The Dead Don't Get Out Much (16 page)

“Thank you. Did you see photos? Photos of when he was a partisan?”

“
Si
.”

“Could I have a look at them?”

She hesitated.

I knew she was wondering about the rightness of this, as I would have been myself. That was not my problem. I needed something to move forward on. I tried to smile sadly, in a trustworthy fashion.

“It would help so much,” I said.

The
signora
might have been distraught, but she was not stupid. I could tell that she was starting to wonder about me and what I really wanted. Perhaps she was processing the idea that, if the death had not been an accident, and since people wanted to talk to him about the war, there might be some connection. She seemed like an honest and transparent person. I could imagine her thoughts written on her face.

“I must go to my son,” she said. “He is very upset. Later, I will look.”

“Please give me your address and telephone number,
signora,”
I said.

She looked surprised. “This is my home. Fabrizio and I live here, with the
signore
.”

“I didn't realize that,” I said.

“I do not know what will happen to us now.”

“Did signor Falcone have any children?”

She shook her head absently. I hoped that the kind and generous old man had made formal provisions for Maria and Fabrizio, since they were pretty damn ripped up about his death.

As I left, the
signora
went off in search of her boy, pausing briefly to lock the door.

“Firenze is full of thieves now,” she said, meeting my eyes.

I tried not to take it personally.

 

Toronto, Ontario
June 12, 1946

My dearest Violet,

What excellent news to hear that you plan to attend Queen's University. I think you will make an excellent mathematician, and it would be a waste not to take advantage of the government's education program. Perhaps you will be able to teach it after you graduate. If you were a man, I'd say you would make a first-rate lawyer, but teaching is a very fine job for a woman. As it is, I would like to be a fly on the wall in your classes. You will give the boys a run for their money and probably your professors too.

I am continuing my own studies. I have been accepted to medical school. It will be good to put one's energy into saving lives instead of taking them or watching helplessly as one's colleagues fall.

The next few years should be quite demanding. However, Kingston is not so very far from Toronto. It is easy enough to get the train between the cities. I hope we would be able to get together. Perhaps next Christmas would work out for both of us. I certainly hope so.

Yours very sincerely,

Walter

I
trotted off towards Bar 45, which turned out to be two winding streets away. Fabrizio's mother ran in the opposite direction. I could hear her calling her boy's name until I rounded the corner.

Just before I reached the bar, I glanced through the front window of a small convenience store as I passed it. Fabrizio was there, flashing a wad of Euros. I stopped and watched. A nasty thought flickered in my head. Fabrizio's mother had been signor Falcone's housekeeper. Fabrizio was very well-dressed, and now here he was, a young boy with a lot of money. Did he have a new source of cash? Could his mother afford to indulge him this much? I asked myself whether someone might have slipped that boy a bundle to let them know when the late signor Falcone was about to cross the small street for his
caffè corretto
.

An ugly question. The answer was possibly even worse. Fabrizio jumped when my hand landed on his shoulder. He whirled and squirmed. I held tight until he slumped and hung his head. His plump lower lip quivered.

The proprietor rolled her eyes. I guess she'd seen a bit too much of Fabrizio and, anyway, she already had his money. She wagged her bony finger at him.
“Cattivo ragazzo
.”

Bad boy.

I gave him my most wolfish smile. I fished out my pocket dictionary and pieced together the phrase, “I will keep your secret.”

Tears filled Fabrizio's eyes.

I handed him a tissue to blow his nose.

I said in Italian, “Did someone pay you?”

“
No
,” he said, “
no, no, no
.”

“
Si
,” I said. “
Si, si, si
.”

“
No, no, signora
.”

I checked the
dizionario
again.

“Si
. I know what you did. I have proof,” I said or hoped I said in Italian.

Fabrizio began to wail. I was able to piece through his blubbering that a man had called, the man had paid him, he loved signor Falcone, his mother loved signor Falcone, he thought the man was a friend who would surprise signor Falcone, he never thought it was so bad to do that. A little surprise, a nice thing, and so many Euros to buy treats.

I said, “It's not your fault, Fabrizio. The man tricked you.”

Before Fabrizio became too much more upset, I tried to get a description of the man. “You are sure you didn't see him?”

He shook his head, sending tears flying.

“And the car, was it a Mercedes-Benz?”

That triggered another bout of sobs.
“Non l'ho visto
,” he said.

Okay, as far as I could tell, he hadn't seen the man or the car. After listening to him blubbering for a bit, the best I could understand was that the money had been tucked behind a flower pot.

“You must tell the police, Fabrizio,” I said.

I couldn't really follow his distraught response. It contained lots of
mammas
and sobs.

I managed to more or less convey the following: “You must do it for signor Falcone and for your mother. You did something a little bit wrong, but someone else killed your old friend, and you have no choice. You have to be a man, Fabrizio. For your mother.”

Fabrizio sat straighter, dried his eyes. “
Per la mamma
.”

I said, “
Anche per signor Falcone
.”

Fabrizio swallowed hard.

I handed him another tissue to mop his dripping nose and moved on before it got too late. I could have called the police myself, but something told me that would just slow things down. Time was what I didn't have. I also didn't want to have to explain holding Fabrizio against his will, even for a minute.

* * *

I needed help. A sane voice. Advice. I checked my watch and made for the nearest public telephone before continuing on. The phone was picked up on the first ring for once.

“Is Ray there?” I said.

“Nah.” Ashley, the second daughter.

“Do you know when he'll be back?”

“Nah.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No idea.”

“Okay. This is his friend, Camilla. We have met.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm calling from Italy. I really need to speak to him.”

“He's not here.”

“He's not back in the hospital, is he?”

“Why would he be in the hospital?”

“When he had his appendix out in the fall, he ended up in
ICU
. I wondered if that was it.”

“Oh, yeah that.”

“So he's not sick?”

“I don't think he's in the hospital.
Brittaneeee!!
Is Dad in the hospital again? Wha'? Okay. No, he's not in the hospital.”

I massaged my temple with my free hand. “Is it possible to talk to your aunt?”

“Look, Carmella, can you call back later or something? I'm on the other line and it's, like, real important.”

* * *

Fine. You win some, you lose some.

Alvin didn't answer when I tried calling again, and the machine did not pick up. I was in Florence without a clue how to find Mrs. Parnell among the million or so tourists who still thronged the city in November, despite the crappy drizzle. I had eighteen hours to kill.

I needed to organize my thoughts for a few minutes before I talked to signor Falcone's friends. Just to clear my head and make sure I asked the right questions. If you need to amble around somewhere in order to think straight, I highly recommend this area to do it. At one time, Oltarno was the wrong side of the river. Then in the sixteenth century, give or take a hundred years, upstart rival bankers had constructed the Pitti Palace to thumb their noses at the Medici, and things began to look up in terms of local real estate.

I'd been to the palace and the gardens. I really liked the curving narrow streets of the surrounding community, the houses without an inch between them, the way they loomed over you, flush with the sidewalk, blocking the sky. Aside from the occasional glimpse of a stubborn potted plant, they gave no clue about the lives lived behind the massive wooden doors. I liked to imagine medieval lifestyles.

Churches crept right to the edge of the sidewalk. No long lawns or high wide stairs here. I stopped outside the English Church of St. John. I'm not big on churches. I tend to avoid them, except for weddings and funerals. I try to avoid weddings and funerals too. I was tired of walking, my head was buzzing. I needed to sit and think. I pulled out my travel guide and set it on the middle step. I pulled out my notebook and hunkered down. I added Fabrizio and Maria Martello's names to the others in the book. That reminded me to copy in the dashing Dario's cellphone number. I wasn't so sure that Dario might not be more distraction than help. Just in case, I wrote it down underneath Hazel's, Betty's, Orianna Preto's and Luciano Falcone's.

What a day. Signor Falcone was dead. Mrs. Parnell was dashing all over Italy, evading capture. The reports of her driving like a racer and talking to villagers had been a bit reassuring. It might have even been amusing if I'd known what was compelling her to take this trip despite her condition. Maybe the condition was causing the problem. How had I let her get away from the hospital? Dr. Hasheem's words echoed in my brain. What if I didn't find her in time? What if she had a cardiac disaster? What if I'd really screwed up?

A whippet-thin woman emerged from the church and, with a foxy smile, handed me a piece of paper promoting a concert inside the church that evening. It named a tenor and a pianist and included a list of the music to be played, mostly Vivaldi. I remembered this about Florence, you might find a string quartet playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons concerto on a street corner. A dizzying number of evening concerts took place in churches and other quasi-public spaces.

I stood up and thanked the woman profusely. I grinned like a fool. She took a couple of steps back.

I dusted off my black wool pants, tucked the guidebook into the backpack and went on my way with a spring in my step. No wonder I felt grateful. Who in the world liked concerts better than Mrs. Parnell? Shostakovich was her weakness. She'd only attend a performance of Vivaldi pieces as a last resort. There'd be plenty of other options in Florence. I turned back and asked the woman if she knew of any concerts featuring Russian composers that evening.

She glanced at the door and said in a crisp British accent, “I suggest you consult your hotel concierge, madam.”

“Good thinking,” I said.

It was nearly five thirty, getting dim. I still had time to check the Bar 45 before I found out about concerts. Signor Falcone had gone to the same bar every day, so there was a chance someone at the bar might know about his partisan comrades. Someone might even have heard about the appointment with the unknown man. With any luck, I could extract information from these elderly, grief-stricken and probably unilingual Italian friends of signor Falcone. I reminded myself to be calm and sympathetic and not to scare off the witnesses.

Bar 45 was jammed with people. I approached the server and asked her in fractured Italian where signor Falcone used to sit. She pointed to a corner where two old men were huddled together, leaning on the small wooden table, laughing uproariously. They had obviously moved past
caffè corretto
to straight grappa, and beyond grief to affectionate memory. There were few tables in this bar, typical for a fast food and drink spot, but I could see the regulars got special treatment.

I rehearsed my Italian as I approached. I stuck out my hand to the first old gentleman, introduced myself and said I had come to Florence to speak to signor Falcone to learn about his experience as a partisan. I said how shocked I was to hear of his tragic death. At least, I hoped I said something remotely like that.

They both regarded me with astonishment. Perhaps my words had been quite different from what I had intended. Maybe I'd said the world was flat or the plague was about to rip through the country. That can happen when you're limping along on a rusty vocabulary of about three hundred words, most of them food, drink or toilet related.

One of the old men stood up and gave me a courtly bow. He was a long-faced fellow, about my father's age, with a full head of thick wavy silver hair and a sharp dark mustache. He sported a red scarf even jauntier than my own and a crisp crease in his grey trousers.

“Sit down and have a little something, signora Camilla. I am Vittorio Ralli. Luciano Falcone was my oldest friend. We were just telling stories of his exploits during the war. Luciano had a superb knack for drama and a wonderful sense of humour. He will not be equalled.”

I sat down and pulled out the notebook and wrote Vittorio Ralli promptly. For one thing, I had too many Italian names dancing in my head to keep them straight without a written record.

The second old man had a strangely tilted orangy-brown toupee, unlined skin and twinkling bright blue eyes. He howled with laughter as Vittorio Ralli spoke.

Ralli scowled at him and turned back to me. “This is my friend Giuseppe.”

“Does Giuseppe speak English too?” I asked, as the man continued to chortle merrily, his blue eyes swimming with tears of merriment.

“Unfortunately not. Forgive him. He is not himself today.”

“You speak very well.”

“I should, signora Camilla. I was a prisoner of war in England.”

“Ah.” I was at a loss for the proper comment to make about that situation. What would Miss Manners recommend?

“Revolting food. At least I didn't have to be slaughtered in the service of that madman Mussolini, and I learned another language and met some lovely English ladies.” He winked flirtatiously. Something told me this wasn't the first time Vittorio Ralli had ever flirted.

Again, he had me at a conversational impasse.

“How can we help you, signora Camilla?” he asked, waving the server over and ordering a glass of red wine for me, since I was apparently looking pale. He must have had special status in the Bar 45, since in most Italian bars the customer orders from the bar. I accepted, not wanting to seem ungracious. I told him what I wanted, mentioning everything I knew about the plane crash, the pilot and Orianna Preto in Berli, who had suggested the first connection with the partisans. I filled him in on the background: Mrs. Parnell's absence, the black Mercedes-Benzes and the late and obviously lamented signor Falcone and his fatal appointment.

“Any information that you might have about any of those might help,” I said, as my generous glass of Bardolino arrived.

“You are in luck,
signora
.”

“I am?”

“Yes. We don't know anything about this appointment, so it must have just been made. Luciano mentioned yesterday that a Canadian lady was coming to see him to talk about the war. He was very pleased. Apparently he likes Canadian ladies. Now I can see why. Was that you, signora Camilla?”

“Yesterday, you said. No, it must have been my friend. She is the one who is missing now.”

“Ah, yes, and that is very serious. For her heart, you mentioned.”

“Yes, it is. And I believe her visit, and the other appointment, have something to do with signor Falcone's death.”

“You must go to the police,
signora
, even though they are incredibly stupid and quite useless.”

“Hmm.” I hadn't wanted to get the police involved, mainly because I didn't want them to pick up Mrs. Parnell and possibly trigger a heart attack, the very thing I needed to prevent.

He gave a wicked and perceptive grin. “There are channels, of course. They take time. There is politics. Perhaps you'd better steer clear of those fellows, after all. I should know. I was a policeman myself until I retired. Of course, that was nearly thirty years ago.”

“Maybe I will try again,” I lied. “First, you said I was in luck?”

“Si
. Yesterday, when Luciano was talking about his visitor, he said they discussed an old friend who had been a partisan with him. Someone they both knew.”

I had too many Italian names whirling around in my head, mixing themselves up at that point. I reminded myself that Vittorio was silver hair and flirtatious, while Giuseppe was toupee and twinkle. And unfortunately, Luciano, the Falcon, was dead.