“Oh, the funeral.” She frowned. “I say, I don't want a funeral. Can't you keep the body and do away with it?”
“I'm sorry?”
“I mean, when you find a body and you can't identify him, then you have to do something with it, too, don't you? Burn it? You can do the same thing with Alfonso.” She snuggled the toddler closer to her. “We won't miss a grave.” She looked up. “You needn't look like that. I'm not a bit sentimental. Alfonso made sure of that. Why should I pretend any different? Besides, a funeral is expensive. I don't have any money.”
“You'll have the insurance.”
“Oh, that'll take a long time to clear.” She shook her head. “No, no. I think I'll refuse to accept the heritage. I can do that, can't I? And so, I won't inherit the responsibility for his body and you can do whatever you want with it.”
Not an innocent at all. Garini took his leave and went downstairs to the old car which his boss the raspberry had loaned him. It was powerful and in quite good shape, but it didn't have air conditioning. He had only found a tiny parking space under the full sun, and when he opened the door, hot air combined with an unpleasant smell came out in a big whoosh, reminding him of a furnace. He opened the opposite door too and waited a minute, but he knew that this would only cool down the car by a few degrees. When he finally forced himself to sit down behind the wheel, his back and legs felt as if they were sausages being fried on a hotplate. He could feel the heat coming right through his long trousers and his linen shirt. Without thinking, he put his hands on the black steering wheel and immediately snatched them away with a curse. The heat was enough to cause him blisters. In the glove compartment, he found some paper napkins, which he used to create two thick wads. He placed them underneath his hands.
Carlina was probably down by the beach now. He sighed and accelerated to profit from the bit of wind that would come through the windows while driving. The next time, he would go on vacation in Africa like his colleague did all the time. Somewhere where they didn't have cell phones. Or Sweden. Sweden was cool and green, and he could sink his cell phone in a lake. Lovely.
He forced his thoughts back to the job. What was next on his agenda?
He still had to talk to the owner of the Albergo Giardino, but first he needed a moment to clear his head, so he decided to drive back to the office to write up his report. When he drove past the Caffè Stretto, he stopped on an impulse and went inside to get a snack and an icy cool Lemonsoda.
The coffee shop was empty. He placed his order with the well-rounded waitress who gave him a quizzing look. “I say,” she said, “aren't you Carlina's boyfriend and the one who's now in charge of the murder investigation?”
Garini nodded. “I am.” Apparently, the newsagent wasn't the only well-informed lady around.
She gave him a terse nod. “My name is Agatha.” She spoke with a slight English accent. “I'm the owner here.”
He knew as much from Carlina. “I'm Stefano Garini.”
She opened the bottle of Lemonsoda without taking her gaze off him and handed him the bottle. “Murder is a bad thing,” she said.
He nodded, lifted the bottle in a mute salute and downed it. He could feel the icy drink running down inside his body, all the way down. The tangy lemon taste filled his mouth. It revived him. “I think I'll take another one.” He handed her the bottle.
She took a second bottle from the fridge, opened it with the same economical movement and passed it on to him.
He downed it with a few gulps and felt much better. His fried brain started to work again, and before he took a conscious decision, he had asked her a question. “Did you know Alfonso Rosari?”
She stared straight ahead. “Slightly.”
“Was he a customer here?”
She nodded, then looked at him once again, as if to check if she could trust him. Apparently, he passed, because she continued. “He came from time to time for a quick cup of coffee. He never ordered anything else, and he always complained about the price. Once, he met his wife here and they had a fight. I put them out. Another time, he made a pass at one of my waitresses.”
Garini lifted his eyebrows. “At one of your waitresses?”
She nodded. “A young girl, hardly out of school. She burst into tears. I told him to leave and never come back. He tried, though, once.” A grim smile played around her lips. “I looked him up and down and ordered him to leave right away. He refused. Luckily, the coffee shop was full of men who were proud fathers. So I told him at the top of my voice that he wasn't welcome here anymore because he had molested a young girl.” She chuckled. “You should have seen his face. All the heads in the coffee shop turned to him, and three of the men were already rising from their seats. He left, muttering threats, but he never showed up again.”
“Is that waitress here now?”
She shook her head. “Na. She decided to study literature, so she wouldn't have to work in a coffee shop anymore. I told her to go for it. She was way too timid to work here anyway.” She looked at him and cocked her head to the side. “It takes a certain type of character to be a successful barista. Gutsy, you know.”
“Then why did you employ her in the first place?” He hoped she would understand the compliment in the seemingly impolite question – the compliment that she would have judged the girl's character correctly, right at the beginning, before she ever employed the girl.
Agatha shrugged. “She begged me to, and I could see that she was in earnest and really wanted to work. I managed to teach her a bit of gumption in those months, though it took some time before she managed to get over that incident with Rosari.”
“When did she leave for university?”
She gave him a sharp look. “She didn't kill him, and university will only start in autumn. She's on vacation right now, in Switzerland.”
Switzerland. Another cool, green place. Maybe he could take Carlina to visit his sister who lived in Switzerland. With an effort, he pulled his thoughts back to the conversation. “What about the night of the murder? Did you see or hear anything extraordinary?” He knew that Agatha lived in a small apartment right above the coffee shop; Carlina had mentioned it in passing. The hotel wasn't that far away. On a silent night, Agatha may actually have heard the gun shot. Then again, the night hadn't been silent, with fire crackers going off all the time. He himself had slept right next to the scene of a crime and hadn't woken up for a second.
Agatha shook her head. “I sleep like a log during high season because the days are so exhausting. It's rare that I've got time to chat.” As if to confirm her words, a group of pink faced English tourists rolled into the coffee shop, clamoring for ice-cream. She turned to serve them and Garini put his money onto the bar, gave her a wave, and left.
When he came out, he looked around to see if he could get a glimpse of Carlina, but there was no woman with brown curls and cat-like eyes anywhere in the vicinity. Neither was any other member of the Mantoni family. He hoped they weren't up to some kind of mischief. With a sigh, he forced himself back into the boiling car. It was getting late, and the stop had refreshed him sufficiently to continue. He decided to interview the hotel owner immediately, to find out why he had sacked a competent manager and had replaced him with a jerk. The reports could be done later that night. The directions to the owner of the hotel, a man called Maurizio Ortadella, steadily took him north, in the direction of the Carrara marble mines. As the car climbed the slopes, the air got cooler. Next to the road, a steep mountain stream gurgled and splashed downhill. Garini smiled and held his shirt away from his body with one hand, so the cool breeze could reach his skin. Maybe there was a reason why Ortadella had chosen to live up in the mountains in spite of the fact that Forte dei Marmi was such a sophisticated retreat down by the sea.
He turned onto a drive lined with marble pillars and reached a vast villa that showed more affluence than taste. It seemed to be entirely made of white marble, with pillars as thick as hundred-year-old oaks. They marched along the front to
support a huge balcony with red flowers all along the balustrade. His eyebrows climbed. He left the car in front of the marble steps and rang the polished brass bell.
It took several minutes, but when the heavy wooden door opened without a sound, he first thought it had been done with an automatic device because he couldn't see anything. Then his gaze dropped lower and came to rest on a woman who reminded him of a bird. One of those small, fluttery and colorful ones – a hummingbird, that was it. Even her clothes supported the impression – she was wearing a colorful dress with a vivid pattern in peacock blue, mixed with cream and bright green. On any other woman it might have looked cheap, but she gave it an unconscious air of class. She looked at him with dark eyes that didn't blink. “How can I help you?”
“My name is Commissario Garini,” he pulled out his identification card and showed it to her. “I'm investigating the murder of Alfonso Rosari, the manager of the Albergo Giardino.”
Her small face clouded over. “Oh, yes. Such a sad thing. Do come in. My name is Antonella Ortadella.” She led the way down a vast hall. Her steps echoed back from the walls, and he was grateful for the cool air. Was it air-conditioning or just clever construction?
While the hummingbird-lady led the way, she continued to twitter in a pleasant, low voice. “I'm sorry you had to wait so long. Our butler broke his leg this morning, the poor thing. He's been getting on in years, but I just couldn't convince him to retire.” She looked at him. “It's so hard to be firm with people who've seen you grow up and who you respect, don't you think? You can't order them around, even though, technically, they're your employees.”
He nodded though he was in no position to judge that. So this was her home and she had brought the money into the marriage? Interesting.
“My husband will see you immediately. He's in his office.” She fluttered upstairs on yet another white marble staircase and led the way down the corridor.
“This is Carrara marble, isn't it?” Garini asked. It wasn't the most intelligent question, with the mine just a few kilometers further up the mountains and with the snowy white color of the marble speaking for itself, but he wanted her to continue talking to get some more background.
She smiled. “Oh, yes. My father used to own part of the mine, so of course, it made sense to use it. But I like it, don't you?” Her slim hand caressed a marble statue in passing. “It's so cool and soft to the touch, which is particularly nice in summer. Here we are.” She opened a door and stuck her head inside. “Darling, this is the police.”
Something banged – a chair hastily pushed back? - but when Garini went into the room, the bluff man behind the broad desk welcomed him with an easy smile and an outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you.”
It was well done, but next to the easy elegance and free manner of his wife, you could tell that Maurizio Ortadella was ill at ease. He was about three times as broad as his wife but not much higher, with sparse hair gelled back and an unhealthy complexion. The gigantic marble desk that looked more like a butcher's slab than anything else dwarfed him.
Signora Ortadella gave them a cheerful wave and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Garini handed Ortadella his card.
“Ah, Commissario.” Ortadella gave him a toothy grin. “It's good of you to come all the way up here to talk to me, but I'm afraid I can't help you at all.” He interrupted himself and pointed at a sideboard with a tray that held a decanter, some glasses, and a bottle of whiskey. “But I'm getting ahead of myself. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Hot day, isn't it?” Ortadella wiped his brow.
A fan – not made of marble, thank God - whirred softly above them, so that the temperature in the room was pleasant. Garini's instincts were on alert. Ortadella was trying way too hard to convey an easy and relaxed impression when in fact, he was so nervous that he could hardly stand still. “May I record our conversation?”
“Oh, certainly.” Ortadella made a nonchalant move with his hand, then lowered himself onto the front edge of his chair and bent forward with his arms spread wide. He couldn't have been any clearer if he'd said, “Look here, I've got nothing to hide.” Instead, he said, “As I mentioned, I'm afraid that I can't give you any helpful information about the night when Signor Rosari was shot. I was out having dinner with my wife at our favorite restaurant, the Orfeo - do you know it? A charming little place just outside of Carrara. We often go there in summer because they've got a very nice garden and-- but that won't interest you. Where was I? Oh, yes. We stayed long and chatted for quite some time with the owner, and then, we returned home. I think we were back around midnight, so you can see that I was nowhere near the scene.” He gasped for breath as if he had kept his head under water for way too much time.
“Thank you for this information,” Garini said, “but I'd--”
“Of course you'd like to know if I have noticed anything unusual prior to the murder,” Ortadella swept ahead without noticing Garini's words. “But I have to say that there was nothing, nothing at all! Though you have to know that I'm not down by the hotel all that often. I trust my managers to do a good job. I'm not the kind of owner who breathes down their neck all the time. Oh, no, not I. I pride myself on being able to pick out the right people, people with integrity, people who work hard and remain honest. So--”
Garini decided that nothing but a brutal approach could stop Ortadella's gushing, so he lifted his voice and interrupted, “Was he really?”
Ortadella stared at him. “'What?”
“Was Rosari a man who worked hard and showed integrity?”
Ortadella colored to the roots of his carefully gelled hair. “I say . . . I . . . I'd had my doubts in the last weeks. But I'm not one to give up easily. I give people a chance. I give them time to prove their worth. I--”
“Why did you employ him in the first place?”
Ortadella's eyes widened. “He seemed like a competent manager. I thought he would give the hotel a much needed boost. Fresh energy, you know. The old manager Patelli didn't have any new ideas anymore. He kept on doing things as he had always done them.” He started to wave both hands. “The hotel industry is highly competitive. If you want to keep on being at the top of the game, you have to continuously strive to become better. You have to--”
“Signor Patelli did an excellent job,” Garini interrupted him once again. “While Rosari managed to scare away even long-time and loyal guests of the hotel.”
Ortadella swelled. “How dare you say so? I know how to judge people.”
“I dare to say so because I saw him in action.”
Ortadella's eyes threatened to fall out of his head. “What? When . . .?”
“I was present when he checked in the Mantoni family and managed to alienate every single one of them. They've been guests of the hotel for more than a decade.”
Again, Ortadella waved his hands. “Maybe he had a bad day. You know we're all human, and we all make mistakes from time to time. Nobody can be at top form at any given time of the year. It's the height of the season, after all. He might have been stressed out. Besides, I have good reason to believe that Patelli vandalized the pool area after I dismissed him. That's inacceptable behavior!”
“Look, Signor Ortadella, I don't think we have to mince words. You know that Signor Patelli would never vandalize anything while you should also have known that Alfonso Rosari was singularly incapable of managing a hotel! Any contact with him that lasted longer than two minutes would have proven that – particularly to a man of your experience.”
The last shot stopped Ortadella in his tracks. Garini had taken his own words and had turned them against him. He colored and opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Garini continued, “So let's stop pretending and tell the truth.”
Ortadella's eyes widened. His gaze went from Garini to the blinking recorder, then back to his face.
Following an impulse, Garini stretched out his hand and switched it
off. “This is just between you and me,” he said. If he judged Ortadella correctly, he would be happy to talk as long as he didn't have to face any consequences. He judged him to be a friendly and pleasant man who didn't like confrontations and trouble, but that also made him weak. When faced with obstacles, he would always look for the easy way out. For now, Garini wanted to know the truth. Later, he could worry about finding proof and getting things down in black and white.
Ortadella's gaze flickered to the door and back to him.
“The door is closed,” Garini said. “Your wife needn't know about this.”
Ortadella's mouth opened. “How . . . how did you know?”
Garini took a deep breath. Finally. “Just tell me the truth, please.”
Ortadella balled his hands into fists and stared at them. He lowered his voice until it wasn't much more than a whisper. “It was at Easter. My wife had to subject herself to a health treatment at a resort close to Rome. I . . . I got to know a lady, and I . . . I went out to dinner with her sometimes. Rosari saw us one night. He knew who I was, and he also knew my wife from pictures.” He gulped. “One day, he came here. He told me he wanted the job at the hotel. Otherwise, he would tell my wife.” He looked up with huge eyes. “I love my wife, Commissario. I really do. It was a . . . a moment of weakness. I didn't mean anything. I swear! But my wife wouldn't have understood. She's a bit . . . strict that way. So I . . . I gave in. I hated to tell Patelli that he had to go and find another job, but I didn't have a choice.”
“You could have told your wife the truth.”
“Oh, no. No, Commissario, I couldn't do that to her. She was still fragile and not quite back to her old health. I couldn't deal her such a blow.” He looked at Garini with the eyes of a haunted hare. “I thought Rosari would be quiet once he had the hotel to manage. I mean, that was a good job, and he got a nice salary. But then--” he broke off.
“Did he come back with more demands?”
“No.” Ortadella shook his head. “I didn't hear from him. But then, I learned that he was shot, and I was so afraid. You see, of course I have an alibi, but some people might say that my wife would be willing to lie for me. She would never do that. Antonella – my wife – she's very straightforward. She doesn't lie. She abhors telling fibs . . . or untruths . . .” His voice petered out.
temptation in florence 05 - seaside in death Page 11
