Murder A La Carte

Chapter 15

“Signor Filippo, I"m so glad you"re here, but you really must stay out of the way.”

It was Vito, and he was scurrying about in his usual way, directing traffic in and out of the winery with flailing arms. His short stature failed to disguise his barrel-chested strength, and his energy — even in his early-seventies — would surpass that of most of the winery employees. His long sleeves were rolled up above his elbows so his arms wouldn"t be restrained as he moved this bucket, then that hose. He was balding, it was true, but he had a tuft of sweaty gray hair that swung back and forth on his pate as he moved about the trucks and gondolas, the tanker-sized troughs that brought the grapes from the field to the winery.

I stood to the side and watched in amazement and appreciation for a few moments. Vito had managed the operation of the winery for many, many years, always treating it as if it were his own. He took great pride in the wine we produced, studiously avoiding releasing any that he considered less than the best. Nonno Filippo had always spoken highly of him, and although the winemakers had come from the Trantino family for generations, promoting Vito to the position was a masterstroke and one that served the Castello dei Trantini wines well.

I couldn"t even remember when Vito was hired. It was well before I was born, I knew, but I could not remember anyone talking about how many years he had worked here. He just seemed to be a part of the whole scene, an indefatigable life force, always moving about, as if the winery without Vito would not have been the winery it was.

I watched as the trucks heavily laden with newly picked grapes arrived at the door of the winery. Each one dumped its load into an open-topped vat, to fall onto the auger below that turned and pushed the grapes up a chute to the crusher.

The crusher did just that: it crushed the grapes, but not crudely or with too great pressure. The secret of making fine wine was gentle treatment of the grapes and the juice. To begin the process, the crusher should be careful not to maul the fruit and release too much of the acids from the grape seeds, and mangle the stems so that their tart juices would mingle with those of the sweet grapes.

The crusher dropped the pulp into another chamber below. Here, the stems were separated from the skins and pulp, another step important to producing a softer wine, and then the skins and pulp, now called must, was delivered by a network of pipes and troughs to the fermenting vats.

The winery used gravity to transfer the fermenting juice in each stage of the process, but to get it started in fermentation, the must needed to be first pumped up into the waiting fermenters. The pumping was accomplished with powerful motors, but when so much volume was involved, and so many machines moving at once, this step in the process still required much human labor. Vito discouraged Nonno Filippo from automating this step even more, as had been done in many wineries throughout Europe, saying that it was only done once a year, and the work was good for the men.

There were twelve vats in this part of the winery, each holding five-hundred gallons of the pulp and skin mixture of newly crushed grapes. Three of the vats had already been filled, and the stirrings of initial fermentation could be faintly detected in the odor emanating from them.

As the truck pulled away from the crusher, Vito rushed past me once again, but stopped and came back. Quickly wiping his forehead with a sleeve stained by grapes, he looked up at me.

“Signor Filippo, I would like to talk to you more, but there is much work to do and the grapes are not as patient as you. Please,” and with that he rushed off to wave at another truck pulling up to the entrance to the winery.

I walked up the long, twisting road to the Castello, past the osteria that served simple food to tourists and, on occasion, a winery worker with too much money to spend, past the small buildings that stored the heavy equipment used by the caretakers who tended the Castello grounds, and through the heavy iron gate that separated this walled oasis from the rest of the world.

Striding up the stairs to the wine library overlooking the vineyards, I sat glumly at the table Nonno Filippo used for his wine tastings. It was not quite four o"clock, the time Nonno conducted his daily ritual of tasting in this room, and my mind wandered back to him. A winery worker, Beppo, peeked carefully around the edge of the still-open door. He didn"t say a word, but when I noticed him, he nodded then asked if I wanted to taste wines today. I couldn"t suppress a smile, though for just a moment, then nodded yes, I would like to taste some wines today.

While waiting for him to return, I thought about Santo and Rita and my assignment. They had asked me to help them solve a murder, and so far, I had not uncovered any facts that would even suggest that murder had been committed. I agreed with their assessment, but Mirelli"s comments stuck in my mind. If no one would want to kill Nonno Filippo, why should we assume that someone actually did? I was a bookseller, not a detective. I didn"t even stock many mysteries in my bookstore at home because I had never been that interested in reading them myself.

Beppo, a nickname for Giuseppe, returned with eight bottles of wine. We talked a bit and I found out that he has worked at the Castello dei Trantini for about twelve years, first in the fields, then in the winery as Vito"s assistant, then, lately, in the lab where the fruit was analyzed for sugar content, levels of tannic and malic acidity, and ripeness. Beppo has been responsible for setting up Nonno Filippo"s daily tastings for the last few years and missed his chores only when he was on holiday with his family.

“Did you set up the bottles on the day Nonno Filippo died?” I asked.

“Sì, signore.”

Sì, signoreThe next questions were obvious.

“Was Nonno Filippo already in the room when you brought the wine in?”

“Oh, no, signore. I"m supposed to set up the wine before he arrives. But,” he said looking sheepishly at me for the first time, “he"s not usually here until four o"clock,” no doubt referring to my early arrival.

“Mi scusi, Beppo,” I said in apology, “I was not here for the tasting. I just was wandering the Castello and ended up here.”

Mi scusi“Grazie,” he said while nodding his head, satisfied now that the ritual would resume without changing the time. He seemed genuinely relieved that this part of his day would remain the same.

Grazie“Did you notice anything unusual about the room on that day?”

“No, signore.”

No“Was there any dirt on the rug when you entered?”

“No, signore.”

No, signore“Was there any when you left?” I felt guilty asking this question, but I needed to know.

Beppo seemed to understand that I needed to ask, but he was still put off by the query.

“No.” This he said with finality, but with respect.

No“Grazie, Beppo.” And with that final comment, he left, closing the door behind him, and I turned to the bottles on the table.

Grazie