The Bitter Taste of Murder

by Camilla Trinchieri

  Nelli shook her head. “I’ll spill the coffee, and what’s worse, I’ll crumble, and you’ll have to sweep me up from the floor. I haven’t cleaned it in weeks.” She looked at his face. She was no longer angry. She missed him, but she felt too in need now. She must not lean on him. “We’ll have a nice dinner together soon.”

  “That sounds good. I put the apple pie in the freezer.” He smiled to hide his disappointment. “Let me know.”

  “I will.”

  Nico left the studio. The fact that OneWag stayed with Nelli filled Nico with almost parental pride. His mutt understood when one needed comfort.

  The search warrants came through on Monday. So did the lab report on the fibers. Instead of calling Nico with the information, Perillo decided to surprise him at Sotto Il Fico.

  “Ehi, Perillo, ciao.” Nico was at the bar right by the entrance, filling a tray with six espressos Enzo had just made. The lunch service was almost over. “News?”

  Perillo didn’t answer. “Ciao, Enzo. Can I have one of those?”

  “Coming up,” Enzo said, wearing his usual Florentine soccer shirt. “Glad to have you here. It’s been a while.”

  “They keep me busy in Greve. Nico, do you have much longer?”

  “These six are my last diners.”

  “I’ll have my coffee outside while I wait for you.”

  Enzo handed over the coffee. “Have you found who killed that poor woman yet?”

  “Getting close.”

  “Good. Can I get you anything else?”

  “No thanks. Say hello to your mother.”

  “She’s fast asleep in the back. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

  Tilde rushed into the front room. “I heard your voice. Ciao, Salvatore.” She kissed his cheeks. “How is Ivana?”

  “Doing well.”

  Tilde punched his arm lightly. “Damn it, let her out of the kitchen for once. Bring her here one night.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Tilde studied him for the few seconds it took him to drink his espresso. “You look like you’ve swallowed a firecracker.”

  The firecracker in his pocket was about to light up the night sky. “A little bit of indigestion, that’s all.”

  “Not on Ivana’s food,” Tilde said. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough. I’ve got a kitchen to clean. Don’t forget to bring Ivana.”

  On the way to the kitchen Tilde crossed paths with Nico. “I hope I won’t have to wait for the newspaper to find out.”

  “Find out what?”

  “Salvatore will tell you.”

  “Are you all right?” Nico asked Perillo after they stepped outside the restaurant. His eyes looked feverish.

  “Tired, relieved, excited.”

  “You have news.”

  “We can talk in the church. Don Alfonso just reopened it.” The church doors of Sant’Agnese closed at noon and reopened at two.

  They walked up the three ramps of stone stairs. Cool air enveloped them as they stepped into the darkness of the church. The only other living creature inside was OneWag, asleep at the foot of St. Francis. At the sound of footsteps, he lifted his head. He blinked sleepily at Nico with a wag of his tail.

  “What are you doing here?” Nico whispered. “Shame on you. Get out.” OneWag blinked again.

  “Leave him be. Sit down and read this.” The dog went back to sleep on the cold marble floor. Perillo dug into his jeans and came out with a folded white piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it to Nico.

  Nico read it standing up. Read it and reread it. “It’s done.”

  “Yes. Daniele and Tarani’s men went over there this morning with the search warrant. They found everything they needed. Now I’m going to light a candle to thank whatever saint brought us such luck.”

  “This was solved by arrogance, not luck.”

  “I guess you’re right. To the devil with the candle. Let’s go to Bar All’Angolo with your blasphemous dog and have a glass.”

  “A very good idea. Come on, OneWag, back into the heat.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Saturday night, four days after Loredana’s killer was arrested, Nico and OneWag walked over to the Ferriello vineyard for Aldo’s second out-of-jail celebration. He had picked a good night, Nico thought. The unusual June heat had suddenly retreated midmorning, as if finally conceding that the Tuscans needed a breather. As he walked across the vineyard’s parking lot, he met up with Daniele and Stella, who had come up from Florence for the night. She gave Nico a hug. She looked pretty in wide calf-length white slacks and a loose sleeveless turquoise tunic that made her green eyes shine.

  Daniele and Nico greeted each other.

  “Is Nelli coming?” Stella asked as they walked to the Ferri house at the end of a short graveled road.

  “She said she wasn’t quite up to celebrating yet.”

  Daniele reached his arm out to Nico. “But didn’t you tell her about Peppino’s case getting a big boost?”

  “I did, but she knows murder is going to be talked about tonight. She’d rather not hear.”

  “The maresciallo convinced his wife to come,” Daniele said, “and she hates anything to do with death.”

  “I guess I’m not as persuasive.”

  Stella slipped her arm in Nico’s. “I’m sorry, Zio Nico. I was so looking forward to giving her a big hug.”

  Me too, Nico thought.

  Perillo and Ivana waited for them before going to the garden behind the house. Instead of his usual jeans, Perillo wore pressed navy slacks with a blue and white striped shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Ivana had dressed in a straight red skirt and a white linen blouse trimmed with lace.

  “Buonasera, Signora,” Nico said, feeling awkward. He didn’t know whether to offer his hand or kiss her cheeks.

  “Ivana, do you remember Nico?”

  “Of course, we met last year at your party. Buonasera.” She was too short to reach his face and blew him a kiss instead. “Salvatore, Daniele and you are the three musketeers of Chianti. At least that’s how I think of you.”

  “One for all,” Daniele chimed in, “and all for one.”

  “Thank you. I consider that a compliment,” Nico said. Her soft round face broke into a smile.

  “Ehi, what are you waiting for?” Aldo walked toward them, his vast white apron flapping with each step. “I heard your voices and popped the champagne.”

  They walked to the back garden, a large square space covered in grass and flagstones. On one side, a wide, waist-high fireplace was embedded in a thick stone wall. Thick logs burned under a coating of ash.

  Nico went over to look at the amount of meat on the grill. Pork chops, sausages, steaks, chicken. A mesh sheet was covered in blistered peppers, charred eggplant slices, whole carrots and fat slices of onions. A basting brush rested next to a bowl of oil, garlic and chili peppers. To one side, thick slices of bread waited to be brushed with oil and garlic. Chopped tomatoes sat in a blue bowl. That meant bruschetta—the ch pronounced like a k, as Rita often had to remind him.

  Nico looked back at Aldo, who was pouring champagne into seven flutes on a round wooden table already set. “Aldo, we’re going to have to eat until morning to finish all this,” Nico said.

  “My wine will help to digest it all, but first, a toast.”

  Everyone picked up their flutes.

  “Cinzia, come out here,” Aldo shouted.

  Cinzia walked out of the kitchen, holding a large red and blue patterned bowl with a towel, which she placed on the table. “The beans had to finish cooking.” She looked radiant in a white dress with a single row of blue flowers and leaves along the hem and low neckline.

  Aldo handed her a flute and raised his own. “I toast Nico, for believing in me and working hard to prove my innocence.”

  “Thanks, Aldo. I only did
it to get a break on rent.” He got laughs. Aldo had in fact offered to lower his rent out of gratitude, but Nico had refused. His rent was already low, and last year had been a shaky one for the vineyard.

  Aldo toasted Perillo next. “I know arresting me was Capitano Tarani’s doing, not yours, and you worked hard to solve the case, which means I must forgive you.”

  “Thank you,” Perillo said. “I regret not having the choice.”

  “I didn’t want to forgive you,” Cinzia added with one of her roguish smiles, “until I met your wife tonight.” She raised her flute. “Ivana, I toast you for having to forgive him every day.”

  Ivana covered her laughter with her hand.

  “And to Daniele,” Aldo added, “the quiet young man who gets the work done.”

  Daniele clasped Stella’s hand as he turned fiery red. His reaction brought laughter, deepening the bloom to purple.

  Aldo spread out his arms. “Now that we all get along again, please, to the table. Nico, a hand?”

  “Sure.” They walked over to the fireplace. Aldo handed Nico a large platter on which he dropped the grilled meats and vegetables, surrounding them with the bread and tomatoes. OneWag had followed Nico and now sat at Aldo’s feet, his nose raised high to inhale the scrumptious smell.

  “You’re going to tell us how it ended, aren’t you, Nico? The papers only told us about the arrest. We want all the details.”

  “Ask Perillo. It’s his story—his and Daniele’s.”

  Aldo, his face red from the heat of the fire, eyed Nico skeptically. “You’re telling me that you had nothing to do with it?”

  “Very little.”

  “That I don’t believe.” Aldo took the platter from Nico and held it high. “Here it comes. I want no leftovers.” Cinzia moved her bowl of steaming beans with garlic cloves, fresh sage and olive oil to one side to make room for the platter. She started pouring Ferriello Riserva in everyone’s wine glass amidst sighs, laughter, remarks. “Mamma mia, you emptied the butcher shop.” “The smell alone is enough to fill you.” “I won’t eat again for a week.” And a chorus of “Buon appetito.”

  Time passed. The sun’s color deepened as it dipped closer to the horizon. The sky picked up streaks of pink and orange, the color of ripe peaches. The platter was emptying out. More bottles were uncorked and poured. Stella fed OneWag tidbits under the table. Daniele wished Stella would never go back to Florence. Ivana wondered if she ever would have a real home with a cooking fireplace. Nico and Perillo waited. Nico had already told Perillo earlier to keep him out of the story.

  “Maresciallo Perillo,” Aldo said after wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Please tell us how you found Loredana’s murderer, Luca Verdini.”

  “Yes, please,” Cinzia and Stella said, almost in unison. Ivana remained quiet. Her husband had warned her. She had come anyway because she was proud of her Salva.

  “Arrogance.” Perillo wiped his mouth, and pushed his chair back a few inches from the table to see everyone better. Ivana brushed his hand lightly. He understood. Don’t be pompous. “The medical examiner found fibers and hair in her mouth. Hair also on her clothes. The hair turned out to be from an Irish setter. Verdini owns one. Armed with a search warrant, we went through his home and his property. This is where his arrogance comes in. Instead of destroying the pillow he had used to suffocate the poor woman, he was sitting on it in a chair next to his tasting shed. The fibers matched. So did the hair. He was surprised when we arrived with the search warrant. He had no doubt that we would think Loredana had committed suicide.”

  “I heard she was a drug addict,” Cinzia said.

  “She was. That’s what made him think he would get away with her murder.”

  Aldo put his wine glass down. “The reason?”

  “Loredana knew Mantelli had loaned Verdini a lot of money to get him started on ColleVerde. Mantelli’s wife did not. With Mantelli now dead, Verdini could keep the money he still hadn’t paid back.”

  “How much?” Aldo asked.

  “A hundred and fifty thousand euros, given to him in cash. Mantelli’s bank manager gave us that information. The withdrawal was made exactly one month before Verdini sent his first payment to Mantelli. Verdini had paid back a little more than nineteen thousand when Mantelli was killed. We think Loredana had found the loan papers to prove it, and she wanted a share of the money owed, or she’d tell the wife. Verdini would then have had to keep paying off the loan to her son, who had inherited Mantelli’s estate.”

  “Why did he need a loan?” Cinzia asked. “His father owns a slew of five-star hotels all over Europe.”

  “Verdini’s father had broken off relations with his son, though he has hired a big lawyer to defend him.”

  “How did he get the pentobarbital?” Aldo asked, reaching over to refill Perillo’s glass.

  Perillo covered the glass with his hand. He’d had enough wine, food and talking. “Daniele is the man who discovered how. Behind his young blushing face is an impressive mind, which takes over when mine sputters.” Under the table, he reached for Ivana’s hand. “Tell them, Daniele.”

  Daniele blushed. Perillo had warned him he would have to speak. He had rehearsed his lines, gone over them while playing with the vegetables that had been cooked too close to the meats for his comfort. He hadn’t touched his wine.

  Stella tugged at his sleeve. “Go on.”

  He sat up. “In this country, you can get the drug online on some end-of-life sites,” Daniele said, “but it takes time to receive them. Verdini was in a hurry. The drug is also used by veterinarians to put animals to sleep. I decided to pay a visit to the vet in Greve on Monday and asked if he had recently examined a female Irish setter. I was lucky. Verdini had brought in his dog a week before. I asked what was wrong with the dog. The vet answered he had no idea why the dog had been brought in. She was in perfect shape. That led me to ask if he was missing any pentobarbital. He keeps it locked away, with the key in a drawer in his desk. Verdini could easily have taken it.”

  Nico stepped in. “When I visited Verdini and complimented his dog, he told me he’d had to put down her mother just a few months earlier. He must have seen then where the key was kept.”

  “A bottle was missing.” Daniele said before sitting back down with relief. It was over.

  “Well done,” Stella whispered.

  “Thank you for telling us,” Aldo said. “I’m happy to know we are in very good hands with Salvatore and Daniele,” he turned to Nico, “with some helpful advice from our American friend.”

  The garden lights turned on automatically. Ten minutes after nine, and it was now finally dark.

  “It’s the longest day of the year,” Ivana said.

  It certainly felt like it, Nico thought. The three women got up to clear the plates and bring in new ones. Aldo went to get some cognac and his dessert wine.

  Stella and Ivana came back from the kitchen and sat back down at the table.

  “I have no more room,” Nico said.

  “Without dessert, no good meal is complete,” Perillo said. Stella patted her flat stomach. Ivana beamed. Daniele blushed for seemingly no reason.

  “Here it comes,” Aldo announced after filling everyone’s small dessert glasses. Cinzia walked out of the kitchen, holding a round platter. “Ivana and Daniele made this together.”

  “No, no,” Ivana said. “Daniele made it.” Cinzia lowered the platter to show off a tiramisù covered in cocoa powder.

  “I watched to learn,” Ivana said. “Tiramisù is not a Neapolitan dish. We have sfogliatelle, babà au rhum, pastiera.”

  Cinzia went around the table and kissed Ivana’s cheek, then Daniele’s. “A wonderful gift, thank you.”

  Nico slipped his fork in the soft layers of espresso-soaked cookies, cocoa powder and mascarpone mixed with eggs whipped with sugar. The tiramisù was the best he’d eve
r eaten, but he couldn’t take another bite. He was half-drunk, his stomach stuffed even though the rest of him felt empty. It was a feeling that he remembered from his New York days. When a case was over, the guys would go out for a drink to celebrate, feeling satisfied yet empty. Once he was home with Rita, that feeling disappeared. He’d been lucky. Now he was alone with a dog. Nico realized the wine was making him feel sorry for himself. Get a grip, he thought.

  He sat in his chair and watched the others enjoying themselves. These were his friends. This was his new life. Tomorrow he’d help out at the restaurant. Monday morning, he’d meet Gogol again and listen to Dante quotes he didn’t understand. He’d help out at the restaurant, Alba teasing him and Tilde and Enzo grateful for his much-needed help. In the afternoon, fresh flowers for Rita. He had a good life.

  “Before everyone staggers home,” Aldo raised a fork, “my mother always said that there is no such thing as a coincidence, and I have always believed her, God rest her soul.” He blew a kiss to the sky. “Doesn’t everyone think that the gardener killing Mantelli was very convenient for Verdini?”

  “Nico, this one is yours,” Perillo said, happy he could finish off the big mound of tiramisu on his plate.

  “In this case, your mother was right,” Nico said. “Fortunately, Peppino has a very good lawyer, thanks to Diane Severson. During their meeting in jail, Peppino said, ‘He didn’t tell me it could kill.’ The lawyer wanted to know who ‘he’ was. Peppino told him. Verdini had called the villa on Tuesday. Peppino apparently answered gruffly—he’d just found out about the sale. Verdini asked him what was wrong. Peppino explained and added how upset he was. Verdini saw his opportunity and told Peppino a long story about a friend paying back a man who had insulted him by putting a hundred milliliters of antifreeze in his drink. He said the man was sick for a few hours then apologized.”

  “The seed was planted,” Aldo said. “But if Peppino hadn’t gone through with it?”

  “Verdini would have killed Mantelli himself,” Perillo said, leaning into the table and getting cocoa powder on his shirt. Ivana shook her head with a sigh. “We looked into ColleVerde’s finances. Sales were good, but a lot of distributors owed him money. Some had no intention of paying him, claiming he had sent them inferior wines. He couldn’t afford to keep paying back the loan and interest. This is the end of the story.”