Bread and Murder in Aramezzo

Saturday-3

Her mind raced . . . she’d need to pick up supplies from Cristiana’s, but she was headed there anyway. Plus, her favorite focaccia method demanded a long rise, perfect for cozy hours getting lost in gialli. But did she want to juggle sheep or whatever? Stomp through fields with their messes? What a weenie, she chastised herself. Here Marta wanted to include her and Stella worried about soiling her shoes? Before she could talk herself out of it, she said, “Focaccia, no problem. What time tomorrow?”

“Anytime after lunch. She starts earlier, but needs the big push in the afternoon.”

They passed the spot where Stella had been waiting in line just a bit ago. Stella’s eyes flicked into the bakery, but she didn’t see Antonio. She wondered if he’d gone home. “Do you know if everything is okay with Antonio? He seemed . . . off this morning.”

Matteo ran his hand over his long face in thought. “He seemed good yesterday when I went in. Normal, which would be anyone else’s ebullient. Asked after my sisters. Said he wants to set one of them up with his son if things don’t work out with the current girlfriend. He keeps forgetting one of my sisters is married and the other one went to school with his son and didn’t like him much then. You know how hard it is to get over those early opinions.”

“Not me, I never have opinions,” Stella mugged.

Matteo laughed, then his steps slowed as they approached Domenica’s bookstore. “The forno . . . ” he muttered. “Now that I think of it, I remember my boss mentioning something. About Antonio requesting a change of service.”

“Trash service?” Stella asked, her head c****d to the side.

Matteo nodded. “I can’t remember exactly. Either they were suspending trash pick up or adding in debris pick up. All I know is I remember picturing some work happening at the bakery that could have them closed for some time.”

Stella pushed the door of Domenica’s open as she said, “Would that be enough to rattle Antonio, do you think?”

Domenica looked up from her desk, pushing up her glasses as she smiled. “Something is rattling Antonio?”

Stella took a moment to breathe in the familiar scent of Domenica’s bookshop—old books, hot coffee, and a scent she could only articulate as sun-warmed dust motes. Light slanted in through the front windows, illuminating the maze of bookshelves that wound into the back of the shop. Stella dragged a folding chair out from behind the desk and sank into it, leaving the cozy armchair for Matteo. She cut off his protests by saying, “You’re going to be on your feet all day, might as well be comfortable now. Besides, this way you’re closer to the thrillers.” Stella gestured to the stack of books with dark covers piled next to the overstuffed armchair.

As Matteo leaned over to grab one, a long-haired white cat leapt nimbly into his lap, blocking his reach. He grumbled, “If Attila lets me, that is.”

Stella grinned at Domenica. “What is it we were saying about Matteo’s priorities last week?”

Domenica adjusted her myriad scarves to better cover her throat and grinned back. “Plum out of whack.”

“Just so,” Stella said with a laugh. She looked from Domenica, her iron-gray hair held back with a burgundy velvet headband, to Matteo, begrudgingly stroking Attila. Stella never would have predicted, in a zillion years, that her exodus from Manhattan would culminate in having a should-be-retired bookstore owner and a gangly sanitation worker as her closest friends. Amici di cuori, as Matteo toasted her and Domenica at their dinner at Trattoria Cavour last month. Friends of the heart.

Stella’s reflections faded as Matteo muttered, “Cat hair all over my uniform.”

“You know where the roller is,” Stella and Domenica said at the same time before breaking into peals of laughter.

“Jinx,” said Stella, in English.

“What?” asked Matteo.

“Never mind. Just a thing kids say back home.”

Domenica pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “So what were you saying about Antonio?”

“Buongiorno, Ravioli,” Stella said as she picked up a passing cat, this one a patchwork of orange, white, and charcoal. “It’s probably nothing. But Antonio wasn’t himself this morning. Yelled at a customer, and I wondered if—”

“He what?” yelped Matteo. Attila ricocheted off his lap. Despite his earlier complaining, Matteo stared longingly after the cat before saying, “You didn’t tell me that part.”

Domenica asked, “Who did he yell at?”

Shrugging, Stella said, “I don’t know. Some guy not from Aramezzo. The whole thing was kind of surreal. If someone yelled at me in public, I’d be humiliated. Or maybe angry. But this guy . . . he looked pleased.”

“Pleased?” Domenica asked, leaning forward.

“Smug, even,” Stella said. “Anyway, Matteo was telling me that there might be something happening at the bakery, some change. Maybe it’s overwhelming for Antonio?” She wondered if she should bring him dinner. But under what pretense? You were kind of a jerk, so I figure you have a lot on your mind and could use a hot meal? No, certainly not.

Matteo said, “But what kind of change would make him tense enough to yell at a customer?”

Domenica mused, “Maybe he’s selling the forno and that guy was the new owner. A new owner who has requested permits from the city to remodel the space, and that’s what you heard?” Domenica directed the end of her thought to Matteo.

“He’s gotten enough offers over the years,” Matteo said. “But if he sold the bakery to that guy, why would he be so angry at him?”

Domenica leaned back and stared at the cracked plaster ceiling. “Hmmm. Maybe if financial trouble forced him to sell. I could picture his being resentful of a new owner stalking what he still thinks of as his territory.”

Matteo gave up cajoling Attila and settled for plucking a gray tabby off the printer and trying to hold him in his lap. Stella and Domenica rolled their eyes at each other. For a guy who carped about Domenica having more cats than books, he sure spent a lot of energy cajoling them. Matteo caught the look and said, “What? I can’t look at the books with you two chatting. I need something to do with my hands.”

Stella lifted Ravioli off her lap and stood up, cradling the calico against her chest for a moment before saying, “I’ll let you get to it. I have to head to Cristiana’s, anyway. She should be open by now.”

“Her father opened the shop about a half hour ago. I saw on my way here.” Matteo suddenly straightened. “What are you getting from Cristiana’s? Something you’ll need help tasting?”

“You are nothing if not consistent,” Stella laughed. “I promised Cristiana I’d finally try torta al testo. And I need tomatoes for tomorrow’s focaccia.”

Matteo yelped, “You haven’t had torta al testo?”

Stella glanced at Domenica to see if she shared Matteo’s horror, but the older woman straightened her headband, saying, “You know how Umbrians are about their food, cara. This shouldn’t be a surprise.”

Stella’s eyes widened. Domenica herself was born in Trevi, not that far south, and definitely in Umbria. Then again, the woman had traveled so much before settling in Aramezzo, she seemed more global than of any particular place.

Shaking his head, Matteo said, “But this isn’t just any Umbrian food. It’s torta al testo. What farmers eat when they break from picking olives and what we bring on picnics and what we stuff with grilled sausages at festivals. It’s famous.”

Stella’s slide into guilt for neglecting an Umbrian standard was forestalled by the familiarity of the word. She sat back down. “Famous?”

Ravioli sat down with her back to Stella and only a flick of her ear suggested she noticed Stella trying to draw her back to her lap. One thing about cats, Stella noticed, they knew how to hold a grudge. But not for long. She knew Ravioli would soon forget being summarily discharged from her lap and only remember Stella’s knack of scratching her in just the right place under her white chin.

“Famous,” Matteo nodded. He turned to Domenica. “You’ve heard this story?”

Domenica blinked from behind her overlarge glasses. “Of course.”

Stella said, “Well, I haven’t. Will somebody fill me in?”

Domenica gestured for Matteo to take the proverbial floor. “You tell it, I wasn’t here when it happened.”

“Well, I was little, so I don’t remember it, but I’ve heard the story more times than I can count.” He turned to Stella, leaning forward a touch. She could read his pleasure in being the one to spin a local yarn for her. “Okay, so, about twenty years ago, maybe more, a news team from Rome stopped in Aramezzo on their way to cover Assisi’s Easter celebration. They wanted to grab a quick bite and decided not to battle with the tourists in Assisi. Probably hard for you to imagine since you came off season, but Assisi at Easter is packed. A total casino.”

Stella nodded, wondering where this was going.

“Anyway, the news team stopped into Bruno’s butcher shop for torta al testo sandwiches.”

Stella frowned. “Bruno sells torta al testo? I’ve never seen any prepared food in his shop. Not even porchetta.”

“This was before his wife got sick. Now, he sticks to meats. Are you going to let me finish the story?”

“Okay, okay,” Stella mimed zipping her lip to show she wouldn’t be interrupting again.

“Anyway, torta al testo is super regional, so the news team hadn’t tasted it before. They loved it! How could they not? I mean, Antonio’s perfectly tender bread and Bruno’s prosciutto that he cures himself from local pigs. They decided it would be an excellent candidate for the regional food segment they aired once a week. So they invited Bruno and Antonio to come on the air and talk about why torta al testo is such a signature of Umbrian cuisine, how it’s so simple and so delicious at the same time.”

“I can’t picture Antonio and Bruno being in the same room, let alone doing a news segment together.”

Matteo laughed. “I know, right? But the way Mamma tells it, they were once great friends. Vacationed together in Sardinia with their wives and everything. But as it turned out, they didn’t make it on the news.”

“Why?”

Matteo sat back, pleased to arrive at the punchline of his story. “A series of disasters! First, Bruno got food poisoning, of all things. So mortifying, you can imagine the rumors, how he got sick off his own meat. They were going to cancel, but then Bruno’s wife offered to stand in for him. He tried to refuse—she’s always been shy, can’t imagine her in front of cameras—but Benedetta insisted all she had to do was slice the prosciutto, she’d done it a zillion times, and Antonio could do the talking. They took the train to Rome the morning of the shoot, but they didn’t plan on,” Matteo paused for effect, “the Mafia.”

“The Mafia!”

Domenica batted her hand into the air like she didn’t brook with such nonsense as organized crime. The woman’s unflappability was a wonder.