Roman Count Down

by David P. Wagner

  Rick tried to be a bit more diplomatic. Perhaps some of his father’s skills had rubbed off on him. “Since I’m starting my own business I wouldn’t mind hearing about yours, Giulia.”

  She smiled, seemed about to take his hand, but didn’t. “Thank you, Rick. Well, it’s this: we get requests from tour operators from South America and Spain for guided tours of the city in Spanish. If I had someone…” She held up her hands defensively. “Not you, Rick. I know you speak Spanish but I wasn’t thinking of you. Honestly.”

  “I believe you, Giulia.” He looked at Art and then back at her. “By coincidence, I just might know someone who could at least temporarily fill the bill. Do they have to know Rome well or do you tell them what they’re supposed to say?”

  “Each one of my tours is programmed ahead of time. The material is written out and the guide, at least for the new guides, merely have to read what is prepared for them. Of course it’s in English.”

  “This guy knows enough English so he could probably work with that.”

  “Rick,” said Art, “you’re not thinking of—?”

  “I’m not sure if he’d be willing,” Rick interrupted, “but he’s temporarily in Rome and may have some time on his hands. If he does, I’ll ask him to give you a call.” He looked at Art, who was rubbing his head like he’d suddenly developed a headache.

  Art picked up the two empty beer glasses. “I’ll get us a couple more.”

  “I think it’s my turn to buy, Art.”

  “No, Rick, I embezzled enough at the office today to cover this easily.” He got up and walked to the bar, leaving Rick and Giulia to themselves.

  “When are we going to get together, Rick? I mean just the two of us. Are you free for dinner the day after tomorrow?”

  Was she asking him out? He was the virtually unemployed new arrival and she the successful businesswoman, so what was the protocol here? He’d figure it out later.

  “I am definitely free, Giulia, and I’d enjoy that.”

  Chapter Eight

  Moving day.

  After breakfast Rick had bade farewell to his uncle, bundled his suitcases into a taxi, and used his new keys to get himself into the courtyard and apartment. Giorgio was nowhere to be found; it was either his day off or he was conveniently somewhere else in the building so he wouldn’t have to help. Rick managed to get everything into and off the elevator, and pushed it into the apartment. The windows were shut, as he’d left them, but the outside shutters were open to let in light. He looked out over the rooftops and wondered if Fellini had shown up to be annoyed at finding himself shut out. He opened one of the windows, just in case, and wrestled the suitcases into the bedroom. He’d made the bed on his last visit, and now opened one of the suitcases on it.

  After everything was in its place he walked back through the living room and dining nook to the kitchen. It was sparsely furnished, but had all the basics he needed, starting with a pot large enough to cook pasta. On the shelves next to a set of plates he saw the standard espresso pot, good to have, though he planned to have his breakfast on the street. He would start the next morning trying out the neighborhood bars to decide which would become his regular stop. Everyone made good cappuccini, so the issue was the baked goods. They had to have warm, fresh cornetti. He looked in the refrigerator, and it contained a single bottle of mineral water. Time to stock it, and the shelves, beginning with something for lunch. He picked up the keys that he’d left on the small dining table and went out the door.

  The building had a rear exit, bringing him out to a crowded little piazza, its quiet a contrast with the din of the front of the building. Parked cars filled the space at strange angles, their squat forms contrasting with a tall, stone Corinthian column in the middle. Even in Rome, it looked out of place. Rick walked through the square to a narrow street and began searching for a deli. He knew that in this city there was always a salumaio nearby, and he was not disappointed. He spotted one, and as he got closer, the smell of fresh cheese and meats attacked his nostrils. He pushed open the door and found himself in an establishment which could be anywhere in Italy. Fresh pasta lay in baskets in the window, cans and jars lined the shelves on two sides, and directly ahead was a display case with delicacies of all types, from prepared dishes ready for the oven to any number of cheeses and desserts.

  He had found his salumaio. Adding to the store’s draw, as if convenience and variety were not enough, was the very attractive woman behind the counter who was now waiting on a customer. She glanced at him and smiled as she dealt with an elderly man’s sliced prosciutto, asking how many etti he needed. Rick watched the transaction, and immediately had the sense that he’d met the woman before. There was something about her manner. But where? He guessed she was about his age, so he could have known her when he’d lived in Rome as a kid. No, too long ago. At the pub or sitting near him in a restaurant? No, he would have remembered that. The man took his sack and change, and walked toward the door. She looked at Rick.

  “What may I get you today?”

  He had been so mesmerized by her looks that he hadn’t thought about what he needed. Why hadn’t he made a list? But he could always come back; it’s not like he had to get into the car and drive to the supermarket, like in Albuquerque. She waited, and the smile was starting to turn down, but only slightly. Amused? Or bemused?

  “Orange juice?”

  She pointed to the shelf to his right. “Regular and blood orange, take your pick.”

  He pulled one carton off and put it on the counter. “Rosette. Two.” He pointed to rolls in the bread bin behind her. “And then some mortadella. One etto should do it.” He was into it now, thinking lunch.

  “If you’re going to make two sandwiches,” she said as she wrapped the rolls, “I’d suggest at least two etti,” she said, “or you’ll both go hungry.”

  “It’s just me,” Rick said while thinking: was she probing? Don’t flatter yourself, Montoya. “Va bene, due etti.”

  “Mayonnaise?” She sliced the mortadella. “It’s over there.” She pointed to another shelf and Rick picked off a tube and added it to his pile.

  “That insalata russa looks tempting.” He pointed to a pan of diced potatoes, peas, and carrots in a thick dressing, topped with clear aspic. It was one of Rick’s favorites that he hadn’t eaten since his last time in Italy. “About this much.” He put his thumbs and fingers together, and she spooned out that size into a plastic container.”

  “Vino?” She pointed to the opposite shelf.

  “Good idea.” He thought about what should go with his sandwiches and couldn’t decide. He certainly didn’t want to make another rookie mistake in front of her.

  “That bianco on the end should be perfect.” Was she was reading his mind?

  “I was just going to pick that one.” He took the bottle of white from the shelf. “I think that should do it.”

  She nodded and added up the items while he watched her tap the keys. Nothing on the ring finger. She hit total, tore off the paper, and handed it to Rick before putting his items in a plastic bag. Rick paid her, said thank you, and turned to leave. After one step he stopped.

  “What day are you closed?”

  “All day Sunday, and Monday in the morning. If you forgot something, I’m here until seven.”

  Rick swallowed hard, thanked her again, and left the store. All the way back to his apartment he tried to remember where he’d seen her before. Nothing came to him and he decided it was just wishful thinking. He also decided he wasn’t that hungry, so made one sandwich and put it on a plate with the half the salad. Should he open the bottle of wine? No, it wasn’t cold, and he needed all his senses for his afternoon meeting with Carmella at the music conservatory to interview Signora Angelini. Instead, he opened the mineral water, poured some in a glass, and carried everything to the dining table. As he sat down he noticed a gray face staring at him throug
h the window glass. Or was it staring at the sandwich?

  “Sorry, Fellini, I’ve got nothing for you.”

  The next time he went food shopping he would pick something up for the poor guy.

  Rome’s most famous music academy was located on a quiet side street near the Spanish Steps, far enough away from the shops that most tourists seen wandering down the street were lost. Rick knew he was on the right one when he spotted Carmella’s police car parked in the distance. Further confirmation came from the deep tones of a violin bouncing off the buildings, though when he got closer he realized it was a cello. Carmella was talking on her cell phone as he approached, waving her free hand. As he got closer her voice drowned out the cello.

  “Well, do what you want. You should be old enough by now to make your own decisions, even though you’ve never made a good one in your life. But unlike the last time, don’t expect me to bail you out when it doesn’t work. Even if you don’t learn from your mistakes, I learn from mine.” She noticed Rick approaching and lowered her voice. “I have to go. Ciao, figlio. Baci.”

  Talking with her son had not put Carmella in a good mood. He could tell by the scowl on her face, and hoped it wouldn’t transfer to him. “Salve, Carmella.”

  He needn’t have worried, she went directly to business. “Salve, Riccardo. I’ve been thinking about this Angelini woman we’re going to interview. There is no way that the count would have started taking harp lessons at his age, there has to be something more to it. You know what I’m expecting here?”

  Given the sergeant’s propensity to think the worst of the opposite sex, he knew exactly what she was expecting here. “No, Carmella, what are you expecting?”

  “Monkey business. The count wasn’t just plucking her harp.”

  “But that’s what you said with the woman who runs the salumaio.”

  Carmella threw him a malicious smile. “So he couldn’t be stringing along two women?”

  Rick was rescued from having to reply by his ringing phone. He fished it out of his pocket while Carmella waited impatiently.

  “Montoya… oh, ciao Lidia, I mean Teresa…that’s very kind of you…tomorrow morning an appointment with him?…of course, I’ll make it work. My Argentine friend will be very appreciative…wait, let me get something to write it down.” He squeezed the phone between his ear and shoulder and made an “I need something to write with” gesture to Carmella. She pulled a pen and pad from her jacket pocket and passed it to him. “Okay, go ahead…got it. I can’t thank you enough, Lidia…I mean Teresa. Sorry, I can’t get used to it…bye.” He tore off the sheet and passed the pad and pen back to the policewoman. “That was an old high school friend. She’s helping me with something.”

  “An old friend, and you can’t remember if her name is Lidia or Teresa?”

  “It’s a long story. Let’s go, Signora Angelini is expecting us.”

  They walked up a few steps and entered the conservatory. It had been all stone on the outside, giving it a feeling of permanence that was typical of buildings in the neighborhood, but inside it was wood and more wood, starting with creaking floors. A long hallway extended straight ahead to a tall window in the distance. Lights dangled at precise intervals from cords attached to the high ceiling, spreading a dim light on the floor in front of doors on both sides of the corridor. Behind one of the doors was the invisible cellist, now playing minor chords, like background music in a suspense movie.

  “Can I help you?” The voice came from a window squeezed between bulletin boards crammed with notices competing for space. It came from a man dressed in a blue suit with the musical logo on the breast pocket. He looked up at them from over a copy of La Gazzetta dello Sport.

  “We have an appointment with Signora Angelini,” said Carmella.

  “Third door to the right.” His eyes dropped back to the paper.

  As Rick and Carmella started down the middle of the hall, he wondered if the floor would hold them, since its well-worn boards not only groaned but bent slightly under their weight. Rick moved to one side. When they reached the door, Carmella rapped loudly.

  “Avanti.”

  Signora Angelini was not what Rick expected, especially after Carmella’s theory about why the count was taking lessons. He was unable to estimate a true age, which, he decided, was just what the woman intended. Bright red hair, bordering on orange, was piled on top of her head like a lacquered beehive. The makeup was so heavy it looked like she had forgotten to take off one layer before applying another, and the same could be said of the bright red lipstick. It was a look. But as striking as she was above the neck, it was her arms that drew Rick’s attention. Years, or more likely decades earlier, Signora Angelini must have become enamored with tattoos, since her arms were now covered with ink of different colors. Had she once had an affair with a tattoo artist? Unfortunately, she was now paying the price for a bad decision earlier in her life, though it was impossible for him to ascertain how much earlier. Each of the designs had a musical theme, but now the harps, angels, and musical notes were faded by time and blurred from wrinkles, some to the point of being unidentifiable. Back in New Mexico Rick had wondered what some of his tattooed friends would look like after the passage of time. Now he knew. To her credit, Signora Angelini must have come to terms with the inking and made the decision not to be ashamed of it. Her sleeveless blouse was the confirmation.

  “Who’s he? They told me I would be visited by a policewoman. I expected only one.”

  “This is Lieutenant Montoya, Signora. He is also working on the case.”

  Signora Angelini was not happy with the explanation, but waved them both to folding chairs. The room was without frills. Except for an ornate harp next to her, and a stack of metal music stands in one corner, it held only the row of chairs. The walls were bare, one florescent light hung from the high ceiling, and a single window looked out onto a brick wall. As they took their seats, the distant cello shifted to a slightly less ominous theme, giving Rick hope that something would come out of the interview. He worked hard to keep himself from staring at the woman’s arms.

  “Thank you for taking the time to speak with us.” Rick hoped it would soften the woman’s mood. It did not.

  “Get it over with. What do you want to know?”

  “When did you last see the count?” It was the standard question, and Rick decided to get it out of the way so that his supposed authority was established before Carmella took over.

  “He had a regular lesson here about a week before he was killed. I remember my son calling me when he heard the news of the murder. I had told him I was giving Count Zimbardi lessons, so he knew I’d want to know.”

  “How did he appear that day?” Carmella asked. “Normal? Agitated?”

  “My son?”

  “No, the count.”

  “Him? Normal. As bad as ever.”

  Rick jumped on the reply. “Bad? In what way?”

  “He wasn’t a very good student, if I might understate. I don’t expect all my students to become concert-quality musicians, but the count was essentially tone deaf. He tried, but it was no use. So much determination with so little talent, it was sad, really.”

  “But you kept trying to teach him.”

  She held out her arms with the palms up, exposing some tattoos that Rick hadn’t seen before, but with a continuation of the musical theme. “That’s what I do. I teach, they pay me. It puts food on the table.”

  “Do you know what made the count decide to learn to play the harp?”

  Signora Angelini didn’t hesitate with her answer. “‘She’s Leaving Home.’ It was his favorite.”

  Carmella nodded.

  “I don’t understand,” said Rick.

  “Song by the Beatles,” said Carmella. “It has harp in the backup.”

  Unlike Rick, Signora Angelini did not appear surprised by Carmella’s mastery of Be
atles discography. She continued. “I could see immediately that he would never learn to play, but who am I to be telling him that? And he paid up front for a month of weekly lessons.”

  “So he’d only been taking lessons for four weeks when he was killed?” Rick asked.

  “He’d just paid me for the second month.” She noticed the look on Carmella’s face and added; “It was nonrefundable.”

  “How did the count find you?” Carmella asked. “Yellow Pages?”

  “Do they still have Yellow Pages? No, he got my name from my son.”

  “How did he meet your son?”

  “He came into his shop one day. My son restores furniture.”

  Later Rick and Carmella stood on the street in front of the conservatory. The cello music had stopped, replaced by an accordion, its chords back to minor. Carmella leaned against her patrol car, her arms folded across her chest.

  “So now Avellone, the furniture restorer, is connected to the harp teacher,” she said. “It all goes back to the street. Something happened on that damned street. You have to get back there and talk to those people again.”

  “Me?”

  “I’ve got another case I’m working on that’s coming to conclusion. Lots of paperwork to fill out on it or the judges will toss it out. Tomorrow’s my day off so I have to get it done. Why don’t you go over and poke around Via Anacleto this afternoon? I’d be curious to know why Avellone didn’t mention that his mother was giving the count harp lessons.”

  Rick was curious too, but didn’t want to feel like he was being ordered around by Carmella. “I’ll see if I can fit it into my schedule. I have to meet with a friend this afternoon.”

  Carmella opened the door to the car. “I hope you’ll get the name straight before you go.”

  Rick let the comment go. He was getting used to her sarcasm. “Do you still think the count was doing more with Signora Angelini than plucking the harp?”

  “Kid, you still don’t want to get it, do you? Did you see those tattoos?” Shaking her head, she got in, started the engine, and drove off at twice the speed allowed for the narrow street.