imola."

  Toby hedged. "It is really on behalf of an American friend, concerning a family with connections here. I happened to be vacationing near here, so she asked my help. Would you be able to put me up for a day or two. I'd prefer to be on the spot rather than drive from Imola."

  The wine had made Enrico amiable, but he was still cautious. "Our guest room is not very modern, although the bed is comfortable, and while my wife is a good cook our fare is simple and 'del paese,' but, so long as you understand that, you would be welcome as a guest. Would you like to see the room?"

  To Toby food was only important insofar as it complemented whatever he was drinking, and his heedlessness of creature comforts was so marked as to drive Penny, who was very fond of hers, to distraction. So he said quickly, "Yes, I would—and the rest sounds excellent. What are your rates?"

  Enrico blandly named a sum triple what he would normally have charged, expecting some lively argument, but to his utter astonishment Toby, who had never had to think twice about money in his whole life, instantly said, "Well, that sounds very reasonable. Shall we go?" They negotiated the bead curtain and a flight of narrow stairs and Toby was introduced to the guest chamber, a small, spotlessly clean room dominated by a huge double bed and wardrobe, with an old-fashioned washstand and a chair squeezed between their bulk. Toby thought about asking for a table, and then decided there was no possible room for it, so he nodded a cheerful approbation. He was then trailed downstairs to the family living quarters, where he was duly introduced to an equally plump Mrs. Enrico, who was busy at the stove with two small children clinging to her skirts. "This gentleman speaks very good Italian," Enrico said warningly, "and he'll be staying with us for a few days."

  Mrs. Enrico dutifully nodded, but the news did not seem to fill her with any great joy. "Your baggage, signore?"

  "Out in the car." They emerged into the bright sunlight to find the gaggle of children now closely pressed about the car but still not touching, their numbers augmented by one or two interested adults. "Er, is there any way to keep them off?" Toby enquired.

  "Leave it to me," Enrico said. He raised his voice in thunder and made a short speech, the gist of which was that they were being honored by the visit of a distinguished English milord, and that if anyone put so much as a fingermark on the milord's car they would have to answer to him as headman of the village. The crowd retreated a respectful distance, but continued to stand and stare as Toby's elegant, if worn, suitcases were disgorged from the Bentley and taken inside. Some of the men showed an inclination to follow them in but Enrico shut the door firmly on them with a "Closed—come back later." Then turned to Toby, "We have time for another glass or two before the meal is ready, signore, if you wish."

  "An excellent idea," Toby said. "Do you have whites as well as red from the region?"

  "Yes, but not as good as the red, but anyway you would like to try, eh?" Toby nodded as a teen-aged boy appeared and took his bags away. "My fourth son," Enrico informed him. "I have eight children." Seeing the almost comical dismay on Toby's face he grinned reassuringly and said, "But you can take your meals in the parlor beneath the guest room. If you are not used to children, our family table may be too lively for you."

  Toby received this news with relief and they settled to a bottle of white. "Now, Signor Glendower," Enrico said, more firmly this time, "you said you have business in the region. Perhaps I could assist you?"

  "I certainly hope so," Toby agreed, "since I am sure this excellent inn is the center of the life of the village. Incidentally, here is the money for a week's lodging in advance."

  Enrico pocketed the money with satisfied alacrity but went back to the main point "And what do you want to know?"

  "Well, it is in connection with the Diraola family and the war."

  Enrico's brows knitted. "D'Imola?" he said, and with him the apostrophe was clear, "but there is no one of that name here, nor has been in my memory. You are sure your business is here and not in Imola itself?"

  "Quite sure," Toby said, with more certainty than he felt. "My enquiry is concerning a Dimola who was here during the war. You were here then?"

  "Oh, yes"—Enrico's face was somber—"I was just a boy; I am the youngest of my family, but I was here. And a hard time of it we had, I can tell you. My father was inn-keeper here and those—Germans took him as a hostage and shot him, because they said he aided the partisans hiding out in the mountains. We had it all—shellings, bombings, people taken away and never seen again; even the women..." His tone was venomous. "Even foreigners like the Amalfis—no one was spared."

  "The Amalfis?"

  "The padrones here, the owners of the palazzo. Brought in by the Borgias and we've never been rid of them since," he said with surprising bitterness.

  Toby quietly marveled to himself at the long arm of rustic history; an aristocratic family brought in four hundred years ago and yet never accepted by the local people. "The palazzo looked deserted to me," he remarked.

  "Oh, no. The Contessa lives there—the Contessa Anna-Maria Amalfi—if you can call it living!" Enrico said with a scornful laugh, "though there is nothing much left for the Amalfis to be proud of."

  "The man I am enquiring about was evidently stationed here during the war. His name was Dimola, Rinaldo Di-mola."

  A loud crash made them both jump, and they turned to see that Mrs. Enrico, who had entered with a trayful of glasses in hand, had just dropped it on the floor and was now gazing at them with wide-eyed consternation.

  CHAPTER 14

  "Church records? No, Signor Glendower, I don't think so."

  It was some time later and the small inn was crowded with thirsty clients. Toby had dined in thankful, solitary splendor in the evidently unused parlor of the inn. It was hideous in magenta plush and carved oak, but he had been happy to see a small square antique table—hurriedly cleared of a vast collection of family photographs—at which he had dined seated in another family relic, a high-backed armchair. The dinner had been excellent; a minestrone, so thick the spoon could stand up in it, a dish of buttered linguine, and then a delectable gorgonzola and raisins to go with another flask of the excellent red wine. Listening to the continuing roar of Enrico's prolific family at table, even muted as it was by the thick doors of the inn, he had counted his blessings and had eaten heartily.

  More than replete, he had staggered out to join the evening throng at the bar, and was now propped up against it, puffing on his pipe and listening intently to the buzz of conversation around him. Enrico and his wife were so busy serving the curious throng that it had been some time before Toby could get back to his questions.

  He knew full well he was the main object of attention, though rustic courtesy was inhibiting the clientèle from commenting about him openly since Enrico had pointedly introduced him as the "milord Inglese who speaks Italian." Every time he opened his mouth, in fact, there was almost instant silence as they hung on his words. It certainly should shake forth something, if there was anything to be shaken, he reflected.

  Enrico elaborated on his answer to Toby's question. "The church was shelled—it lies behind the palazzo. The priest was taken as a hostage too and died in a German labor camp. We have a new little church, and you could ask the priest, but 1 do not think anything remains."

  "How about old Giovanni?" a heavily mustached villager put in.

  "Or the Contessa," said another pale-faced man, and there was a communal snigger.

  '"Giovanni?" Enrico mused. "Yes, that is possible. He was the verger here then—lost a leg in the shelling. He is very old and a little..." He touched his temple significantly. "He has become almost a recluse since the last priest arrived—they do not get on. But it is true he might remember from the old times."

  "Where can I find him to talk to him?"

  "Domani, tomorrow.
My wife will have to go with you. He would not talk to a stranger, but she is his great-niece, so he will talk to her." And with that Toby had to be content.

  He circulated among the older men, dropping the name of Rinaldo Dimola to no good effect. Some vaguely recalled the name hut could or would not remember anything else; only the pale-faced man had any suggestion of worth. He sidled up to Toby. "You should go and see the Contessa," he whispered. "She was well acquainted with the soldati americani and the soldati tedeschi and the partisans." He added, with a knowing wink, "She knew a lot about men."

  The next morning Toby loped off rather uncomfortably by the side of Mrs. Enrico. It was evident from the loud argument he had heard between his host and his wife that she was an unwilling guide. As they walked through the small twisting streets of the village, she kept darting little nervous glances at him, and it was plain to him that the name of Dimola was of far more significance to her than to her husband. Not for the first time he fervently wished Penny were here—most women made him uneasy, and he hadn't the faintest idea how to go about unlocking Mrs. Enrico's tongue.

  They arrived at a very tumbledown cottage, and her knocking and calling finally brought forth a very old, bald-headed and almost toothless man, who glared at Toby. She shoved a tureen of soup she had been carrying into the ancient hands and began a heated, low-toned conversation with him. With a sinking feeling Toby anticipated having the door slammed in their faces and groped for the comfort of his pipe and tobacco pouch. At the sight of the latter a gleam of sudden hunger leaped into the old man's eyes, and Toby quickly held it out to him. The old man grabbed it, gave a toothless smile, and with a sudden movement motioned them to come in. Once inside, he closed the door and carefully locked them in the cluttered room.

  "Would you please ask him," Toby said to his unwilling intermediary, "if he knows whether any of the church records were saved and where I could find them." The old man was busy lighting up a blackened clay pipe, an expression of near rapture on his seamed face. "He asks what you want to know for," Mrs. Enrico said sullenly.

  "I just want to see them, just to look at them." Toby was patient. He had a sudden inspiration. "If he can show me anything of any worth to me, I'll buy him five hundred grams of pipe tobacco."

  A sly expression crossed the old man's face and he muttered something to his niece. "He says how about a kilo," she said uncomfortably.

  "If he has anything useful to me," Toby said firmly, "that is a promise."

  The old man gave a quick nod and, seizing his crutch, hobbled into the back of the cottage. After some minutes he emerged clutching awkwardly a bulky package wrapped in yellowed and tattered newspaper. "The priest must not know," he addressed Toby directly for the first time; "he is a stranger and a heretic besides and has no business here."

  "Anything you say," Toby agreed amiably and took the package from the trembling hands. Inside were three registers, heavily scorched at the edges and with spots of blue-green mildew blotching the covers. "They were all I could save," old Giovanni said sadly.

  With mounting excitement, Toby strode over to the door, unlocked and flung it open to let in the pale sunshine. To his companions' amazement he squatted happily down on the threshold and started to examine the registers. Two he rapidly discarded as being too early, the third looked more promising, starting as it did in 1910. He leafed rapidly through until he reached the war years and then began examining the pages minutely.

  The record keeping of the old village priest had been haphazard; births, marriages and deaths were all entered as they occurred and were not separated out. He also wrote a very crabbed hand which did not help. 1943 yielded nothing, and the damage done by the damp to the entries for 1944 made them almost illegible, but Toby kept doggedly on at it item by item, the two villagers hovering over his shoulder like interested vultures. Suddenly a name leaped out at him from the very bottom of a scorched and mildewed page. "Sposata," it read, "the 16th March 1944. Rinaldo Dimola, bachelor di Boston, Massachusetts, and Christiana Amalfi, spinster, di Colle dimola..." Toby leaped to his feet in excitement

  '"Mother of God," said Mrs. Eruico, reeling back, "so he did marry her!"

  At the same time Toby was enjoying his leisurely dinner at Colle dimola, Penny was hastening toward an important rendezvous which she fervently hoped would do something to elucidate the labyrinth of doubts and suspicions in which she was totally enmeshed. Information had been piling up and all of it was puzzling.

  Ann's immediate reaction to the sacking of her cottage had been strange. Though she had been frightened by it she had been adamant that neither the police nor the Dimolas be informed. Nothing was missing, she averred, and to make a fuss about it would only result in more unpleasant publicity, and she was afraid to put her job in jeopardy. Penny could understand that, but could not help wondering if Ann knew the identity of the intruder and was not as honest about there being nothing missing as she maintained. But who or what could it be?

  A call to John Everett from the phone booth at Chase's had garnered another pile of information. On the surface Alexander's statement about his father's business activities appeared correct; there had been no scandals, no activities that would have put him on a collision course with the Syndicate, and the only really interesting nugget had been that in the past two years Rinaldo had not been as aggressive as of yore, and that he had been leaving more and more of the actual running of things to Alexander.

  Everett had a further interesting item; Maria Dimola's second husband had briefly worked in the business, but had been fired and there had been some talk of a hushed-up embezzlement.

  He also had garnered a lot of information on Wanda Dimola, none of which added up to very much. Her parents ran an Italian delicatessen in the Bronx. She had started in Off-Broadway shows, and at the time of meeting and marrying Alexander had had her first Broadway part; she had also made several TV commercials. She had had one minor brush with the police when they had raided a pot party in Greenwich Village, but that was all.

  Since her affluent marriage she had appeared happy to live the life of a rich socialite in Wellesley, where she was understandably a leading light in amateur theatricals for the Junior League and similar organizations. The only sour note was that she did not care for her in-laws, particularly her young mother-in-law, and that her enforced exile on the Cape was not pleasing to her. John Everett had culled his information from several sources, so Penny had no reason to doubt it, though it added up to a big zero.

  She had called the hospital to be told there was no change in Zeb's condition and she had heard nothing further from Carson Grange. So now her main hopes for a break v^ere pinned on Eagle Smith. A curt phone call from Steven Dimola had informed her that bail was being arranged for the boy and that he should be liberated that day, and Penny, anticipating that Eagle might very well not want to talk to her, had already done some good groundwork in going to see his mother.

  She had found her in a small cottage on the outskirts of Masuit; a mixed breed, as were so many of the Wampanoags, with worry writ large in every line of her dusky face. Long and soothingly had Penny talked to her, as she had talked so many times over so many years in faraway places to mothers troubled over wayward sons in a changing world. She had talked not only of Eagle Smith but of Indians in general, and of her own not inconsiderable championship of Indians' rights. When she left, she did so with the firm knowledge that if Mrs. Smith had any influence at all over her militant son that influence would be used on her behalf.

  Arriving for the second time that day at the little Smith cottage, the door was opened to her by Eagle himself. He was tall, with the long straight black hair, broad cheekbones and aquiline nose of the Indian; apart from his skin color, which was wrong, he was the very picture of an old-time Wampanoag brave. His face was totally impassive, but he motioned her to come in and Mrs. Smith rose to greet her with a nervous smile. "I have told him all you said to me this morning," she said. "He will listen to you."

&n
bsp; "Good." Penny was blunt. She sat down and looked squarely at the boy, who had also sat down without saying a word. "Now, I will not beat about the bush. If you do not know it already, you know now that I am no enemy to your people or to your cause—quite the opposite in fact. I persuaded Mr. Steven Dimola to put up the bail for you because—whatever else you may have been up to—I am convinced you had no part in the attack on Zeb Grange. Nor are you going to be 'railroaded' for it; not only I, but others involved in the case also are going to see to that. I say this because if you are thinking of setting yourself up as an Indian mart>T this is the wrong time and the wrong cause. I hope you see this, because I am going to ask you some questions which are of great importance to me and an answer to them will not trap you in any shape, manner or form. O.K.?"

  He nodded but did not speak.

  "All right Did you find Zeb face down in that bog and did you turn him over?"

  He nodded slowly.

  "Did you notice the broken whisky bottle?"

  A slight smile touched his firm-lipped mouth and he nodded again.

  "Did my coming scare you off and was it you I heard in the bushes?"

  Another nod.

  "I won't ask why you were scared to be seen there by me. I think in the light of everything else that's pretty evident, but did you see anyone else on the bog before you found Zeb, or did you hear any noise of the assault?"

  "No"'—he spoke for the first time and his voice was surprisingly deep—"i saw no one nor did 1 hear anything."

  "Where were you coming from when you found him?"