Death al Dente (23 page)

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Francesca casting an occasional furtive glance at Vanessa, who looked shy and said little. I knew that Francesca was trying to reconcile this image with the woman we had seen slipping into the nightclub, Fica, with the brilliant but obnoxious Ottavio.

The big pavilions were crowded now, and the hum of discussions, arguments, claims, counterclaims, and customer comments both favorable and otherwise rose to the high raftered ceilings. The sharp clink of glass and the soft gurgle of wine added to the excitement of the occasion. As we walked past one deeply involved group, we were hailed by a familiar voice and face. It was Tomasso Rinaldo, the dapper lawyer.

After we had agreed on what a good time we were all having, Francesca pointed down the aisle. “I think they could use you there to defend the law. Some harsh words are being used.”

Tomasso smoothed his smartly trimmed beard and waved a beautifully manicured hand in a conciliatory gesture. “The law comes in for some heavy criticism today,” he admitted. “Everyone has an opinion on it—all find it either too weak or too strong.”

“The wine business must be a minefield of legal problems.” I said in commiseration. “The food business being not too far behind.”

“True,” he agreed. “We are having a discussion on labeling. Already we have to show if a wine contains sulfites. Some legislators want to force winemakers to show the percentage of sulfur dioxide on the label. That will mean changing winemaking methods to reduce the amount of it used.”

“Which in turn will mean more chemical sprays in the vineyard and more complaints of damage to the health of the community,” I added.

“All bad for the winemakers but good for the lawyers,” said Francesca.

Tomasso looked rueful. “Not the way we want more accounts, I can assure you.”

We left him trying to decide whether to stay with his present group or try the other. “The law is full of dilemmas,” he told us, shaking his head.

Italians are fond of giving their wines extravagant names, and one stand pressed on us a taste of their
Sangue di Giuda
—the Blood of Judas. We felt betrayed by it. Francesca found some
Torre del Greco
—the Towers of Greece—but was disappointed when it was not as she remembered. We passed a group at one stand arguing heatedly over “big name” wines. “Customers buy big name wines because they feel secure with them,” maintained a woman with a large hat. “But their reputations were gained by offering quality whereas today a big name means nothing more than that the wine has not been abused.” A thin man with a face weathered by decades in a vineyard said, “I blame the European Community. They support the big producers and penalize the small vineyard trying for quality.”

We came in near the end of a spirited debate on another stand over the relative merits of wood and glass for aging red wines but at least we were in time to enjoy the full flavor of their clean, well-balanced Montepulciano. Francesca looked at the large clock at the end of the hall. “We should be going in to the banquet room.”

Her words gave me a tingling feeling. Cataldo was going to try to draw the final curtain and would no doubt do it with an operatic flourish. I had an uncomfortable memory of so many Italian operas that ended in bloodshed and death …

T
HE BANQUET ROOM SEEMED
small after the cavernous halls of the exhibition. Tables each seating six or eight people were set, but the couple of dozen people who were here already stood in groups, drinking wine served from the tables round the walls. We went over to one of these and found that they were pouring superior wines from some of the best vineyards.

I found myself examining the young man handing us two glasses of Principessa Gavi from the Banfi vineyard in Siena. He looked reliable and so was the wine. It was one of the cleanest, crispest, most refreshing white wines I had tasted, and Francesca agreed enthusiastically. After we had confirmed that opinion, I said, “Let’s circulate. Do some investigating.”

The group I joined was being lectured at by a man with a flowing mustache and a strong voice. “It should not be allowed to be displayed at an exhibition as serious and prestigious as this one,” he was declaring. “It is an insult to the Italian wine industry.” I raised my eyebrows at a red-haired woman standing nearby. “He’s talking about Lambrusco,” she whispered. “Professor Peralto from the wine institute.”

“It is as near to undrinkable as a wine can get,” the man continued. “Is that so surprising? Everything we know about Lambrusco tells us that. For instance, it can be drunk the day after it is bottled—now we all know that wine needs to age. Lambrusco is eight or nine percent alcohol—any good wine is at least twelve percent. It is slightly sparkling—but for how long? The bubbles die immediately. It is thin-bodied, sharp-tasting, and a sickly pink color that looks as if it came out of a laboratory. It is not rose and it is not red—it is not even anywhere in between.”

His verbal assault brought titters from his small audience then a voice called out, “Millions drink it—they must like it!”

The professor shook his head vigorously. “We nickname it Lambruscola. Does that not tell you something?”

“It’s an insult to a good soft drink!” commented a woman supporter.

“Millions like it, you say.” The professor pointed to the man who had made that remark. “They are people with uneducated tastes. Isn’t it our responsibility to educate them?”

“Yours maybe,” grunted someone. “You’re the educator.”

The professor leaped on the statement. “Exactly. I’m trying to do that now—educate people—and that means condemning the bad as well as praising the good.”

A babble of voices drowned out the next words as several voluble Italians all started to speak at the same time. I wandered on, unable to resist a scrutinizing look at each waiter.

A deep voice hailed me and I found Giacomo pumping my hand. “My friend! I am glad to see you. Tell me, how goes the search?”

“I hope you mean the search for who killed Signor Pellegrini. That is the important one,” I said in my most reproving tone.

“Of course, of course.” His beard looked fuller than ever, and he seemed to have grown in all directions. He was just as ebullient as before, and my rebuke went right over his head. “I just saw Captain Cataldo coming in,” he said. “Possibly, he has news.”

“Let us hope so,” I said piously. “I didn’t expect anything like this when I came to Italy.”

Giacomo shrugged his massive shoulders. “Italy is a bloodstained country. Our people are violent and their emotions are apt to boil over without warning. Husbands kill wives, wives kill mistresses, elder brothers kill men who defile their sisters, young lovers think they are Romeo and Juliet and die together.” He sighed and his entire bulk shuddered. “More Italians have died in all these ways than in all this country’s wars put together. Death is never far away for any Italian.”

I nodded in understanding. It was permissible for him to say that but as a foreigner I knew that my opinion was not worth a pinch of salt so I said nothing on the subject. Instead, emboldened by this opportunity, I said to him, “Tell me, Giacomo, what is the truth behind this rumor that Signor Pellegrini was using his position to have one of your stars taken away?”

It caught him a little off-balance. “It may be true.” He recovered quickly. “I hope that others will see me differently.”

“What about Captain Cataldo?” I asked. “Will he see it differently?”

He laughed, throwing back his head. “Kill a man for a chef’s star! Not enough motive there, my friend.”

“Not alone,” I agreed, getting braver. “Another rumor is floating about too, though. It says that you and Pellegrini’s wife have been seen together.”

If I was expecting a flash of guilt, I was to be disappointed. He laughed again, louder this time. “We have been together once. That was at the Fica nightclub. You know it?”

No hint of suspicion showed in his voice. He continued, “That was at the widow’s request. She wanted to discuss a rescheduling of the debt I owe.”

“At a nightclub?”

He smiled widely. “She is an unusual woman.”

An acquaintance came and took him away. Francesca rejoined me. “Did you learn anything?” she asked. “You were certainly amusing Giacomo.”

I gave her the substance of our conversation. “So they didn’t see us,” she said, relieved. “Talking about money in a private booth at the Fica! Was he serious?”

“You think he was covering up?” I had not considered that. “Maybe I’m too naive.”

She patted my cheek. “Everyone likes honest persons. On the other hand, deception is useful. There are times when it is necessary because of the evil nature of humanity. So the more you can gain the reputation of being truthful, the more effective you will find it when you want to be deceitful.”

I chuckled at the shining eyes and eager parted lips as she expounded this bewildering theory. “Did anyone ever call you Signorina Macchiavelli?”

“Don’t you laugh at me!” she warned, trying to keep a straight face. “Anyway, I have been sleuthing too. I talked to Vanessa Mantegna.”

I knew Francesca had been bursting with curiosity about Vanessa’s liaison with Ottavio in the nightclub. Was it tinged with envy?

“Bernardo’s wife … good. Learn anything?”

“Yes, but let’s have another glass of wine first.”

“Another Gavi?” I suggested.

“It was very good. Let’s see what else they’ve got, though.”

We chose a Bianco de Pitigliano, the knowledgable waiter telling us that this was from the Trebbiano grape grown in the volcanic soil in the south of Tuscany. It was dry and delicate, appetizing yet with a fruity acidity.

We moved away, out of earshot of the people around the busy bartender. “Go on,” I urged, “tell me.”

“Vanessa saw us, so she knew we had seen her with Ottavio. I didn’t have to prod her much, she was anxious to explain herself. She says Ottavio has been after her for some time and she’s always resisted.”

“Until now.”

“She says the reason she went to the Fica was to see what she could do to help Ottavio get the job in London.”

“You mean Bernardo?”

“No, I mean Ottavio.”

“Surely you didn’t believe her?”

“I’m sure she was telling me the truth.”

“What?” I protested. “After what you just told me about learning to be deceitful! I don’t understand. She doesn’t want her own husband to get the job?”

“I think Vanessa is basically an honest person,” she said decisively. “Her reason for wanting Ottavio to get the job was so that Bernardo
wouldn’t
get it. You see, she’s been to London and would hate to live there. Bernardo doesn’t know this, of course. Oh, he knows she doesn’t like London but she doesn’t want him to know that she kept him from getting the job.”

I shook my head in bewilderment. “Women’s minds are bizarre, aren’t they?”

“Not a bit. They are perfectly logical.”

“Vanessa didn’t have to pay too high a price for this, did she?”

Francesca shook her head. “‘
Virgo intacto,’
she assured me.”

“You asked?”

“Of course,” she said, looking surprised.

“Okay, you did a good sleuthing job.”

We touched glasses.

“I did, didn’t I?”

“Have you seen the captain?” I asked. “Giacomo said he was here.”

“I haven’t seen him yet. Who shall I har
ass
next?”

“This white wine is making you aggressive. Finish the glass.”

I supposed that Francesca was right about the triangle of Bernardo, Ottavio, and Vanessa. It wasn’t really a triangle after all, just a straight line with a few curves in it. She had a lot of “street smarts” in her makeup and she was shrewd. The story might not make sense anywhere else, but we were in Italy.

There was something of a stir at the main door. It was easy to see why—the imposing figure of Captain Cataldo had entered and he stood looking imperiously around the room. He went to speak to a couple of the waiters and I supposed they were police. He left them and came in, whipping off his cloak with a majestic swirl. He made the gesture as if proclaiming that he was here and now all would be revealed.

H
E STOPPED TO GREET
people and chat very briefly. He moved through the crowd with the easy confidence of a massive icebreaker going through thin melting ice. It looked like casual progress, but it was planned. He stepped onto a dais and held up a hand for silence. Mussolini could not have commanded it more effectively.

“If you will take your places at the tables,” he began in his rich voice, “I will tell you of current developments following from the unfortunate death of our friend, Signor Pellegrini. This sad event has had a far-reaching effect on our community, and you are all anxious to know the present status.”

Everyone did as he ordered. Francesca and I found ourselves sitting with several people we did not know. There was no time for introductions, for Cataldo was continuing.

“The most perplexing part of the entire investigation has been the hunt for the poison that hallucinated Signor Pellegrini so that he fell into the pool. Our Forensic department tells me they know of no poison that does not leave a trace in the stomach. They have considered interacting substances, allergens, dangerous combinations—every possibility—and still have found nothing. Nothing to account for Signor Pellegrini, his wife, Signora Pellegrini, and Signor Rinaldo being the only ones to be poisoned. We have repeated all the tests and talked to experts in other countries, still to no avail.”

The crowd was silent, hanging on his every word. He turned his head slowly, encompassing everyone there, enjoying his moment in the spotlight though it was obvious he enjoyed that position often.

“I was telling our English friend here” —he nodded in my direction— “of the Italian pioneers who founded modern criminology. I told him how the focus of investigation shifted from the circumstances surrounding the crime to the crime itself and then to the criminal. When I was not able to make progress in the search for an untraceable poison or learn how it was administered. I decided to follow Lombroso’s technique. I concentrated on the criminal.”