The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

  “Aldo Ferri didn’t kill anyone,” Nico said, directing his words at Gustavo. “The prosecutor wanted to question him in person. That’s why he’s in Florence.”

  Ettore grimaced. “Anyone who works for this government should be fed to the boars. They think their balls are made of gold and we’re cow shit.”

  “Oh, that’s good.” Beppe waved at Sandro. “Quick, give me a pen and some paper.”

  Sandro shook his head. “Your mother is the one who sells pens and notebooks. I sell food and drinks.”

  “Nico, don’t say anything!” Beppe yelled as he ran out.

  “It looks bad if they want to question him,” Gustavo said. “He did punch the man and threaten to kill him.”

  “He didn’t mean it,” Ettore said.

  The rotund man behind Gustavo said, “Maybe he carried out his threat.”

  “How well do any of you know Aldo Ferri?” Nico asked the foursome.

  “I know his wife, Cinzia,” Ettore said, as always running his hand over his bald head as if he hoped to find a full head of hair. In contrast Gustavo had a mane of pure white hair that stood high around his sharp angular face. “Always has a nice word for us, asks about our families.” The other two, whose names Nico didn’t know, nodded in agreement.

  Gustavo pointed a bent finger at Ettore. He always seemed to have a rebuttal to anything his friend said. “The wife isn’t the husband. You have to keep things and people separate. Nico, you do the same. Ferri’s your landlord, your friend. You helped him in the piazza, calmed him down. We all saw that, so we understand if you defend him. Ferri works hard, makes a good wine. I don’t want to think he killed anyone.”

  Ettore nodded. “He gave you a bottle when his wife found out it was your birthday. You didn’t share.”

  Gustavo waved the words away. “Stop harping about that. I told you I would have, but my daughter took it for the party she didn’t give me.”

  “Do you see him as a murderer?” Nico asked the four.

  “Given enough reason,” Gustavo said, “all of us could kill, and Ferri thought he had a very good reason. A wife is sacred.”

  “Not mine,” Ettore said with a laugh.

  Gustavo looked at him sharply. The laugh stopped. “If you think that,” Gustavo said, “you are cow shit. She feeds you, makes the bed, and sends you out with clean clothes. That makes her sacred.”

  Ettore lowered his head. The other two men nodded their agreement.

  Gustavo turned to Nico. “Americans always think the best of people. With our history, Italians have good reason to be skeptical. I hope you are right, Signor Nico. From my heart, I hope Ferri is as honest as the wine he makes.”

  “Me too,” Ettore said.

  The four stood up. “Arrivederci, Nico. Have a good day.”

  “You too.”

  Beppe ran back into the café, pen and a notebook in hand. The Bench Boys walked past him on the way out. “Wait,” he called out. “What did he say?” He turned to Nico. “What did you say?”

  “Aldo Ferri did not kill anyone. And you can quote me on that.” Nico got on his feet. “See you tomorrow, Gogol.”

  Gogol gave his usual answer. “Tomorrow, if I live.”

  “You will.” Nico said. “Ciao to all.” Stepping out on the sidewalk, he was met by a blast of sun halfway up in the sky. He took out his phone and sought the shade of one of the linden trees in the piazza. The flowers were in bloom and gave off a sweet, pleasant smell. He dialed Cinzia’s cell phone.

  “Hi, Nico.” Her usually cheerful voice was flat. “I hope you’re calling with good news.”

  “Not yet, I’m sorry. Hold on tight. We’ll find the real culprit.” He hoped he wasn’t making an empty promise.

  “I’ve gnashed my teeth to bits, but I’m holding on as tight as I can.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At work with Arben. Aldo didn’t want me to stay in Florence. There’s still work to do here.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help at the vineyard?”

  “No, we’ve got everything under control.”

  “Listen, Tarani thinks Mantelli was poisoned at the restaurant. I’ve read that how quickly methanol kills depends on the individual, which means it could have been administered anywhere from a full day before to right before. In case they start looking at it from that angle, is there someone to vouch for Aldo after the fight in the piazza Tuesday afternoon?”

  Cinzia let out a long exhale. “Yes, God be praised! A very good alibi. He was here at the vineyard with me, Hua Chen and Arben until it was time for them to go to dinner.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Tell Perillo to push that angle with Tarani. I want my husband back where he belongs.”

  “He’ll be back. Ciao, Cinzia.”

  “I’m counting on you, Nico.”

  “I won’t let you down.” May it be true. He clicked off.

  Nico whistled for OneWag. Before paying a visit to Verdini, he wanted to visit Rita. Nelli’s warm presence had stayed with him through the night, making him feel guilty and confused. Maybe sorting those feelings out in Rita’s presence would help. She’d always been good at seeing these things clearly. He checked his watch. Luciana’s shop was open, and she was probably feeding cookies to OneWag. He would buy yellow roses this time.

  Perillo looked up at the steep, winding steps that would take him to Ida Crivelli’s apartment. She lived in one of the towers of the medieval castle that had once helped keep the Sienese army at bay.

  “I hope this is worth it,” Perillo grumbled, bending down to massage one knee. It had started to hurt during the winter. The severe June heat hadn’t helped so far.

  “Want me to go up first to see if she’s home?” Daniele asked. As this was ostensibly an unofficial visit, they had forsaken their uniforms for jeans and short-sleeved shirts.

  “Didn’t you call first?”

  “I did, but we’re late.” The maresciallo had insisted on having a second breakfast at the café next to the station. Two espressos, a cream-filled cornetto and a cigarette outside the bar that, to an always punctual Daniele, had taken forever.

  Perillo checked his cell phone. “Thirty minutes isn’t late. Let’s go.”

  By Daniele’s watch it was close to forty-five minutes, but he said nothing and followed his boss up the first ramp. The stone steps were cracked, the center of each worn down to satin smoothness by three centuries of use.

  After the second ramp, Perillo stopped to rest, his knee pulsing with pain. “If you want to climb stairs like this until old age, Dani, don’t take up cycling.”

  Daniele resigned himself to being even later. The maresciallo wasn’t so young anymore. Almost fifty. “Vince said you were a great cyclist.”

  Perillo took his weight off his bad knee and leaned against the wall, happy to rest. “I cycled for years up and down these hills. Chianti is known for its killer hills. Professionals come to train here. You think going up is going to kill you. As you climb, you think your lungs will burst, and then you arrive at the top and down you fly, arms wide, the wind drying the sweat on your face. It’s a glorious feeling.”

  “Ehi,” a sharp voice called down. “Are you through reminiscing? I’ve got to go to work.”

  Perillo looked. He could see a small, round face staring down at him. “Please accept my apology, Signora.”

  “Well, hurry up. These stairs didn’t kill me; they won’t kill you either.”

  “Of course not.” Perillo didn’t like admitting to weakness. “We’re coming.”

  Perillo finally heaved himself up the last step and was met by a compact barrel of a woman in a flowered housedress and a blue apron that almost reached her ankles. Her sharp face was surrounded by a cap of yellow hair.

  “Finally,” Ida said to him, standing by her door with
a piercing look. “Don’t bother to introduce yourself. I know who you are. Your brigadiere too. He’s more handsome in uniform. Come in.” She moved aside to let them pass.

  They walked into a large, hot kitchen, immaculately clean. A delicious smell filled the air.

  “Keep going.”

  “You’re baking something,” Daniele said, overcome by the aroma.

  “A chocolate crostata for Signora Severson. She pays me extra. She didn’t wait long to take over the villa—two days. Good for her, I say.”

  “Could I bother you for a glass of water?” Perillo asked, his chest still heaving.

  Ida pointed to the wide stone sink, partially filled with flowering plants. “Help yourself. The glasses are next to the sink. The brigadiere can come with me. You’ll find us on the balcony.”

  Perillo went to the sink with a smile, surprised that Ida’s lack of respect for a maresciallo of the carabinieri didn’t anger him. It was almost admirable.

  Daniele followed her. They passed a small room with an armchair and a sewing machine; two small tables holding ceramic figurines and more flowering plants; and a bed piled high with crocheted pillows and covered in a flowered fabric that matched Ida’s house dress.

  Beyond the small room, they walked onto a narrow balcony. “This is my joy,” Ida said, stepping on a stool so that she could look over the castle parapet.

  “Dio mio!” Daniele exclaimed. He had never seen the Golden Valley from such a height. Many years ago, it had been full of wheat. Now, it was kilometers and kilometers of perfectly aligned rows of vines, each patch going in a different direction. A splotchy blanket of poppies covered the ground underneath.

  Perillo joined them and looked out at the view. It faced west, meaning she could see the sunset. “Dio mio indeed. You are a lucky woman.”

  “My grandfather was lucky. I could sell to some foreigner and retire, but it would break my heart.” She put her forearm on the parapet and turned to face Perillo. “Now, Signor Maresciallo, I have things to say about that man’s death. What took you so long?”

  “Why didn’t you come to the station, then?”

  “You asked Peppino to come, but you didn’t ask me, so I didn’t come. I’ve worked for Signor Mantelli for over three years, three times a week when he was in residence. I am a woman and I see things Peppino does not.”

  “Can we sit down and talk? Brigadiere Donato needs to take notes.”

  “No, I just finished baking. It’s too hot inside, and talking about a murder is best done in the open air. I don’t want evil in my home.”

  “Then you should have come to the station.”

  “Well, I didn’t, did I?”

  Have patience, Perillo told himself.

  Daniele took out a pen and small notebook from his pocket. He placed the notebook on the thick parapet. It was a perfect desk.

  “Signor Mantelli didn’t like me because I notice things. He loved Peppino. Peppino is a good man, but he doesn’t know how to add one thing together with another and maybe yet one more thing to see the truth.”

  A lot of things, Perillo thought, probably leading to nothing. “And what truth was that?”

  Ida stepped off the stool and sat on it. She had to look up to see the maresciallo’s face. “The truth that Mantelli’s girlfriend killed him.”

  Perillo leaned down. Now they were face to face. “Loredana Cardi?”

  “Yes, Signorina Loredana. Who else? His girlfriend—one day, his wife, is what she had on her mind. A poor girl from a small town, she thought she’d climbed the mountain and reached the sky. I feel sorry for her.”

  “Why do you—”

  Ida stopped him with a raised hand. “No. This is my story; I’ll tell it my way. I know I’m only a maid and not considered worth listening to, but you are in my home and you will listen. If not, I tuck my story in my bra like it was money.” She furrowed her brow for a few seconds, then grinned and slapped her knee. “It did not come to my mind before. My story is money. The newspaper would be very generous if I told them what I knew.”

  Perillo didn’t take her threat seriously. She seemed too proud a person, but he admired her gumption. “I could take you down to the station and make you tell your story there, but you’ve made a good point. We all have a right to be listened to, no matter who we are.” He was quoting his adoptive father, the carabiniere who had plucked him from the streets of Pozzuoli and offered him a home. “The story is yours. Go ahead.”

  Ida nodded her approval. “Monday night, I had finished my work and was getting my purse from the closet in the entryway, when a great crash made me jump. I ran through the dining room to the living room. Signor Mantelli was sitting on the sofa, laughing. The signorina was standing in front of him, her pretty face looking like a rabid dog’s and Signor Mantelli’s precious Venetian vase, the one he wouldn’t let me clean because he was sure I would break it, was in pieces on the floor. A glass shard had cut her leg. Blood was trickling to the floor. I don’t think she was aware of it.

  “‘You’re bleeding, Signorina Loredana,’ I said. ‘Come with me, let me clean you up.’ I felt it was my duty, woman to woman. She didn’t hear me, but he did. He stopped laughing and snarled, ‘Get out of here.’ I did as he ordered. It was none of my business, I told myself, but as I’m sure you know, curiosity has the fangs of a snake—once it bites, your body fills with poison.” Ida leaned a shoulder against the parapet and sighed.

  Daniele took advantage of the pause in her story to shake out his writing hand and sneak another look at the view.

  Perillo leaned against the doorjamb. His knee had stopped throbbing. He knew not to interrupt. She was getting there, he thought. Soon, he could thank her and take her information with him, then puzzle it together with the rest of what he knew.

  “The windows of the living room were wide open. Signor Mantelli didn’t believe in air-conditioning. Let me tell you, I sweated liters cleaning that house.”

  Daniele loosened his grip on his pen. Perillo thought of Cinzia peeking through Mantelli’s open window. Maybe the very same one. He was glad he lived on the second floor, facing the street and the park.

  Ida lifted her shoulder off the wall. “Never mind. I stood underneath one window. They couldn’t see me. Being short has its advantages. ‘You can break everything in this house, but it won’t change anything,’ the signore said. ‘Our relationship is over. As of next week, I will no longer pay for your room at Il Glicine. I will no longer see you.’

  “She started screaming. ‘You can’t do this. You made promises. I’m not shit you can just wipe away.’ Things like that. She was crying and screaming at the same time. It was hard to understand what she was saying. I heard the sound of a smack followed by silence. He must have slapped her. I’d had enough. I started to tiptoe away when she said, in a loud, calm voice, ‘If you leave me, I’ll kill you.’ I guess he thought that was very funny, because he just laughed hard. When he got tired of laughing, he said, ‘Well, my dear, you have a week in which to do it.’” Ida crossed herself. “That’s the truth, God’s truth.”

  Perillo straightened up. “Thank you, Signora Ida.”

  “Signorina, and proud of it. I’m not finished.”

  Perillo sat back down.

  “The Friday after Signor Mantelli’s death, Signora Severson had moved in, and so had the girlfriend.” Ida lifted both hands, showing Perillo her calloused palms. “A strange arrangement, but not for me to judge. Signora Severson has a kind heart, but she didn’t understand what she had brought home with her. I caught the signorina going through Signor Mantelli’s desk, looking for money, I’m sure. I stopped her. Not an hour later, I saw her going through his closet. This time I said nothing. My hours were done, and I wanted to go home.”

  “Did you tell Signora Severson?”

  “I’m going to tell her today. She should know who she has in h
er house. All right, I’m done with my story now. It’s the truth. Do with it what you want.”

  “A very interesting story.”

  “A true one,” Ida corrected.

  “Yes. Thank you. Before I go, I need you to answer one question. You called Signor Mantelli last Monday and also on Tuesday. Can you tell me why?”

  “It wasn’t me on Monday. The signore sent Peppino to Panzano to get two steaks from Dario Cecchini. Peppino’s phone had no charge, so he borrowed mine. I guess he called him from Dario’s to let him know, because he came home without the steaks.”

  “And Tuesday?”

  “I told him I needed to switch Wednesday for Thursday. I needed to see Dottor Berti for my sciatica. He said he didn’t care when I came in, as long as I got the work done without disturbing him.”

  Perillo remembered something Peppino had told him. “Did Signor Mantelli lower your wages last year?”

  Ida laughed. “He tried. I told him he could do the cleaning himself then.”

  “He didn’t lower them?”

  Ida shook her head.

  “He could have found another housekeeper.”

  “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know two and two doesn’t always make six or even four.”

  Perillo let out a sigh. “Is there something else you know that has bearing on this case?”

  “No.” Her expression was sincere.

  Daniele put his pen and notebook back in his pants and gave a last look at the valley below. A billowing cloud had just covered the sun, staining some vineyards with its shadow.

  Perillo offered his hand. “Then thank you again.”

  Ida popped up from her stool with a smile and shook it. “Maresciallo, Signorina Loredana is not well. Please treat her with gentle hands.”

  “We will. I need to go back to the station now.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll accompany you to the door.” She pushed past him and walked toward the kitchen. Perillo followed, casting a longing glance at the crostata, now cool enough to eat. At the front door, as Daniele followed Perillo out, Ida tugged at his sleeve. “Come back anytime. The view is best at sunset.”