Murder A La Carte

Chapter 8

“So, then, how do you know that it was a man?” I began. Santo and Rita had agreed to meet me for dinner the following evening at Carlino d"Oro, a local restaurant in San Regolo, a tiny hamlet at the base of the hill on which the Castello dei Trantini stood. We wanted to get away from the Castello for a night, yet we couldn"t get away from the subject.

Santo went on to explain that muddy footprints, the size of a man"s shoe, were found on the carpet leading to, and around, the table in Nonno Filippo"s tasting library. The police dismissed this as evidence, insisting that the weather had been bad, and even the winery helper who arranged the bottles on the table could have tracked in the mud. The tracks to the window were easily explained as those of the same person, since Nonno Filippo always liked to have the window opened for him before he entered the room. But we knew that cleanliness in that room was one of our grandfather"s absolute demands, since dirt and organic particles would carry an inevitable aroma and would taint the smell of the wines. Anyone allowed entry to the room would have known not to be wearing muddy shoes.

“Okay, so we know that someone was in the room with Nonno, or before he arrived, and was wearing dirty work boots. Other than ignoring the rules of the house about cleanliness, what does that prove?” I asked.

“First of all, it proves that it was a man,” noted Rita. I decided to accept her notion, in spite of the fact that a more liberated person might wonder whether a woman could also wear work boots. I had to admit, silently, that in this country, in this region, Rita was probably right.

The wine was already on our table and the liter of nondescript house red was already down to a half-liter when the food began to arrive. The Carlino"s walnut ravioli with sage butter is a local favorite, and I couldn"t wait to bring my memory of the dish back to life on my palate. “Just as I remember,” I thought in silence, as the earthy flavors of the walnut filling mingled with the luscious textures and flavors of butter scented with fresh sage. The dish was topped with a few fried leaves of the sage plant, crisp and salty, and I had to close my eyes at the sheer wonder of it all.

Italian food anywhere has always transported me back to my favorite meals in my homeland. “It was simply delicious,” I told my American friends, and although most agreed that Italian food was the preferred cuisine in the New World, many of my friends misunderstood the double meaning of my summary.

Italian food was delicious, but its flavors owed their success to the simplicity of the dishes. Herbs, vegetables, and fruits had to be the freshest available, and meats were cleaned and cured by centuries-old methods that didn"t allow for variation. Italian cooks weren"t interested in fads or food that had to be deconstructed before the diner could partake. Italian cooks also weren"t tempted to douse their creations in heavy sauces or accompany them with side orders of “baby this” and “baby that.” Italian food was honest and forthright. Simply delicious.

As I emerged from my reverie, I saw that Santo and Rita were staring at me. They weren"t privy to my silent musings and probably wouldn"t have understood why I found it so amazing to encounter fabulous food. In Italy, they lived with it all the time and, although few Italians would agree to leave it behind, they all seemed to take the largess for granted.

There was also bread on the table — many types of bread that crowded the basket. There was olive-scented focaccia, onion and rosemary Tuscan loaves, peppery rolls that fit in nicely with the red wine and succulent aromas that attended every dish, and even some rolls that seemed almost American in appearance. The difference here was that everything came right out of Carlino d"Oro"s oven, and the bread was still piping hot.

“It proves it was a man,” I replied to Rita, “but nothing more than a sloppy man. What more do you have?”

“Let"s look at this a different way,” Santo interjected. “Let"s ask the questions as if we believed there was some foul play.” Santo had always liked intrigue, and I feared that he would insist on infusing the recent events with some mystery to satisfy his hunger. But I also had to smile a bit at his Italian-accented use of that very American phrase, “foul play,” drawing out the vowels to emphasize the drama.

“The rules about cleanliness apply to the winery and the Castello,” Santo began. “The wine needs an absolutely clean environment, and all the employees know this. The fact that there was some mud on the floor in Nonno"s tasting library suggests that if it was a field worker who tracked in the mud that person must have been so distracted, that he wouldn"t have stopped to think about removing his shoes at the entrance to the Castello itself. If he came into the tasting library before Nonno arrived, it would only have been to vandalize something, or poison the wine.”

Santo"s melodrama was a bit excessive, but I had to agree, at least in part. Nonno Filippo"s schedule was very routine. He always tasted his wines at 4:00 each afternoon, so an employee barging in before the appointed hour would not be rushing in to confront my grandfather. He would know that Nonno Filippo would not be there; he would have to have another purpose.

“On the other hand,” Santo continued, if the man entered brusquely while Nonno was there, it would have been to attack him, not to poison him.”

Again, I had to agree.

“We know the man arrived after Nonno Filippo was already there,” said Rita.

“How do you know that?”

The plates of food were starting to arrive from the kitchen and, with them, the waiter I"d come to know over the years of visiting the estate and frequenting Carlino d"Oro. Raffaello was in his sixties, at least, and one of the greatest assets to the restaurant. His smile was constant, and natural, and he greeted us like old friends.

“Buona sera, signore. Come stai?”

Buona sera, signore. Come staiHe used the familiar form for “how are you,” but in an instant his smile was gone. A cloud darkened his face and robbed him of his smile, as he no doubt realized why I was in Tuscany at this time.

“Mi dispiace,” he said in sadness, adding in halting English, “Grandfather was a very special man. I"m so sorry for loss.” He said this shaking his head, and even the awkwardness of his English didn"t detract from his sincerity.

Mi dispiace“E tu, Raffaello,” I said, to change the mood, “Come stai?”

E tuCome staiHe shrugged his shoulders, as Italians do when they don"t want to layer their good news over someone else"s tragedy. “Bene. Grazie,” he responded, but it was only half-heartedly said. I knew I"d see Raffaello more during my visit, so I decided to engage him at another time. Now, it was back to the details of Nonno"s death — and to the meal before us.

BeneGrazieMy roasted veal and grilled asparagus smelled richly of garlic, clove and rosemary, and Santo"s grilled fish with garlic and lemon added to the gustatory delight of the evening. Rita ordered a platter of assorted grilled vegetables to accompany steamed calamari, and Raffaello brought another liter of red wine without asking whether we needed it. He knew the Trantino family well and also knew we would want to keep the wine flowing.

“Anita was cleaning up some things in the hallway when Nonno arrived that afternoon,” said Rita. “She opened the door to the tasting library for Nonno and watched as he entered the room. She told us that no one was in the room at that time.”

We continued discussing this as we made our way through the gargantuan portions that were the calling card of Carlino d"Oro. The restaurant sat nearly alone in this very small town. There was a tiny store next to it owned by the same family, selling dairy and deli items and most of the sundries necessary for a small household. Across a piazza only big enough for two cars to pass, there was a church. Of course. This was Italy, and wherever houses were clustered there must be a church. But other than that, there was nothing. It was as if this fine restaurant existed simply to serve the Trantino family and their employees. In America, this would be considered one of the best restaurants in even the biggest of cities, but in Italy, where extraordinary food is all so ordinary, Carlino d"Oro could exist in a tiny village the size of San Regolo and still have enough business to make its owners happy.

“So, what do we have?” I asked while taking another sip of wine. “A man, probably a field hand or at least a winery worker, entered the tasting library while Nonno Filippo was there. He came in so abruptly that he didn"t think to remove his muddy boots. At some time soon after that, Nonno Filippo fell backwards through the window, snagging his pants on the stone ledge of the window, and landing on the steps below.”

“Certo,” said Santo in Italian.

Certo“Was there a scream?” I queried.

“No,” from Rita.

“Did anyone see him fall?”

“No.”

“Who discovered the body?”

“Unfortunately, it was Anita,” said Santo, making the sign of the cross to bless himself in memory of that terrible moment.

I sighed. I knew Anita well. She was Nonno Filippo"s constant caretaker, especially since the death of our grandmother, and she would have been especially distraught to have discovered his body.

“No sound, no scream, no witness,” I summed up. “So, I suppose that no one was found in the tasting library by the time someone thought to look there.”

“That"s right,” said Rita.

As we emptied our plates, the waiter brought a platter of cheese and fruit. We each helped ourselves to several pieces and poured another glass of wine.

“I have to admit,” I said with raised eyebrows, “it does make me wonder.”

We ate our last course and drank the dregs of the second liter of wine in silence, but my mind was considering all the possibilities. In a few moments, I realized that I had fallen victim to Santo"s intrigue. It was just when he asked me to consider foul play that everything seemed to turn rotten. But it was also in his scenario that all the facts seemed to fit, too.