The Dead Don't Get Out Much (15 page)

I spent a half hour in the shower and emerged, shampooed, clean and rested. I changed from my jeans to my black pants and jacket. I slipped on the leather loafers, because a woman wearing running shoes would not get taken seriously in Florence. I fiddled with the silk scarf until it looked right and finished with a slash of the Graffiti Red. I was ready to deal with the Florentines.

I used the hotel phone to call the number for L. Falcone. No answer.

Okay. No problem.

The Paris Hotel was within easy walking distance of the historic centre of Florence. I had plenty to keep myself busy until someone answered. Just to be on the safe side, I headed downstairs and double-checked with the front desk. Could they show me how to get to this address?

I left with a map. The route to Luciano Falcone's house was marked out in yellow highlighter. No more than a forty-minute walk. A piece of cake compared to five minutes behind the wheel in this town.

First, I headed along the street to find a payphone to check in on the home front.

* * *

Alvin took seven rings to answer the phone. I reminded myself that we were being nice to each other and said, “Glad you could bring yourself to answer. Have you heard anything from Mrs. Parnell?”

“That means you haven't either.”

“No luck so far.”

“That's so bad. Where are you?”

“I'm at the Paris Hotel in Florence, if you need to reach me, and, believe me, I'm thinking of nothing else but finding her.”

“Florence? You're in friggin' Florence? With Violet at death's door? You're at the Paris Hotel? Sounds
very
cushy. Too bad you're not here answering the phone, and I'm not over there trying to find Violet. It's not like we got all the time in the world to find her, before she has a heart attack. I don't really want to be planning a funeral.” Alvin's voice went up at least an octave during this.

I kept my own voice level. “I know it's urgent, Alvin. You don't need to remind me about that. And I am not in Florence on an art tour. Mrs. Parnell is here.”

“Florence wasn't on the list.”

“Remember that fragment? Ore. Think about it. There's a man here who might be able to help. Anyway, any luck on tracking down the son?”

“That's another thing, all that stuff about the son. She doesn't have a son. I spent all day checking. Your sister Alexa got Conn on it. It was a crazy idea anyway. He came up empty. No big surprise. How could Violet have a son and us not know a thing about it?”

“Of course, she would have told us if she had a family. But we had to check it out. If he's not her son, then he's pretending to be her son. He can't be up to any good. Anyway, we have to follow up on whatever we find out on either side of the Atlantic, no matter how weird it might be. I have something else for you. And don't sigh like that. Now I need you to find out about the crash of a bomber in 1944 in the mountains, near Berli. The information would have surfaced after the war.”

“Okay, sure, downed planes in 1944. What's the connection to Violet?”

“I don't know. She was in that village, and that plane seems to have been a big secret deal during the war. Someone told me that she was very upset about it.”

“You mean that could be connected with the dead guy Violet was talking about?”

“Maybe. I don't know. See what you can turn up. See who was on it. Any luck with the security images?”

“Not so far. Do you have any idea how long it takes to watch twenty-four hours worth of images on six separate cameras?”

“Stiff upper lip, Alvin. Talk to you later.”

I called Ray Deveau next. No answer at home. No answer on the cell. So much for romance.

* * *

I tried the telephone number for Luciano Falcone once more. No luck there either. Then I did a little calculation. He would have been a bit older than my father. My father often doesn't hear the phone ringing these days, especially if he's chosen to leave his hearing aid in his dresser drawer.

The address was in Oltarno, the other side of the Arno River. According to the reception clerk, it was not too far past the Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens. Paul and I had ambled along that route together on our honeymoon. I didn't let myself dwell on that.

I strolled through the narrow medieval streets, crammed with tall stone buildings housing small shops, restaurants, businesses and homes. I deliberately chose those streets off the beaten track to avoid the tourists. I also gave the Ponte Vecchio a miss. Too many memories. Instead I took the Ponte Santa Trinità, the next bridge down. There was less foot traffic on that one, and it had a great view of the river and the city on both sides, if you cared about the view, which at that moment I didn't.

After several wrong turns on foot, I finally found the address. signor Falcone lived behind a door-sized gate in faded black. Two black metal pots with geraniums flanked it. I rang the doorbell next to the name Falcone. No answer. I rang again. A curly-haired boy of about twelve opened the door. He could have rivalled any cherub in any painting in the Uffizi gallery. This was a modern-day cherub though, wearing a long-sleeved soccer shirt and expensive-looking running shoes which made his feet look huge. Apparently, I scared him. He squeaked, ducked past me, skittered along the curving street and disappeared around the corner. I put on a burst of speed and caught up with him. I managed to trap him in a corner. I did hope that no conscientious Florentine would call the
carabinieri
. What was the matter with the kid? He squirmed and whimpered. There was no reason for him to look quite so terrified.

I said in garbled Italian, “I am looking for signor Falcone. No one seems to answer. He is an old man. Do you know if he is at home?”

He stared at me. “Signor Falcone?”

“Si!”
I shouted joyfully.

“È morto
.” His lip quivered.

“Morto?
Dead? That can't be.”

“Si. È morto. Certamente
.”

His huge luminous dark eyes filled with tears. Was signor Falcone his grandfather?

“I am sorry,” I said in my best Italian.

He rubbed his nose on his sleeve. He shook his head.

“He was expecting to hear from me,” I said.

“Aspetti, signora
.” The young man turned, ran back along the narrow curving street and vanished into the house of Luciano Falcone. I hurried after him, thinking no matter how horribly inopportune this death was, it was obviously a personal tragedy as well. As I reached the black door again, the boy emerged with a woman. She was tall and voluptuous, like Italian film stars of the fifties, with the same dark hair and luminous eyes as the boy. Hers were rimmed in red. He rattled on in Italian, pointing to me. She blew her nose and then nodded.

“La mamma
,” he said to me, in explanation,
“parla inglese
.”

She introduced herself as Maria Martello. “I am speaking English only a little bit.”

“Already I can tell that your English is much better than my Italian.”

“Thank you,
signora
,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“Your son tells me that signor Falcone is dead.”

She choked up as she spoke.
“Si
. A car hit the
signore
in the street. He was just going to the Bar 45 for a
caffè corretto
. He went every day. He would have a beautiful lunch, a little nap. Then he would walk to see his friends. He was very old. Perhaps he fall down in front of the car.”

Caffè corretto
, I knew from happy experience, was espresso “corrected” with a shot of grappa. I also knew it could knock your socks off if you weren't used to it. Most Italians seemed to have adapted well to the correction. It was only tourists who fell over as a rule.

“You think he fell?” I said. “What a shock that must have been for you.”

“It was a
tragedia
.”

“Signor Falcone was your father?”

“No, I am the housekeeper. He was wonderful man, very good to me and to Fabrizio, my son. He is very upset.”

“When did this happen? Recently?”

“Oggi
. Today. This afternoon.”

“This afternoon? I can't believe it.”

She began to weep. “Why now, when he was so happy?”

“Now, when he was so happy? Why was he happy now?”

“Because after all these years, the telephone was ringing and people were coming to ask him about the war. He loved to talk about the war,” she wailed.

“What people?”

“A
signora
. An old woman. The age like signor Falcone. She came to see him.”

I fished in my backpack and pulled out the battered poster of Mrs. Parnell. “Is this the woman?”

“Si
. This one.”

“And she was here today.”

“Si
. This afternoon.”

“And what happened?”

“They talked and talked. They laughed a bit, they talked some more. I make them lunch,” she sniffed. “They did not eat much, they drank some sherry. They talk and talk more.”

“What did they talk about?”

“I did not listen too much. I had much work to do, and I was glad signor Falcone had someone else to talk to this time.”

“You said people wanted to talk about the war. Do you think that's what it was?”

“Yes, the war for sure.”

“Did they seem sad? Upset?”

“Signor Falcone was a big partisan. Sometimes it makes the old people cry to remember the war. Not signor Falcone. He had funny stories. I have heard them all a thousand times. They are not quite so funny after a while.”

“And the
signora?”

She stopped to think.
“Si
, perhaps whatever they talked about made her sad, but something made her
furiosa
.”

“You didn't hear what she said?”

“Just her voice. Very angry. And signor Falcone trying to make her cheerful again.”

“Did he succeed?”

She shrugged. “I was not really listening.”

“Do you know where the
signora
went after?”

“I do not know.” She turned and spoke rapidly to Fabrizio, who was leaning against the wall scuffing his feet. He answered just as rapidly.

His mother turned back to me. “
Scusate, signora
. We do not know. To her hotel, I think,” she said.

“Did she have a car?”

The woman shrugged again. “I did not see her arrive.”

“You said that
people
came to see him. Who else?”

“Si
. Look you are here.”

“Besides me.”

“No one else came. A man called on the telephone, and he was going to meet the
signore
.”

“And then the man didn't come here?”

“He make an
appuntamento
. He did not come yet, because the
appuntamento
was for five o'clock and by that time, the
signore
was already…”

I touched her sleeve and said, “This must be very hard.”

“Si
. I don't know what we will do.”

“Did you see what happened?”

She reached for her son. “Fabrizio saw it. He is very upset.”

I glanced at the boy. The kid was definitely shaken, all right. And more than just shaken.

“What about the car that hit him? Was the driver arrested?”

“They did not find him. He left signor Falcone to die on the road.
Disgraziato!”

I gave her a minute. “Did anyone see the car? Did anyone tell the police?”

She said, “Of course, the police were called. I heard my neighbour crying. I thought it was Fabrizio. I ran out and…”

“And the car was gone?”

“
Si
.”

“Your neighbour saw it happen?”

“She found signor Falcone lying in the middle of the road.”

“Maybe she knows what kind of car?”

“I don't think so.”

“That information might save someone else.”

“But why?” she stopped and stared. She brought her apron up to her mouth.
“Dio mio!”

The boy turned as white as marble.

“Was the car a black Mercedes-Benz?”

Fabrizio tore past me and raced along the street and around the corner. I said, “He's understandably upset.”

I would have chased the kid, but I wanted to talk to the neighbour, and I needed his mother with me. Half an hour later, I'd had a long conversation with the woman who'd found signor Falcone. We stood in her doorway, our conversation translated by the
signora
, including the hand movements, tears and words of lamentation which needed no translation. At the end of the conversation, I had no new information. A fine and generous old man had been killed. No one knew quite how. No one had seen anything. Everyone was stunned. I knew since neither woman invited me in and forced food on me, that they must have been in shock.

“And the police?” I said, winding up the conversation.

They both shrugged, implying what was the use of police?

Maria Martello said, “Of course, police officers came, lots of police. Photographers too. The ambulance took signor Falcone away.”

A remnant of red and white police tape still flickered in the breeze in the spot the women had pointed to, although the police had obviously come and gone. I didn't know how the Italians handled these things as a rule, but these narrow streets couldn't be completely blocked off for any length of time without chaos.

“I need to talk to one of his friends. Someone else who might have been in the mountains near Berli as a partisan.”

Maria Martello spread her hands, a silent entreaty. “
Signora
. It is very hard for me to think of anything today.”

“I realize that this is a tragic day for you. It's important for his memory. Can you think of someone, maybe not here in Florence? Anywhere in Italy. Anywhere, anytime.”

She paused. “There might be someone. I will try to check his papers. He has photographs and names in the apartment. There is one old friend. Maybe I can find that.”