Death al Dente (15 page)

“So where does that leave you?” I asked.

He hitched his cloak in a swirl. It must have been designed to show to advantage in that maneuver. “I wonder how much credence we can place in this Brother Angelo’s statement that Pellegrini’s death was murder.”

“He baffles me,” I admitted. “I can’t understand him at all.”

“Tell me, from your experience in the food business, do you have knowledge of poisonous substances in food?”

“Some,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

“Is there such a thing as an untraceable poison?”

“I’m sure you have already asked your forensic experts,” I countered.

He grimaced. “They say there is no such substance, but then, like all experts, they don’t want to admit there is something they don’t know about.”

“Experts always like to protect their rear. They will all say that they don’t think there is an untraceable poison—but if there is, they have not run into it yet. Maybe in the future … who knows?”

“I hope this is not the future,” said Cataldo gloomily. “I am just a policeman—I need more help than this!”

“We can help,” chipped in Francesca, “but as I told you when I phoned, we may be in danger. We need to be able to protect ourselves.”

“Yes, well,” said Cataldo a little reluctantly, reaching inside that capacious cloak, “take this.” He handed her a copy of
Oggi,
the popular magazine. It was folded two ways and secured with tape. “Don’t open it here!” he told her in alarm and just in time. “There is a temporary license there too.” She gave him a businesslike nod and stuffed it carelessly into her purse, though I noticed she was vigilant when clipping it shut.

“I received your list of the foods you ate. Very comprehensive,” he said to me. He turned to Francesca. “I do not have yours yet. Let me have it quickly.”

She gave him a mock curtsy. He sighed in equally mock exasperation and left us to go to the bar. Drinking on duty was evidently not prohibited by the Italian police rule book. Francesca patted her handbag affectionately. “You see how easy it was?

“Too easy,” I said. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

She gave me a scornful look and stalked off to the buffet table.

I was not alone for long. Anita, the guitar-playing, bawdy song—singing wife of Giacomo Ferrero, chef and owner of Capodimonte, appeared at my side and gave me a probing look. “Remember me?” she asked in a seductive voice.

“Very well,” I said. “You sing beautifully.”

She moved closer. She was a sultry woman, with jet black hair pulled back and a large mouth which she used to maximum effect. “I always wanted to be a singer,” she said, “but so do many others in Italy. It’s just as well perhaps.” She smiled meaningfully. “Opera lyrics are dull. The ones I was singing today are better, don’t you think?”

“I must admit that I haven’t heard those particular ones sung at a funeral before.”

“Did I shock you?”

“I was completely shocked,” I said solemnly.

She laughed. It was an earthy, throaty laugh. Perhaps it was well she had not become an opera singer. “I have others that are much more shocking,” she said, looking at me with big eyes. “I must sing some of them for you sometime.”

“That would be …” I was trying to think of a better word than “interesting” when she said brightly, “I know—we’ll go to Venice!”

“We will?”

Her eyes searched my face. “Have you ever been to Venice?

“Once, many years ago.”

“Then it is time for you to go again. It is such a romantic city. I know it well—I can be your guide.” She looked upwards, thinking. “Yes, we will go this weekend.”

Before I could comment, she was continuing. “You live in London?”

“Yes.”

“An exciting city. I am looking forward to living there.”

“Oh?” I said, very surprised. “You are going there?”

She surveyed the room, making head-to-toe studies of a couple of women nearby with disdain. “Why, yes,” she said silkily, coming back to me. “You are going to recommend Giacomo for the job there, aren’t you?” She gave me a full attention smile with that wide mouth. “But we can talk about that in Venice. I’ll be in touch.”

Francesca wound her way through the knots of people and rejoined me. “How did you and the vampire of Capodimonte get along?” she wanted to know.

“Anita? I was congratulating her on her singing.”

“You obviously know nothing about music. What did she say?”

“Invited me to a weekend in Venice,” I said casually.

“Sounds like her style. She has quite a reputation, did you know that?”

“I can believe it.” I told her the substance of the conversation.

“Presumptuous cow! Thinks she can seduce you so that you’ll recommend her husband.” She showed me her lovely Italian profile, chin raised. “She can’t, can she?”

“The English are not bribeable.”

“Ha!” she scoffed then became suddenly serious. “Listen, Elena is coming over. I talked to her for a few minutes and Carlo suggested she mingle. She’s still teary-eyed. It will do her good. Here she comes now.”

Elena looked very fetching in black with a veil, and she seemed to have her grief under control. I commiserated with her for a few moments. “Captain Cataldo has been most kind and sympathetic,” she said in a soft voice. “Naturally, he was asking about Silvio’s interest in opening a sales operation for edible plants and flowers. It’s understandable—at least three of us ingested something dangerous. I’m lucky to be alive, Tomasso escaped, only poor Silvio …” she dissolved into sobs but quickly wiped them away with an embroidered handkerchief. “I’m sorry—it’s just so difficult to accept.”

“I understand that you took a study course in edible plants and flowers,” I said, not wanting to upset her further but curious to hear what she had to say about this.

“I did, yes. Silvio asked me to—I was going to be a botanist, you know, until I met Silvio and we were married.”

“I didn’t know that. So you already had an interest in the subject?”

“Yes. Rice was another product that I gathered information on for Silvio.”

“Why rice?” Francesca asked innocently.

“It’s one of the most important commodities in the food business in Italy. Silvio wanted to know all about it. He has a large share of the cheese market, he had visions of being just as powerful in rice. He was a very meticulous man—he needed to gather masses of data on a subject before making a decision about it.”

We could hear Ottavio’s whining voice complaining about the antipasti, the drinks, and the crowd and declaring that he was leaving. Funerals were boring anyway, he added, and Elena gave a nervous half-smile as if excusing him. A man who introduced himself as Elena’s cousin came along and said he wanted to take her away to talk to another member of the family. Elena and Francesca embraced as if they were bosom friends and Elena left.

“Rice keeps turning up in conversations,” I said. “Aside from having an interest in seeing it harvested, as I mentioned, maybe we should go have a look at this place that Pellegrini wanted to buy.”

“Sure,” said Francesca readily. “We can go tomorrow. It’s not far.”

Cataldo approached, a highly visible presence with his regal stature and imposing uniform. “I have to go back to the office,” he told us. “What are your plans? What dangerous situation do you plan on entering next?” he asked me and Francesca answered promptly. “We’re going to the Dorigo Farms near Gremolana.”

Cataldo frowned, perplexed. “Why are you going there?” Francesca explained. Cataldo kept frowning. Finally, he shrugged. “Very well. Need I add, ‘be careful’? You seem to be a lightning rod for attracting hazards.”

“I’ll be safe,” I told him. “I have an armed bodyguard.” Somehow that assurance did not seem to placate him.

T
HE ALMOST IMPOSSIBLY BRIGHT
green stretched out as far as the eye could see in every direction. The endless rows of rice plants were two feet high and tightly squeezed together so that they seemed like a vast green blanket covering the earth. Only an occasional levee broke the green monotony—low banks of packed earth to prevent water draining off. In the distance, silvery silos with conical tops squatted in groups, waiting to be filled, and just beyond, long metal-roofed buildings contained the equipment that prepared the rice for packing and shipping.

Our guide was a young woman of about Francesca’s age. Our party was eight in number. Two were Canadians from the wheat belt, curious to compare the similar processes used for mankind’s two most important grains. A serious German couple with an interest in everything and two Austrians who had run out of cathedrals to visit made up the total as we rolled along an access road in a large Jeep-type vehicle extended to accommodate more seats.

“There is only one species of rice,” the efficient young woman told us, first in English and then in German, “but there are over eight thousand varieties. Some produce long-grain rice, some medium-grain, and some short-grain. There are many aromatic and scented varieties while others are bred to suit specific local conditions.”

“Does this kind of rice grow any higher?” one of the Austrians asked.

“It will be fully grown in another week or so,” said our guide. “It will have grown to about three feet by then. Some varieties in other parts of the world grow over six feet tall.”

Many of the rice fields were flooded, and a Canadian asked why. The guide explained that the main purpose of the standing water was to drown out the weeds that deprive the rice plants of sunlight and air. These fields were the rice paddies that are the typical image of rice growing. “Looking for Anna Magnani wading through the water?” Francesca murmured.

Huge flocks of birds came sweeping down like flying clouds, their raucous calls drowning out even the vehicle’s engine. “They live on the ripe grain,” explained our guide. “Their migratory habits are dictated by our planting cycle.”

The tour of the extensive fields completed, we were taken through the large buildings we had seen earlier where the grinding, milling, and sieving were done. The hull was removed first, said our guide, showing us a line of red-painted machines with shiny metal pipes and funnels. This produces brown rice, she told us, and this can be eaten, but the brown-colored bran layers contain oil which causes the rice to spoil rapidly. She took us past batteries of brightly painted blue milling machines which polish the grains and produce the pearly white appearance that everyone finds familiar.

One of the big buildings was arranged as a museum displaying antique equipment and large colored boards describing different rice varieties. That led into another building fitted out as a cafeteria. A hum of conversation came from the area for employees, and there was a pleasing smell of cooking food. We were invited to eat in the visitors’ area and the meal was, not surprisingly, rice dishes and risottos.

All were Lombardy dishes, as a menu clarified. There was
ris e erba savia,
rice boiled in consommé with onion and sage;
ris e lovertis,
rice boiled in consommé to which is added at the last minute, hops browned in butter and lots of grated parmesan cheese;
ris e erborin,
rice cooked in consommé with parsley; and
risotto con el rane,
which caused me to ask Francesca, “Isn’t
rane
frog?”

She conferred with an attendant and then said to me, “We should have guessed. All these flooded fields means there are thousands of frogs.”

“So the easiest way to keep down the frog population is to eat them.”

Francesca nodded. “Yes. They boil the frogs, pound the meat into a pulp, and add it to the rice with butter, oil, garlic, and onion.”

We ate small quantities of several risottos, sampling and comparing. The long tables and benches were sufficient to accommodate a much larger number of visitors but it was, as Francesca pointed out, a little too early in the season. A very ordinary Soave was served—this being another of those Italian wines that is produced in response to a familiarity with the name so that quality has sadly deteriorated.

“What’s the matter?” Francesca asked suddenly.

I didn’t answer at once. I was staring across the cafeteria. “Over there,” I said, “putting his tray onto the pile. Now he’s heading for the door.”

She followed my line of sight. “Who is he?” Then she said quickly, “The man in the car? When you talked to Brother Angelo in front of the Questura?”

“Yes. I’m sure it’s him.”

She looked from him to me. “What are we going to do?”

“Do you have that gun Cataldo gave you?”

She patted her purse affectionately. “Of course.”

“Better give it to me.”

“You hate guns, remember? I’ll keep it for the time being.”

She was a willful girl as I knew by now, so I didn’t argue. “Come on. We’ll follow him.”

We watched as he walked across the open space in front of the cafeteria building. He was easy to spot, a short stocky fellow with a slight roll to his walk. He had black hair and a squat, flat face.

“He’s going to one of those vehicles,” Francesca said. A row of trucks, bulldozers, scrapers, and similar wheeled equipment stood there, and the man took a key from his pocket. He stopped at a yellow six-wheeler with a folding contraption on the front. He was going to get in, then he changed his mind and went to inspect the back tires.

“We’re parked near enough,” I said quickly. “We can get your car and follow him.”

We had come in Francesca’s Fiat and she nodded. “All right. Let’s hurry.”

We pulled out of the parking lot and she drove slowly along the front rank from where we could see the collection of utility vehicles. He was still there, examining a tire, then, seemingly satisfied, he opened the door and climbed in. He drove off along a well-used track, apparently across the wide-open spaces of the rice paddies.

“Don’t go yet,” I warned. “We can watch him from here and he can’t see us.”

In a couple of minutes, his destination was clear. Two huts sat in isolation some distance away and the yellow six-wheeler slowed and, turned towards them.

The man got out and went to one of the huts. He opened the door and stood, looking inside. He was much too far away for us to hear but he was having a conversation with someone in the hut. It was apparently heated, for he was waving his arms and gesticulating.