Chapter Thirty-One
I storm into the lounge and sink into Elizabeth’s plush sofa. How dare she? How could she? My very own sister, plotting to kill me? I hear Salvo’s voice ring loud in my head: Your fucking mental sister wanted me to help her kill you. I can’t believe it. Said a dead body was the only way she could get away. . . . That they wouldn’t come after her. BITCH! BITCH! BITCH! There was nothing good about my sister; she was a witch with a capital B. I grab Beth’s iPhone. I need to Google “La Cosa Nostra” so I know what I’m dealing with here. “La Cosa Nostra, also known as the Italian Mob. Criminal activities include: racketeering, drug trafficking, murder, corruption, fraud, illegal waste management, extortion, assault, smuggling, gambling, loan sharking, money laundering, fencing, and robbery.” Are you kidding me? They sound awesome!
There’s a knock at the door. Urgh, what now? Emilia’s out at the park with Ernesto. I guess I’ll just have to get it myself. No rest for the wicked, I suppose. I really need to hire a butler. I hope it’s not Salvatore or Nino. I pull back the curtain to see who it is. Shit, the police. Am I fucked? Two male officers stand on the doormat. This is terrible news. I look down at my legs, look down at my arms. The bruises look suspect. I don’t want them to see; they’ll start asking questions. I have to get changed.
“Just a second!” I call through the villa.
I run upstairs and into Beth’s bedroom. Search through her wardrobe for something to wear. Something long. Something modest. Innocent. Feminine. Not too bling. I pull on a tracksuit by Juicy Couture—bright-pink velour as soft as kittens—and sprint back downstairs.
“Elisabetta Caruso?”
“Yes?” I say. “Sì?”
“Posse entrare, per favore?”
“English please? I don’t speak Italian.”
“Please, may we come in?”
Oh God, it’s all over. They’re going to arrest me!
I step aside and let the two officers in through the door: two men in uniform with sullen expressions on world-weary faces.
“I am Commissario Edillio Grasso and this is Commissario Savastano,” he says.
Savastano? He’s got to be kidding me. I’ve seen Gomorrah. This is insane. I know Savastano’s a Mafia name. They’ve hired a cop from a Camorra family? I know it’s a fictional TV series, but all the same, that seems very unwise. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. They need to have a word with HR.
“Please, sit down,” I say, gesturing to a sofa covered with cushions.
“Thank you, signora. You have a beautiful home.” We look around the living room, at the crystal chandeliers twinkling in the sunlight, at the porcelain ornaments arranged on the mantelpiece, at the bouquets of roses in antique vases. I do have nice stuff.
“Thank you,” I say. Hurry up and tell me. Whatever it is, tell me now and then fuck off.
“Signora Caruso, I’m afraid we have some upsetting news.” My whole body tenses; this is it.
“It’s about your husband.”
Phew.
“I don’t know where he is and he’s not answering his phone,” I say quickly.
I do my best acting, give them a “Please God, not my husband!” expression. Strangely, it works. I’ve come a long way since that donkey. The one that speaks English gives me a sympathetic look.
“You are Ambrogio Caruso’s wife, that is correct?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, signora,” says the larger of the two men, the one with hair sticking out in tufts from under his police hat, with dandruff in his eyebrows and yellowing teeth. “Your husband’s body was found at the bottom of the cliffs near the Continental Hotel. It appears he committed suicide.”
I look from the eyes of one police officer to the next, searching for reassurance, searching for hope; they look back with apologetic faces. They’re pretty convincing. I guess they do this kind of acting all the time. I wouldn’t like to be a policeman in Sicily. I don’t get the impression that they like it much either. I guess it’s mob rule and these guys are just puppets, like in the Opera dei Pupi onstage in Palermo. I read about that on Trip Advisor. I’d quite like to see it, once this has blown over. If this does blow over. I always loved Punch and Judy as a child. Mainly Punch.
“Suicide?” I ask at last; my voice is breathless, almost a whisper. I really think I ought to cry.
“Yes, signora. My colleague here saw the body this morning and recognized him immediately. Commissario Savastano is certain it’s Signor Caruso. He was identified by his signet ring; it has the initials AC?”
Oops, we should have taken that off; it might have bought us some time.
The smaller of the two police officers, the one with the little piece of toilet paper still stuck to his cheek from where he cut himself shaving, rifles through a battered black rucksack and pulls out a clear plastic bag. It contains a gold signet ring. He passes it to me.
“This belonged to your husband, did it not?” asks the one who speaks English.
I take a cursory glance, then notice an inscription engraved inside the yellow gold band: With all my heart, Beth. That must be a gift from when she still liked him. I could pretend I don’t recognize it. But it’s definitely his; I’d just make them suspicious. I shove it back into the officer’s palm, fling my head into my hands, and sob: Noisy, wet, hysterical sobs. He puts an arm around my shoulder and I slobber on his starched white shirt.
“Would you like to come to the morgue to identify the body?” he asks when I’ve calmed down a bit.
“No! No! I don’t want to see it!”
I leap up from the armchair, pace up and down the room along the edge of the luxurious carpet, trampling on all the embroidered lilies. I’ve got to get rid of these cops. I don’t want them here in my villa, cramping my style, wasting my time, making me nervous. . . .
“As I said, it appears to have been suicide. Signora, what was your husband’s state of mind like yesterday?”
I look at the police officer. He wants to know if my husband was depressed.
“He seemed upset. He’d had a row with somebody, one of his friends. I don’t know who. I don’t know what about.”
The larger policeman nods. He has a big head. He reminds me a bit of a llama.
“Signora, did your husband have any enemies? Anyone who wanted him dead?”
I pause for a moment, as if to consider this.
“Ambrogio? No. He had only friends. Everyone loved him.”
“We only ask, signora, because we want to be sure it was suicide.”
I cock my head to one side. My innocent brain cannot conceive an alternative.
“You mean . . . ?” My wooly woman’s thinking cannot quite comprehend.
“We think he might have been murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“We can’t rule it out at this stage.”
Shit.
“Is there any evidence he was murdered?”
“Not yet, no. At the moment it does look like he jumped, but it could have been staged.”
“Staged?”
What does he know about the stage? The stage at the amphitheater? I hope we cleaned up all the blood. It was very dark.
I flop down on the sofa. I steady myself on the arms and sink down into the plump pillows. Why does this place have so many cushions? My sister was obsessed with soft furnishings.
“Yes. He could have been killed . . . and then someone could have thrown him over the cliff . . . when he was already dead.”
“I see,” I say. Genius. I should have faked a suicide note.
“Well, as far as I know, he didn’t have any enemies. Last night, as I say, he seemed upset. Depressed.” I pause. They’re both listening attentively, even the one who doesn’t speak English. “I was worried this morning when I couldn’t find him that he might have done something
stupid. Something like this! My husband has a tendency to . . . overreact.”
“Overreact?”
I sigh and sink farther back into the sofa, hug a cushion up close to my chest.
“Yes, you know . . . you lovely Italians. You’re all so passionate. Romantic.” I smile at the police officers. They know what I mean. “Always flying off the handle about some little thing that’s upset you, making a mountain out of a molehill . . .”
“A molehill, signora?”
They stare back with blank faces. That must be a new idiom. Perhaps they don’t have moles in Sicily?
“He’s threatened suicide before, when he’s been upset about something. I never really paid much attention. I just thought it was just a figure of speech, you know?”
They glance at each other and then the larger one writes something down on a well-thumbed notepad. Perhaps I’ll shut up now. Perhaps I’ve already said too much?
“Signora, where were you last night?” he asks.
My shoulders tense. I don’t like this question.
“Me? Why? I was right here in the villa.”
“Did anyone see you?”
What’s all this? Are they looking for alibis? Am I being cross-examined? The walls of the living room get closer and closer. The ceiling gets lower. There’s not enough air.
“Please answer the question.”
“I was alone with my son. He’s ten months old.” I think. Something like that. Or five months? Or seven? Is he already one?
I need some fresh air. I’m getting stressed-out. First my sister’s plotting to kill me and now these cops are sniffing around. My blood pressure’s gone batshit fucking crazy. I leap up from the sofa, push open a window, and stick my head outside. Take a deep breath: frangipani. I glance back inside at the two police officers; the llama writes something down. Again. What is he writing? A crime novel? A police show? Is he writing an episode of Inspector Montalbano? I wonder if they suspect me.
“The body’s in the morgue in Catania.”
I stick my head back inside the room.
“Here is the card with the contact details, so you can organize the funeral,” says the police officer. He presses a small, black card into the palm of my hand.
“Oh. Right. Thanks,” I say. “When can I have the car back?” I really liked that Lamborghini.
“We will bring back the car when forensics have finished their examination, later this afternoon, I hope.” He looks at me and frowns. “We must warn you, signora, the news of your husband’s death will appear in today’s newspapers. Arrivederci, signora. We are sorry for your loss.”
“Will you let me know if you discover anything else? Any clues?” I ask, my eyes brimming with crocodile tears.
“Certo, signora. Arrivederci,” he says. The other man gives me an awkward wave. They don’t smile. I don’t wave back. They stand up and let themselves out.
Great. Now I’ve got to organize a funeral. That’s going to be a royal pain in the ass. We should have taken that signet ring off and smashed up his face. Pulled out his teeth. Otherwise, I think, that went quite well. That, or I’m destined to end my days in an Italian jail, watching daytime TV I don’t understand. Canteen food. Card games. Mice. Drugs smuggled in up somebody’s ass. I cannot abide communal showers. But no. It’s fine. I’ll get Amanda Knox’s lawyer, turn my experience into a bestselling book. And anyway, what are they going to say? That I’m not really Beth? Where’s the proof? Nowhere. There isn’t any. Without a body, Beth’s not even dead. So then it’s all about Ambrogio’s corpse. But the papers will cover it this afternoon: suicide. Case closed. There was nothing suspicious at all about that. It was the perfect murder, and only my second! What can I say, I’m a quick learner. I’m taking it all rather in my stride: cool, calm, professional, expert. . . . To be perfectly honest, I don’t even feel guilty; it was either going to be me or them. Beth and Ambrogio started it all. I only came here to have a nice holiday. I’m Cyndi Lauper; I’m just a girl and I want to have fun.
I stretch out on the sofa, kick off my shoes, and rest my feet up on the arm. The only glitch is that everyone here knew Ambrogio was fine. He was in good spirits, laughing and joking, just the day before. Can’t happy people kill themselves? Of course they can. People put on a brave face when they’re dying inside. That’s what Ambrogio was doing, smiling on the outside, crying himself to sleep every night. Poor baby, it really was too much for him . . . the stress of his black-market business transactions, dealing with those animals in the Cosa Nostra. You can understand why a man like that might want to end his sea of troubles by jumping off a cliff into a troubled sea. Perhaps someone overheard him arguing with that priest? Yes! Of course! There were people in that church milling around after Mass. They might tell the cops that the priest is a suspect. That would take any heat off his wife.
Do they have the death penalty in Italy? I’d better Google it. I grab Beth’s iPhone. Nope. They abolished it after the Nazis on January 1, 1948. Thank goodness for that! What did people do before we had Google? Google is the new God, Twitter is Christ, and Instagram is the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I look in the mirror, deep into my eyes. They’re a dark sea-green: rock-pools filled with algae and glistening moss. I smile at my reflection. I’m prettier now that I’m Beth. My eyes crinkle a little at the corners, laughter lines extend at each side. I stretch out my skin so it’s smooth and taut. Perhaps I’ll get Botox? Stay forever young? Like Alphaville or Cher or some kind of android. I lick sun-chapped lips. I miss my signature bright-purple lipstick. My lime-green nail polish. My beanie hat. I can’t wear those things. They’re not very “Beth.” I can’t eat kebabs. Can’t bully Ed. I’m almost beginning to miss the slobs. . . .
What shall I do about Salvatore? He knows too much. He knows everything. He knows it was me who killed Ambrogio. He knows that I’m not Beth. He said he preferred Elizabeth’s ass. I don’t know why Beth seemed to trust him. I guess she just used him because she had no choice. She was using him just like she used me. She didn’t love him and she didn’t love Alvie. Anyway, he needs to go. Salvatore could talk to the police. He could blow my cover. Break it all. Everything I’ve worked so hard for. My well-earned prize. My golden reward. No, there’s no question: he has to die. But how?
I’ve been lucky so far. Beginner’s luck. Perhaps it’s just a winning streak? I should hit the casinos in Palermo while I’m on a roll. Get back online and ace Blackjack. But I don’t want to push it. Don’t want to get caught. I don’t want to have to go on the run. I’m not scared of a little Cosa Nostra in my life. It all sounds like fun. A door slams. Footsteps thud along the corridor: heavy, metallic: Nino! Of course. His boots sound like that. And he said he’d be back. I rub my eyes so it looks like I’ve been crying, mess up my hair so it’s all disheveled, force my mouth into a pout. Men are pussies for crying women; I’ll bet Nino is too, heartless as he is, heartless and soulless and dead inside.
“Betta?”
“Yes?”
I turn away from the mirror.
He stomps toward me across the room. I keep my eyes low, fixed on the tassels that frame the Persian carpet. I see steel-capped boots before I see him.
“Betta?”
I look up at Nino with eyes full of terror. I shake my head. No. No. My hands are trembling not too much, but just enough.
“Betta,” he says again, sitting down on the couch next to me. I can smell the leather of his jacket, the Marlboro he smoked before coming in.
“Your husband?”
I nod.
“I just heard the news. Minchia,” says Nino.
“Yeah,” I say.
He continues to swear in Italian under his breath: porco-something. I think that means “pig.”
Nino doesn’t like emotion, I can tell. He does his best to pat my back and look concerned, but it�
�s a little stiff. He’d rather be anywhere else but here. Comforting the grieving widows of ex-associates is not a part of his job description. I’d better move this onto business, or he’ll get bored and leave.
“Oh, Nino,” I cry, grasping onto his hands: cold metal rings dig into my skin.
He pulls away.
“You want a line, Betta? Cheer yourself up? Come on, let’s do a line.”
He takes a bag out of his jacket pocket, pulls the coffee table across the carpet, and racks up a couple of lines on the glass. They’re long and thin and white as teeth. Sure. What the hell. Why not? Let’s celebrate!
He takes a €50 note from his black leather wallet and rolls it up. We snort the lines. Wow, that’s good shit. I’m already feeling better. This coke’s way stronger than the stuff I used to steal from the slobs back in Archway. That was eighty percent baking powder, at least.
“You gonna talk now? Huh? You gonna tell me what you know?”
I sniff back the tears that are not falling and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.
“OK,” I say.
“Let’s start with the bruises. Who beat you up?”
Whoop! Whoop! This coke’s got a kick to it. I’m alive. I’m invincible. I’m magic. I can fly. I’m so high I don’t care if the whole house burns down with me sitting in it. Now, what were we talking about?
“Salvatore,” I say.
Well, he kind of beat me up. It’s just a tiny little white lie. I’m not a liar, I’m just creative. Everything I say is true, like the witches in Macbeth.
I turn toward Nino, let my thigh press up against his own. I’m wearing Beth’s Wonderbra and a hell of a lot of Miss Dior Chérie. I bite my lip.
“He did it,” I say.
“Salvatore? Yeah, I heard that name. The neighbor, right? He a friend of your husband’s?” Nino asks.
Mad Page 24
