Dying on the Vine (A Gideon Oliver Mystery) Page 19

  “Didn’t you just say we were welcome to them? Maresciallo, didn’t—”

  “Yes, yes, yes, that’s what I said, but on second thought—”

  “You didn’t ask for a warrant before, when you gave us the earlier records. Why is this different?”

  Quadrelli appealed to Martignetti. “Maresciallo, I really . . .” His tone and manner were somewhere between entreaty and indignation, but closer to the first: Why am I being harassed in this manner? But Martignetti merely smiled pleasantly, while Rocco continued to fix him with a cold stare.

  Quadrelli rose, lifting his double chin and tugging down the bottom of his vest. There was a massive gold-banded Rolex on his wrist. “I have nothing more to say. Those accounts have been entrusted to my guardianship. I do not feel I can surrender them to you without the safeguard of a judicial warrant demanding them. Gentlemen.”

  “If that’s the way you want it, fine,” Rocco said, biting off the words. “We’ll be back here with one first thing tomorrow morning.” Talk about wishful thinking.

  “You know, signore,” Martignetti said slowly, as Quadrelli turned to go, “it’s really up to you. We’ll do it the way you want, but if we could get the accounts today with your cooperation, which we’d very much appreciate, it’d save us a lot of paperwork.”

  Quadrelli remained standing, silent and glowering, but a muscle under his right eye twitched. He brushed at it with his hand, as if it had been caused by a flying insect.

  “And between us,” Martignetti continued with his friendly smile, “I’d sure do it that way if it was me. Why in the world would you want to call attention to yourself and irritate an overworked magistrate, when the result would be no different—either way, you relinquish the accounts. That makes sense to me. Doesn’t it make sense to you?”

  “Are you threatening me, Maresciallo?”

  “Absolutely not,” Martignetti said earnestly. “Look, signore, all I’m trying to do is to make things go as smoothly as possible for everybody concerned. But it’s your choice.”

  “We’ve wasted enough time here,” Rocco abruptly announced. “Let’s go. We’ll file for a warrant as soon as we—”

  Quadrelli sighed. His fat-padded shoulders sagged. “If you come with me, Maresciallo, I will turn them over to you. I will want a receipt.”

  “Absolutely,” Rocco said.

  Ten minutes later, Martignetti was back with two thick folders. “Well done, Tonino,” Rocco said. “So what did you think of that whole routine of his?”

  Martignetti stroked his chin and pondered. “After due consideration,” he said, “I think he just might have something to hide.”

  Rocco smiled. “Well, enough for today. You can start digging into that paperwork tomorrow morning.” He got up and took a long, luxurious stretch. “What would you say to a Cinzano before we head back?”

  “I’d say, lead me to it.”

  NINETEEN

  JULIE peered doubtfully up at the time-eaten marble street plaque affixed to the corner of an old building. “Via del Bicchieraia,” she read aloud. “This is it.”

  “Nah, can’t be,” John said.

  The other two in their party, Marti Lau and Gideon, had to agree with him. More alley than street, barely two car widths wide, lacking sidewalks, and bordered by moldering eighteenth-century, three-story apartment houses faced with peeling stucco that showed their rubble-stone construction, Via del Bicchieraia didn’t look like a street that housed the best restaurant in Tuscany.

  It was only two blocks long, overshadowed at one end by the stark “tower of a hundred holes,” the grim, thirteenth-century Romanesque bell tower of the Church of Santa Maria della Pieve, so called because of the eight forbidding stories of mullioned windows that encircled it. At the other end it was closed off by an old apartment building on a cross street. With the looming tower and the leaning buildings, it was doubtful if the sun ever made it all the way to the street itself.

  “Well, he said it was here,” Gideon said. “Number twenty-three. Let’s have a look.”

  They had to watch their step because there was no sidewalk; the irregular, stone-block pavement was uneven; and they had to negotiate around cars that were parked along the sides, jammed up against the walls of the buildings. When a small panel truck came down the street, they had to hurry to get around a parked car and flatten themselves against a wall.

  “If two cars come along from opposite directions, it’s every man for himself,” John muttered.

  But they were lucky, making it without incident to number twenty-three, the address Luca had given them. It was a storefront, its two windows partially covered by warped, gray shutters that surely hadn’t been repainted in this century, and maybe not in the last. No menu outside—not even a chalkboard—no stickers indicating acceptable credit cards, nothing but a couple of barely legible words painted in fading green directly on the stone lintel above the door: La Cucina di Nonna Natalia. Grandma Natalia’s Kitchen.

  “This is it, all right,” Marti said.

  “Well, he did say it wasn’t very impressive,” Gideon said.

  “He got that right,” said John.

  “Or very welcoming,” Julie said. “Do you think maybe it’d be better to wait for them?” She glanced up the street for Luca and Linda, who were parking the winery van in an underground lot a few blocks away. “They should only be another minute.”

  At that moment, though, two automobiles did turn onto the street from opposite ends, and that decided them. Something had to give. Gideon pulled the door open—predictably, the hinges squealed—and in they went.

  The aromas were wonderful; homey and warm, but with something subtle about them that was hard to pin down. The restaurant itself was less wonderful, a narrow room, only two tables wide, with an aisle down the middle. The walls held a single row of shelving on which bottles of red wine were sporadically displayed, the flooring was of much-worn tiles of cheap, wood-veneered plywood, and the tablecloths (which were white linen or cotton in almost every eating place in Italy) were red-and-white-checked plastic, the kind you found in cheap Italian chains in America. The diners, mostly older people, didn’t seem to be bothered by their shabby surroundings. They were eating happily and with gusto. Even for an Italian restaurant, the noise level was high. There was lots of laughter and the frequent clinking of glasses.

  “You know, I like this place,” Gideon announced. “It’s, I don’t know . . .”

  “Real?” said Julie, laughing.

  “That’s it.”

  An overweight woman came heavily forward to greet them. Other than wearing a scowl instead of a smile, she was an Italian version of Aunt Jemima: a white kitchen towel was wrapped bandanna-like around her head, and a white, stained apron covered a shapeless red-and-white-checked housedress that matched the tablecloths.

  “You came here to eat?” she somewhat suspiciously asked in Italian.

  “No, to buy car,” Marti said, but only to herself.

  “Yes, please, signora,” said Gideon, the designated Italian-speaker.

  “Americani?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not many Americans like this food.”

  “We’d like very much to try it.”

  “Dinner costs fifty euros. Including wine and mineral water.” It was delivered more like a warning than an information bulletin.

  “That’s fine,” Gideon said.

  “Bueno,” said John. “Bene, bene.”

  She appeared to be of two minds about whether or not to let them come in any farther, but finally she nodded with a sigh. “All right, follow me.”

  “There’ll be six of us altogether,” Gideon told her. “Our friends are on the way.”

  This was met with a shrug. She led them through an archway to a smaller, extremely plain room that held only two tables, both unoccupied, and began to shove them together. Gideon and John jumped to assist, receiving no thanks for their efforts. “She’s not exactly thrilled to see us, is she?” Julie wh
ispered to Gideon. “I’m getting a little uncomfortable.”

  “How long until your friends come?” the woman asked.

  “They’ll be here any minute.”

  She grunted and moved off.

  “Perhaps we could have some wine while we wait?” Gideon called.

  Another nod.

  “White wine for me,” said Marti, who had enough Italian to manage that much.

  “No white wine. Only red. You want white wine, you have to go someplace else. Plenty of other restaurants in Arezzo.”

  Marti didn’t understand it all, but Gideon did. He was ready to go find one of the other restaurants, but he didn’t want to disappoint Luca. But his tone was sharp: “Please bring us menus to look at while we wait. The special menus.”

  “No menus.”

  “No menus? How will we know what to order?”

  It appeared that Gideon wasn’t the only one who was annoyed. Clearly, the woman had had it with them, and her voice went up a few decibels. “Hey. You go to the symphony, to the opera?”

  “What? Yes.” But he stared at her, wondering if he’d misunderstood.

  She stared fiercely back at him. “And when you go to the symphony, do you tell the conductor what to play?”

  “I . . .”

  “No, you trust that he knows what he is doing. You put yourself in his hands.”

  “Signora—”

  But whatever he was about to say was cut off by a burst of booming, full-throated laughter—only Luca laughed like that—from the archway. The woman looked up and, like some kind of quick-change magic trick, her scowl was replaced by a lovely if crooked-toothed smile that completely altered her personality and would have lit up the room on its own. “Luca!” she cried joyfully. She pointed at Gideon and then shook the finger at Luca. “You put them up to this, you scoundrel!” She was laughing almost as hard as he was, and her bare upper arms jiggled like Jell-O.

  “Indeed I did, Amalia,” Luca said.

  Indeed he had, Gideon thought. “And make sure to ask for the special menus,” he’d told them earnestly an hour earlier. “It will show them that you know what you’re doing, that you’re not just a bunch of dumb tourists who wandered in by mistake.”

  It took a few seconds to explain to the others what had been going on, by which time everybody was laughing and was friends with everybody else. Amalia actually squeezed Gideon’s shoulder affectionately, a friendship offering. “I bring wine now,” she said in English.

  “You have to stop doing that, Luca,” Linda said as they sat down. “One of these days, she’s going to dump a pot of pasta e fagioli on your head.”

  “Yeah, thanks a whole lot, Luca,” John grumped.

  Luca was still chuckling. “I can’t help it. I love to hear her do her symphony speech.” He went into an Italian-accent falsetto. “‘Do you tell the conductor what to play?’” A little more laughter, and then he sobered. “That lady, Amalia Vezzoni, is the finest cook I know, the finest in Tuscany. She’s my, what do you call it, my role model. In fact . . . well . . .”

  “Oh, go ahead and tell them,” Linda said. “Why not?”

  “Sure, why not? Well, the fact is, Amalia’s getting older now, and her husband, who used to work with her, died last year. So we’ve been talking about buying into this place, working with her—and learning from her—for a while, and then, when she’s ready to call it quits, buying the whole thing from her. Time for me to get out of Villa Antica, anyway. It’s not the same with Franco in the driver’s seat, and anyhow, it’s really food I’m excited about now, not winemaking. What do you think?”

  Gideon couldn’t help glancing around the place. “Um—”

  His expression gave him away. “Yeah, we know,” Linda said. “It’s a little tacky. Amalia’s kind of let the place go. We plan on putting some money into making some improvements.”

  “But not too many,” Luca said. “We don’t want a fancy place, that’s not the point.” He leveled a forefinger at Linda. “And nothing changes at all in the kitchen.”

  “Well, maybe some of those old cast-iron pots, the ones with holes in them?” Linda suggested.

  “They can be repaired. No, the kitchen is beautiful, it’s like my grandmother’s, just five times as big. The sign out front will have to change, though. It’s going to be La Cucina di Nonna Gina.” With that happy thought, he settled back, smiling.

  Amalia returned with a waiter and with two bottles of wine, six glasses, and a couple of baskets of crusty bread. Proudly, she held up one of the bottles for Luca to examine.

  “Oho, Brunello di Montalcino,” he read. “From Mastrojanni. Wonderful. Is this what everybody’s getting tonight, or just us?”

  “Shh, better not to ask,” Amalia whispered.

  The waiter didn’t bother to offer him the cork to sniff or a dollop of wine to sip, but simply filled all six glasses, confident they’d be acceptable.

  And they were. Luca raised his glass in salute after tasting.

  “They wanted white wine,” Amalia told him, obviously an in-joke, but an indulgent one, like a story one parent tells to another about their child’s escapades that day. Luca smiled in response.

  “So what’s wrong with white wine?” a pouting Marti wondered. “We’ve been to some first-rate restaurants in Florence and had no trouble getting a pretty damn good local pinot grigio, or a Soave, or—”

  “Well, yes,” Luca answered, “it’s true you can get some ‘pretty damn good’ whites here, but Tuscany’s red wines are matchless. Its whites . . . can be matched. And Amalia, like me, is a perfectionist. As you’ll see shortly.” He dunked a crust of bread in his glass, popped the sopping chunk into his mouth, and rolled his eyes with contentment. “Ahh. So. Well. Gideon. You said you were going back to the funeral home to look at the bones again. . . .”

  “Which we did.” He and John had spent two frustrating and ultimately unproductive hours with the remains. They’d filled their wives in, but not Luca and Linda.

  “And did you come up with anything?” Linda asked. “Do you know what killed him? Any ideas at all?”

  Gideon was surprised that they wanted to talk about it at dinner, but if they were game, he was game. Linda and Luca were technically suspects, but, perhaps unwisely, he had excluded them from his own list of possibles. “Not really, Linda. There are those green-stick fractures I was telling you about, but I’m guessing they probably came from the fall. Or put it this way: I have no reason to think they didn’t; they’re perfectly consistent with a fall from a height.”

  What he didn’t tell them—why confuse things even more than they already were?—was that the fact that they were consistent with fall-type injuries didn’t mean they were inconsistent with ballistic-type injuries. When bullets hit long bones, or flat bones, or ribs, they didn’t necessarily make the nice, round, internally beveled holes that they made in the skull, and which were instantly recognizable as entrance wounds. Instead, they often just broke or shattered the bones, so they looked no different than bones that had taken some other kind of blunt-trauma hit . . . such as a fall. And Pietro’s remains had plenty of those.

  “Nothing else, huh?” Luca asked. “No clues at all?”

  “Afraid not, but look, you have to remember, there are all kinds of ways to kill someone without leaving any marks on the skeleton.”

  “That’s true,” Linda agreed. “Poison, suffocation—”

  “Well, yes, but even knives and guns. It’s not all that rare for a knife or even a slug to penetrate the heart without touching a rib or the sternum or the scapula or anything bony. So not finding anything doesn’t prove that there wasn’t anything.”

  “But Gideon, I was thinking,” Julie said slowly, “if you didn’t find anything, doesn’t that mean it’s possible there wasn’t anything? That nobody killed him? That he just died from, I don’t know, a stroke, a heart attack. Anything. People die.”

  “Well, yes, of course it’s possible, but if he died of natural causes, w
hy shoot him a month later?”

  “Why shoot him a month later if he died of unnatural causes?”

  “And why kill Nola?” John asked her.

  “And why throw them off the cliff?” Marti asked.

  “Heck, I don’t know. Don’t jump all over me. I’m just thinking out loud. I don’t see that the experts”—an eyebrow-raised glance at John and Gideon—“are doing any better. In fact, for all we know, maybe killing Nola was the whole point of it, and making it look as if Pietro did it was a way of covering it up so—”

  “If that’s what it was about,” Gideon said, “then I’d have to say it sure was convenient for the killer that he just happened to have Pietro’s dead body lying around just waiting for him. Talk about lucky heart attacks.” He began to laugh, but then caught a glimpse of Luca’s face. “Luca, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting. It’s your father we’re talking about. I shouldn’t be—”

  Luca waved him silent. “Forget it. Time to change the subject anyway. Here comes our dinner. Get ready for the best that Italy has to offer.”

  But Gideon found the five-course meal disappointing. There weren’t many Italian dishes that he actively disliked, but this meal had them all, starting with ribollita, the bread-thickened bean-and-cabbage affair that was somewhere between soup and stew, that you could eat equally well with a fork or a spoon. Then came a taglierini and truffle dish about which he had no complaints, but the main course of ossobuco—veal shanks braised in wine with tomatoes, carrots, and onions—was his least favorite Italian dish of all.

  The others all seemed to love everything that was put in front of them (Marti passed on the ossobuco, of course, having two lip-smacking bowls of the ribollita instead), and after a while Gideon realized what his problem was, and why he’d never liked these particular foods. Nonna Natalia’s cooking reminded him too much of his own Polish-Austrian great aunt’s productions. The ribollita was blood-brother to her gluey cabbage and barley soup, and the ossobuco was close kin to her dreaded schmorbraten—rump roast simmered on the range top—and simmered, and then simmered some more, until the gray meat literally slid off the bone and fell apart into shreds. It was from Tante Frieda’s pot roast that he’d learned firsthand that muscle was constituted of long, separable, stringy fibers.