Bread and Murder in Aramezzo

Saturday-2

Along with her ad-hoc training, Stella had cleaned Domenica out of all the Umbrian cookbooks in her used bookstore. Luckily, Domenica gave Stella the friends-and-family discount, even steeper when Stella remembered to bring something tasty to sweeten Domenica’s generosity. “Ah, well, they may have mentioned something about that.” Stella shifted uncomfortably, never gifted at accepting compliments, before realizing she was next in line.

Cristiana said, “Sounds like another five-star review coming your way. I bet you’re glad of that.”

Stella nodded, fairly certain this couple would be writing that glowing review on the drive to Amalfi. They seemed the type, and anyway, Stella had learned to hint for reviews in the footers of emails and in conversational asides. She had to. Flipping this bed-and-breakfast so she could return to the States and start over with a restaurant of her own, well, it was all part of the plan. The only question was where she’d land. Certainly not New York, after the debacle that led to her flight to Aramezzo.

Yes, that was the plan. Though lately, sometimes, she lost the shape of that particular plot, as she poured a swirl of olive oil from her own trees onto greens sautéed with plenty of garlic, or added bay leaves from the bush outside her back door to a bubbling ragu. In those moments, she only noticed the satisfaction derived from cooking for people she had some sort of relationship with—new friends, neighbors, or guests at Casale Mazzoli—rather than a roomful of strangers.

With a laugh of remembrance, Cristiana said, “Then again, you probably love any guest that doesn’t die on your watch.”

Trying in vain to smile, Stella could only say, “Ah, I’m still trying to forget about that.” She’d stopped jumping at sudden shadows, but only because the cat that came with the property, that she’d named Barbanera for his pirate-like black chin and missing ear, seemed to delight in taking her by surprise.

Cristiana patted Stella’s arm. “Aren’t we all? Better to enjoy making road panini for your living American guests than remembering . . . all of that.”

A white-haired woman in a navy blue dress and matching crepe heels stepped out of the shop, and Stella started to walk in before Cristiana pulled her back. “Torta al testo! Why aren’t you packing that for your guests? It’s so much better than a loaf of bread for a . . . picnic on wheels? It’s portable and far, far better.”

Stella made a noncommittal noise. Cristiana glared at her. “You still haven’t had a torta al testo sandwich, have you?”

Edging into the bakery, Stella stammered, “Well, I already told them what I’d be packing them. I’d hate to change the menu this late in the game.” At Cristiana’s stare, Stella added, “But later today I’ll drop by your alimentari and get one for myself. So I’m ready next time.”

“Promise?”

Stella grinned. “Promise.”

Cristiana half patted Stella’s arm and half nudged her into the shop as she said, “You’d better. You can’t call yourself an Umbrian without being well versed in our staples.”

Stella returned the smile before ducking into the shop to order her customary filetta, the local term for a simple loaf of country bread. Her eyes passed over the wheels of Umbrian flatbread. She had, it was true, thus far avoided torta al testo, what Umbrians called both the bread and the lunch it made when sandwiching any kind of cured meat. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy sandwiches—there were times she’d offer up her whisking arm for a bahn mi from her favorite Vietnamese dive on the Lower East side, or even a basic corned beef on rye. But she figured dry bread filled with nothing but cured meat had to be boring. Shouldn’t flatbread be slathered with hummus or lentils or something?

Perhaps, but as she handed over the euro for her bread, Stella decided Cristiana had a point. If she wanted to be part of Aramezzo, she had to at least sample their ways. Then again, she wondered, as she passed Cristiana with a farewell wave, how much did she want to be part of a town her own mother found so objectionable she never spoke of it without sneering?

Stella could now admit to herself she’d arrived in Aramezzo ready to hate it. But the labyrinth of cobblestone alleys had grooved its way into her heart. Moreover, she’d warmed to the villagers, grounded as they were in the countryside, with a dedication and curiosity about food that she found endearing. She could feel how much her heartbeat had slowed as she adapted to Umbria’s quieter rhythms.

Slowed, that is, as long as she didn’t stumble across any more dead bodies. She’d had enough of that for two lifetimes.

Stella caught sight of a man walking toward her in a blue sanitation worker’s uniform, his curly hair mostly clasped back in a ponytail, except for the premature silver tendrils that sprang up around his temples. Her thoughts drifted away like fog disappearing in warm sunshine as she raised her hand, calling, “Matteo!”

Her friend grinned. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

She made a show of looking behind her and he laughed, his eyebrows jumping like cricket legs. He said, “I figured you’d be seeing off your guests or already curled up by the fire with a mystery.”

Stella laughed. How did Matteo know this had been her first order of business once her guests checked out? One of her neighbors had given her a whole stack of gialli, Italian mysteries termed “yellow” for their trademark goldenrod spines. She’d thought it too generous of a trade—she’d only brought over a jar of pasta sauce made from pancetta and early spring greens after hearing his wife had sprained her ankle getting off her Vespa—but he’d insisted, saying the books belonged to their son, a hot shot lawyer in Rome who came regularly for Sunday dinner but no longer had time to read. “Isn’t it too warm for a fire? I wasn’t sure.”

“Ah, I don’t abide by these rules,” Matteo declared airily.

Stella stared at him, unsure if he was being sardonically self-critical or practicing willful self-delusion. He cut his eyes away from her and said, “Your guests seemed easygoing. Domenica said you even had time to go with her to Perugia for that installation on Raphael’s journey through Umbria.”

Stella nodded. “Super easygoing. They only asked for lots of dinners in so they could avoid having to translate menus in restaurants, but I’m okay with that.”

Chuckling, Matteo said, “I bet you are.”

“You should have seen them with the gnocchi and goose ragu.”

His eyes widened. “They allowed you to make them goose? I thought they weren’t adventurous.”

“Well, I didn’t tell them it was goose until after.”

Matteo laughed and then grew serious, his eyes fixed on Stella.

“What?” she asked. Matteo didn’t answer, and Stella realized. “Oh! Yes, I saved some for you. It’s in a container. You can pick it up anytime you’re passing.”

Matteo patted Stella’s shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear.”

As he continued walking, Stella turned to fall into step with him. “You don’t have your broom. Or your truck.”

“Not on duty yet. I told Domenica I’d stop by. She got a new stack of spy thrillers in, and I’m seeing if I want any before she shelves them. You have time for a coffee before you head back?”

She nodded, thinking aloud. “Yes, but a quick one. I have to go to Cristiana’s, and I want to catch an episode of Don Matteo before my guests come back from their hike. Have you watched it? It could take place here in Aramezzo!”

“Mysteries aren’t my thing,” he said, as he retied his silver-threaded ponytail, spinning the rubber band around it in a practiced motion.

Stella considered teasing him about what kind of worry it took to cause a guy in his thirties to gray, but she wasn’t sure that their friendship had advanced to that level of joking. Instead, she mused, “They filmed Don Matteo in Spoleto. I need to get there. It looks beautiful, and I hear there’s a shop with fabulous pistachio gelato. I guess when I have a car.” She sighed. “Well, a problem for a different day. A day with more money in it.”

He grinned and then said, “Speaking of watching television—”

“Were we?”

“I heard Luca has been watching a lot of American television shows lately. In English.” He smiled widely, cuing Stella that there was more meaning to his words than he let on.

“Luca . . . the police officer?”

“Who else?” Matteo shrugged.

“Well,” Stella ventured. “That’s good, right? It’s more broad-minded than I would expect of him, but Domenica keeps telling me I sell Luca short. That he may act condescending sometimes, but it’s part of the uniform. She keeps reminding me how, when she told him I was in danger last fall, he listened to her and raced to help. Then again, Domenica would pin a gold medal on any person under the age of fifty who reads books. The way she gushes about their conversations about historical romance . . . ”

“Madonna mia,” Matteo muttered.

“What?” she asked.

Matteo shook his head with a sigh. “Not a thing. So what’s the bread for, anyway? The sheep shearing?”

Stella wondered if she’d had enough coffee today, she seemed to have a hard time keeping up. “Sheep shearing?”

Matteo smacked his long forehead with the heel of his hand, releasing a fall of curls from his ponytail. “Oh, man. I can’t believe I forgot.”

Stella shifted the bread to her other arm.

“Marta is shearing her sheep tomorrow. She asked me to bring you, but I forgot to let you know, didn’t I?” At Stella’s non-response, Matteo went on, “It’s fun. Well, aside from getting a year’s worth of Mimmo in one day. Please come?”

At Matteo’s eyebrows creeping up to his hairline as he exaggerated a pleading expression, Stella laughed. “I don’t know how much good I’d be. I’m too citified to be comfortable with sheep.”

“Pssh. No problem. Bring something to eat and nobody will care if you volunteer to be the one hauling the baskets of wool rather than throwing the sheep.”

Stella gulped. “Throwing sheep? That’s a thing?”

Matteo laughed. “It’s not as dramatic as it sounds, trust me. Domenica will be there, some other people you’ll like. Don Arrigo, for sure.”

“I haven’t seen Don Arrigo for a while,” Stella realized aloud. She missed her conversations with the village priest. Every time they spoke she realized anew that perhaps Catholicism had more merit than her mother led her to believe.

“It’s almost Easter.” At Stella’s blank look, Matteo went on. “Confirmations, plus all those preparations, you know. So you’ll come?”

Stella hedged, “Is there something I would need to bring?”

“Something for dinner. Marta won’t care what . . . anything really . . . ” He let his voice trail off.

Grinning, Stella said, “But Matteo cares . . . okay, what’s your request?”

Matteo’s face lit up as though a sudden sunbeam had unfurled through the clouds at this precise moment. “I’ve been dreaming about your focaccia since you made it when Domenica and I came over for dinner last time.”