The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

  Daniele kept his gaze on the fast movement of the swallows swooping across the sky. They enchanted him with their dips and rises.

  Perillo poured himself two fingers of whiskey. “We would have found out quickly enough. Maybe Loredana knew Ida had heard her threat. She was right there, telling Loredana her leg was bleeding. Ida would go straight to the carabinieri once she found out Mantelli was murdered—”

  “But she didn’t,” Daniele interrupted, clearly upset. If only he could shut them out and watch the birds.

  Perillo flicked his eyes over to Daniele. Poor boy. Loredana’s death had hit him the hardest. He had refused to see her body. “Loredana had no way of knowing that Ida follows her own rules. Any other housekeeper would have reported it right away. Loredana couldn’t risk having us go through her belongings and finding the murder weapon. So she used antifreeze instead.” Perillo drank the whiskey down. “Thank you. This is a welcome comfort. Dani, you should try some. It’s soothing.”

  Daniele shook his head. “How many people know antifreeze will kill you? I didn’t. If I’d guessed, I would think it would make you throw up instantly.”

  “It was in the news a few years ago,” Perillo said. “Some tourists in the Caribbean died after consuming it.”

  “I will not believe she killed anyone,” Daniele said. Her death had left him filled with sadness, anger and guilt. It was his call that had sent her running to her death.

  “Not even herself?” Nico asked, settling down on the third chair with OneWag at his feet.

  “Not even herself.” Daniele turned to Perillo. “You saw what she was like, Maresciallo. It doesn’t fit.”

  “Yes, I did see. When we told her about Mantelli, she put on a show. She was shocked, maybe even sad, but she was center stage, not Mantelli. She was vain and desperate for attention. Now we know she was also on drugs and very unhappy. She was fragile, as you put it yourself, Dani. That can lead to suicide. She did start to write a suicide note.”

  “Anyone could have done that. It’s all wrong, Maresciallo. The place she died doesn’t make sense. If she’d killed herself, she would have chosen somewhere beautiful where everyone could see her and mourn for her. She would have staged her own death. Killing yourself in the woods where only a dog can find you, that’s not the Loredana we met.”

  Nico and Perillo exchanged glances. Daniele was too young, too inexperienced to know the power of desperation.

  “Let’s get back to Mantelli.” Nico’s gaze went to Perillo. “Are you convinced Loredana killed him?”

  “I didn’t see her do it, but she threatened him and she’s got motive.”

  “So did Aldo, and he’s been cleared. I think we need to dig a little deeper. It’s not right to decide she was the murderer without being at least ninety percent convinced. I’m only at fifty.”

  “Zero for me,” Daniele piped in.

  Perillo found comfort in a cigarette this time. “I know. I have not succeeded here, not at all.”

  “Let’s succeed now,” Nico said. “Daniele, did you send me the name of the two vintners who paid Mantelli?”

  “No.” Daniele’s face turned red. “I’m sorry. I forgot. I had their names and telephone numbers ready to send you, but,” he stumbled over his words, “I had to call Loredana to make sure I didn’t scare her, and then I did because she was gone, and I—”

  Nico stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine, Daniele. You had a lot on your mind. Send them to me when you get back.”

  “I can go now.”

  “No, stay here with us. We need your sharp mind. How about a glass of wine? I’ll join you.”

  “No, thank you. A glass of water would be nice, though.” Daniele got up. “I’ll get it.” He was eager to get away from the smoke and the banter, because that’s all it was. A back-and-forth of maybe, could be. The only concrete events were Mantelli and Loredana’s deaths.

  “Go ahead. Help yourself. There’s some bread and cheese if you want.”

  At the mention of food, OneWag followed Daniele in. Out of sight of the two men, Daniele picked up the dog and hugged him. They didn’t believe him about her death. After talking to her awful stepmother, he’d seen Loredana as a fighter. Fighters didn’t quit. Was he wrong? He didn’t think so, but these two knew so much more about people than he did.

  Perillo sighed. “My brigadiere needs to grow some crocodile skin. He’s too upset to think straight. Why do you want those names? Are you thinking they might be suspects?”

  “No, but we don’t really know anything about them. There’s no harm in having a chat with them.” There was something Ginevra had said about Mantelli that had set him wondering about “struggling vintners.”

  “Diane Severson is the one I need to question more carefully,” Perillo said. “She was at the villa Tuesday morning, ostensibly to let Peppino know about the sale. I’ve thought about the theory Dani offered in the park yesterday. It’s plausible. Diane went to the villa Tuesday morning, dropped some antifreeze in Mantelli’s whiskey bottle and told Peppino to get rid of it after Mantelli had his drink.”

  “You think there was another bottle, an open one Diane spiked with methanol, and Peppino got rid of it?”

  Perillo took a drag from his cigarette. “Could be. He seemed to me to be a hardworking, honest man, but he must have been angry with Mantelli for selling the villa.”

  “Diane told me he’s in complete denial. He thinks she’ll cancel the sale.”

  “Maybe that’s what she promised him in exchange.”

  “But Nelli tells me he knows he’ll have to leave the villa. He’s very upset about it. I saw that myself. I guess if the news is bad enough, you can hope and despair at the same time.” Rita had shifted from one to the other for months after the diagnosis. “From what you’ve told me someone could have gone to the villa in the afternoon. Didn’t Peppino say he usually takes a nap then?”

  “Yes, he did,” Perillo said, “and his room is far enough away that if anyone came to visit, he wouldn’t have heard anything.”

  “Before Mantelli went to the piazza where Aldo met up with him, was he home?”

  “After lunch he usually went back to Il Glicine with Loredana, but she says he told her he had work to do.”

  Daniele walked back out on the balcony followed by OneWag. “Peppino didn’t mention the sale of the villa when he came to the station.” He was holding a tray with an opened bottle of white wine and two glasses, one of which was filled with water. “He also didn’t tell us that Signora Severson had paid a visit to the villa Tuesday morning. That’s two important omissions.” He set it down on the table and sat down. OneWag curled up at his feet. “Peppino came to the station before we knew Mantelli had been murdered. I think he helped Signora Severson kill her husband. And, if you permit me, Maresciallo, I would ask the whereabouts of the signora last night and early this morning.”

  “You think she helped Loredana run?” Nico asked.

  Daniele drank half a glass of water before answering. “She may have killed her.” Saying those five words almost made him smile. He knew he was climbing up mirrors trying to sustain his conviction that Loredana did not kill herself.

  Perillo put out his cigarette in the portable ashtray and stood up. “We’ll dig deeper while we wait for the autopsy results. Thank you, Nico, for your unparalleled hospitality, and for giving me the well-deserved and very necessary kick to my ass.”

  “Never a kick, Perillo. A suggestion.”

  “Call it what you wish. My ego registered it differently. My ass and my ego speak to each other daily.”

  Nico and OneWag walked the two men to the door. “I’ll send the vintners’ names and numbers as soon as I get back,” Daniele said.

  Nico nodded. OneWag followed Perillo and Daniele down the stairs. It was time to lift a leg. When he came back, he found his boss sitting out
on the balcony, sipping a glass of white wine. No bread, no cheese. There was nothing for OneWag to do but jump up on the sofa and wait. Soon it would be dinnertime.

  Nico and OneWag found Cinzia in the front garden with clippers, in shorts and a T-shirt, cleaning up her roses. “Ehi, Nico, I’m sorry you can’t stay for dinner tonight. We’ll do a repeat when you’re free, although I know you could have gotten out of work. You must be upset about that woman killing herself. You met her, right?”

  Nico said nothing. Thankfully, Cinzia kept going. “I can’t blame you. It’s hard to celebrate anything after finding a dead body in the woods. Come here.” She opened up her arms, and Nico walked into them. They hugged and cheek-kissed. “Forgive me, but I’m so happy I could even hug Salvatore.” Cinzia’s eyes glistened, and a natural blush sat on her cheeks. Nico was glad to see her back to her usual vivacious self.

  “Aldo’s in the kitchen. He wants to see you.”

  “And I, him. Enjoy your celebration.”

  “Thanks. We plan to get so drunk, we’ve declared tomorrow a holiday at the vineyard.”

  Aldo was bent over the kitchen table, slicing a row of plump sausages with a six-inch knife. A large tray held two well-seasoned, spatchcocked chickens shiny with oil and spattered with rosemary sprigs.

  OneWag raised his head with trembling nostrils.

  “Ciao, Nico. You’re going to regret missing this. So is Rocco.” Aldo put the knife down, and Nico gave him a half-hug.

  “I know I will. I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you back where you belong.”

  “Thanks.” Aldo wiped his hands on his green Ferriello apron and reached for a glass. An open bottle of Ferriello red was already on the table along with a half-full glass. He poured the wine into the empty glass and handed it to Nico. “Let’s drink to always being where we belong.”

  “I’m with you on that,” Nico said, happy to feel that he belonged in Gravigna. He clinked Aldo’s glass. OneWag whimpered.

  Aldo turned toward the counter behind him and cut off a piece from one of several raw pork cutlets, then tossed it to OneWag. The dog gulped it down.

  Nico heard his phone beep. He dug into his pocket. It was a text from Daniele with the vintners’ names and phone numbers. It was too late in the day to call them. He didn’t want to rush through the calls, and he was overdue at the restaurant.

  Aldo had resumed slicing the remaining sausages down the middle, careful not to slice all the way through. “Tell Salvatore I forgive him. I know he was following orders. And thanks for helping Cinzia.”

  “No thanks needed. We’re friends.”

  Aldo pointed his knife at Nico. “Friend and landlord. Don’t you forget it.”

  Nico laughed. “I remember every first of the month.” He finished his wine in two big gulps. “Ciao, Aldo. I’ll see you around. Let’s go, OneWag.”

  The dog gave one last pleading look at Aldo. When that got him nowhere, he took his time following his boss to the car.

  Ivana’s seven-layer eggplant and zucchini lasagna had been eaten, along with the fennel and green olive salad. What was left of the cassata was back in the freezer. Daniele was now explaining to Ivana how to make the Venetian specialty dish sarde in saor.

  “You deep-fry the sardines, cover them with lots of onions and marinate them in a sweet vinegar sauce.”

  “That sounds delicious.”

  The notes of “O Sole Mio” rang out loudly.

  Ivana protested. “Salvo, please lower the volume on that thing. It drives me crazy.”

  Perillo, still comfortably seated at the kitchen table, saw it was an unfamiliar number and rejected the call. “Done.”

  Two minutes later, the song burst out again. He let it ring. It was the same number, but he liked the music.

  “Salvo, answer it.” Ivana said. “We’re going deaf.”

  Perillo swiped and put the phone to his ear. “Perillo speaking.”

  “Signor Maresciallo, Ida speaking.”

  “Ah, I’m glad it’s you. I’d like you to tell me what you meant by two and two doesn’t make six or even four.”

  “That’s not why I called, but I can tell you. It’s the advice I gave Signor Mantelli when I found out he gambled on soccer matches. Same advice I gave my nephew. You can’t count on things adding up the way you want.”

  “How do you know he gambled?”

  Daniele leaned forward to listen. Ida’s voice was loud.

  “Every Friday morning, I’d hear him place his bets on the teams, but that’s not important. I hear that poor girl is dead.”

  “Yes, she committed suicide.”

  “How?”

  “We don’t have the autopsy report yet.”

  “I also heard a syringe was found next to her body. Is that true?”

  There was no point in denying; it would be in the newspapers tomorrow. “Yes.”

  “Oh, she liked her drugs. Right from the start I saw that. She was just as hooked as Signor Mantelli was hooked on gambling. It was sad, such a pretty girl. She could have been in the movies. She was sorry for what she’d done. The drugs—”

  Perillo interrupted. “Can we talk about this tomorrow? I’m in the middle of dinner.”

  “Your dinner will have to wait. This is important. The syringe you found, it wasn’t hers. I have her syringe. Friday, after Signora Diane told her she had to go back to the B&B, Signorina Loredana took me up to her bedroom. She said if she didn’t get rid of them, they were going to kill her. ‘I can trust you,’ she said, and handed me one of those fancy bags for creams and things. ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘but I don’t wear makeup, and it’s way too late for creams on my face.’ Oh, she liked that. I made her laugh. Did you ever hear her laugh? It was like a little bell ringing.”

  Perillo looked at his wife and shrugged. She hated interruptions during meals, but luckily her attention was on Daniele, who was writing out the recipe for sarde in saor.

  Ida talked right through his shrug. “Once she stopped laughing, she unzipped the bag. I saw pill bottles, cotton balls, alcohol, a syringe and little vials of some liquid. ‘Please take them. Throw them away where no one can find them. They’ve ruined me.’ She zippered up the bag and clasped my arms around it. She then hugged me. ‘Even if I come begging,’ she said, ‘don’t listen. Get rid of everything now, before I change my mind.’ She pushed me out of the room and locked the door. Half an hour later, Signora Diane drove her with her suitcases to the B&B.”

  “What did you do with the drugs?”

  Both Ivana and Daniele turned to look at Perillo.

  “I kept them. The bag was pretty, so I put everything in a Coop bag. Some other garbage killed her.”

  “Thank you for this information. You could have told me this yesterday morning.”

  “Why would I have? She was still alive. I’m calling you now to save you from climbing up and down those stairs. Send your brigadiere. His knees can take it. And I’ll have a strawberry crostata waiting for him. That young man needs some looking after. So did that poor girl. I’m sorry she didn’t make it.” She hung up.

  Ivana gave her husband a questioning look. “I hope we can keep the evening free of the dead.”

  “Of course. I am only too happy to do so.”

  “Now, both of you, please have some fruit.” Ivana pushed a bowl filled with peaches and apricots Daniele’s way. “Next time you come, we’ll make sarde in saor together.”

  Perillo and Daniele eyed each other. Ivana had outdone herself with this meal. Ida’s news would have to wait.

  FOURTEEN

  After breakfast the next day, Nico and OneWag slowly walked Gogol back to the Medici villa that was now an old-age home. Nico had questions he didn’t want overheard by the gossip mill. “I hear you go to the dog kennel every morning,” Nico said. “What takes you there?”

  �
�The animals. We are friends, as you and Nelli are friends. No different. We are all creatures of God. I know them all, and they know me. I hear them calling me sometimes. They are imprisoned and in need of stories to soothe them. They listen to the verses of the Poet and dream.” Gogol chuckled. “I do it for them, but also for me. It keeps the gnawing rust far from my memory.”

  “Did you see anything different yesterday morning?”

  “They called before the waking of the sun. When I greeted them, no dog raised its head in greeting. I understood Death was near.”

  “You were there before Dino?”

  Gogol nodded. They had reached the entrance of the home. Just past the massive open door, Lucia, the knitting gatekeeper, was watching them. Gogol had dubbed her Cerberus, the Hound of Hades.

  “Did you hear or see anything that might help us understand what happened?”

  “Death is quiet. The dogs were quiet. I prayed.” Gogol took a step inside the door. “Tomorrow, if I live.”

  “You will. Rest well.”

  Nico and OneWag walked back to the piazza and got into the car. Nico took out his cell phone as the bell of Sant’Agnese, the church on top of the hill, rang out nine-thirty. It was time to call the vintners.

  He tried Sole d’Etna, the Sicilian vintner, first. A woman answered after a few rings. Nico asked to speak to the owner.

  “That’s me and my husband, Giuseppe, and Nina Mazzaro. Who is this?”

  After introducing himself, he explained that he was calling on behalf of Mantelli’s wife. “She found your name on her husband’s computer with a list of payments you made to him. These payments ended two months ago. She was wondering what they were for and why you stopped paying.”

  “We stopped because we’d paid the loan back in full. I’ve got Signor Mantelli’s signature to prove it.”

  Not a bribe, then. A loan. Ginevra had said Mantelli liked to help struggling vintners. Maybe he wasn’t such a bastard after all. Or had it just been an ego trip? At this point, it didn’t matter. “I imagine there was a written agreement.”