Murder A La Carte

Chapter 9

The next morning, I sipped espresso on the loggia while listening to the sounds of the workers reporting to the fields to clean and dress the lanes between the vines.

In winter, while the vines slept, there was always much activity. Pruning was one of the biggest chores and cutting, trimming, and removing the branches from the rows of vines consumed the short hours of daylight. For a while at the beginning of spring, just before the first buds broke, there was a lull in the work, while the vineyard stretched and yawned as if from a long nap, and the workers prepared themselves and their tools for the long days of cleaning and upkeep the vineyard required during the summer.

But I arrived in early September, when the grapes were plump and the color set. By this time, there was more work to do to prepare for the harvest and the farm hands knew that long days of work awaited them.

Even though they worked from dawn to the early evening hours, it didn"t seem to change the generally happy mood that permeated the estate at that time of year. There was something energizing about working at a winery, especially as harvest approached.

I often told people that no one in the food and wine business seemed to be unhappy. That rule applied doubly for those working closer to the source, the farmers and vintners who tended the vines and turned grapes into wine.

Some of the workers recognized me and waved, but most were too wrapped up in conversation with their fellows to notice me peering out from the villa on the hill. A tractor rumbled noisily by, rocking rhythmically over the dirt road that led to the vineyard.

I was accustomed to rising early from my childhood, and being at the Castello again reminded me of the sheer joy of waking early enough to breathe the fresh morning air and watch the dew dry on the vines.

Sitting there, I decided that I couldn"t go home to America yet. I was interested in Santo and Rita"s theory in this case, and certainly wanted to put the matter to rest if I could. And, I had quickly resumed the pattern of daily life at the Castello.

As an adult, I probably appreciated the wine, food, and culture of the Tuscans more than as a child, and each time I visited, the pull was greater. On this particular trip, I couldn"t help pondering my role in the estate and I enjoyed reflecting on my inherited position.

Nothing had been said of it yet, out of respect for Nonno Filippo, but I was next in line to inherit the Castello dei Trantini. Well, not all of it, of course, because my grandfather had maintained the estate as family property, and we all had a stake in it. But Nonno Filippo was the titular head of the Castello and the majority holder in the enterprise, and his position would pass on to the first son"s first son — me.

Surely, Santo and Rita knew this and probably assumed that I would take over our grandfather"s position in the estate. But I was an American now and my immediate family lived in Maryland. Being single, I didn"t have a wife or children to consult on the decision, but moving back to Italy would still require a big adjustment.

Peering into the dregs of espresso left in the bottom of the cup, I smiled a bit at the thought. For years I had pined for my lost home in Tuscany, idealizing it in tales told to my friends in America, sometimes even arguing with my parents about why they ever decided to leave the Castello dei Trantini.

I called Santo later that morning and told him that I would be staying on for a while. He chuckled but then admitted that he had always expected me to stay.

“You"re the capo, now,” he said, “what you Americans call the boss. It"s only a matter of some paperwork, but the responsibility for the Castello dei Trantini and majority stockholder passes to you.”

capoI held the phone gingerly against my ear, hearing his words and letting the true meaning sink in for the first time. The Castello was now mine if I wanted it. For years, my dreams had centered on returning to the estate, and I would have been happy if Nonno Filippo had lived forever, but he didn"t.

“Filippo?” I heard Santo"s voice in my ear and regained my sense of the present.

“Yeah,” I answered dully, as if I was waking from a deep sleep. But I quickly regained my senses. “I"m not thinking of that right now and maybe you shouldn"t either. We"ve got to find out more about the accident. I"ll visit the police this afternoon,” and I nestled the receiver back on the cradle.

I stepped out into the warm sunshine and took in the view before me. It was like a medieval painting that"s come alive — the rolling hills, brilliantly blue skies, and green stripes of vines cutting across the dust-colored soil. Twittering overhead were songbirds, providing the music for the field hands who worked in the vineyards. Old wooden carts were pulled behind diesel-driven tractors that puffed black balls of smoke with each rattle of the suspension bearing the load across the rutted road.

It was the pace of this life that was so attractive. When you grow things for a living, you become accustomed to taking time with your work. The plants don"t grow in a day, and their progress is sometimes imperceptible, and Italians have modeled their lives after this agricultural instinct. Many Americans like to think that Italians are lazy or that they"re not interested in the progress that can be had with frenetic activity. Italians scoff at the idea. Life is to be savored, they"d say. So, work should come at an even pace, and we should watch the plants grow and enjoy the pleasures they give us.

The telephone rang again, and certain it was Santo with a new fact to throw my way, I answered it, “Yes, Santo?”

A brief silence, then my father"s voice came over the line. “Oh, sorry, Dad. I"ve been talking to Santo and thought he was calling back. How are you and mom doing?”

“We"re fine. How is the estate, and how are you doing there?”

I explained to my father what I had heard, that there was a disagreement between the police and my cousins as to the cause of death, and that I had decided to stay in Tuscany a bit longer than planned to see what I could find out.

“How long?” he asked.

“I can"t tell just yet, maybe a few weeks.”

Another silence on the phone, and it didn"t take long for me to guess my father"s next question.

“Are you going to take your inheritance?”

A mixture of family pride and fear at my moving to Italy created a texture to his voice that was palpable, even across phone wires.

“Dad, it"s not time to think about that yet but, yes, some decision will have to be made.”

After completing the call with my father, I walked up the hill to the Castello.

With my decision to stay, I thought it was important that I spend time at the Castello, re-establish my relationship with Anita and the other household staff, and begin asking questions. I entered through the massive iron gate that kept out idle wanderers and tourists who thought this grand castle on the hill was just another Italian ruin. Once inside the portal, I heard the heavy gates close again by electric motor and clank shut. I strode up the gentle incline to the large carved wood doors at the entrance to the residence and let myself in.

The cool air inside this stone fortress was soothing, and the subtle smells given off by a building of this age were as familiar to me as any in America. I walked past the paintings on the walls and the antique furnishings in the parlor, reaching the back of the residence in only a minute or so. There, I swung open the doors leading out onto the veranda.

The Castello, more than any other place on the estate, gave me a sense of returning home rather than merely visiting. I looked about the room at all the things that had become a part of my Italian life, and memories of Nonno Filippo flooded back. I closed my eyes and pictured him standing at the edge of the rows of vines while I, as a child, dashed under and between the vines yelling for him to come and get me. I remembered the nights sitting next to him on the couch in the parlor of the Castello, watching the flames in the fireplace lick the wood stacked generously there, and listening to the stories my grandfather told of the winemakers of Tuscany. How they fought the insects, the merchants, and finally the government. How they always seemed destined to lose, but how they always won. When he talked about how the juice of the grape started in the soil, rose up through the vines, and was captured by the grapes, I could almost imagine it in my mind. He said that the grapes were merely nature"s containers for the juice, and that the best winemakers only tapped this reservoir and let the juice turn itself into wine. The best winemakers.

The best winemakersI stood in the doorway of the parlor that looked out onto the vines. The vineyards directly in front of the Castello were dedicated to Sangiovese, the regal grape of Chianti, taking its name from the “blood of Jove,” and the grape, which had made the estate famous throughout the world.

I watched with interest as the vineyard workers moved about the vines with hoes and large wicker baskets for twigs and weeds strapped to their backs. They were checking the leaf cover on the vines one last time, making sure that the grapes got enough sunshine for the crucial time before harvest. With too many leaves the grapes would not mature; with too few they would shrivel in the afternoon sun.

Far off to the right and behind this vineyard I could see the Terra e Cielo vineyard, called that, Land and Sky, because the rows of vines climbed a small hill, arched over its summit, and continued down the opposite side, almost as if they were pulling at their roots to reach the clouds. It was here that the Trantino family grew its white grapes, and where there was already much activity between workers and tractors. The harvest of white grapes had already begun and, although it was a small crop for the estate, it yielded a simple, yet popular wine bottled under a separate label. Most of this wine was sold locally, some of it in bulk, and quite a bit would appear in label-less carafes on the tables of restaurants scattered around the nearby town of Castelnuovo Berardenga.

The workers passed among the vines with baskets on their backs, baskets which held the bunches of grapes they had picked. When the baskets were filled from their back-breaking labors, they would tread toward the trucks waiting at the outskirts of the vineyard, climb the wooden ladders leaning against the sides of the trucks and, with a massive shrug, empty the contents of the basket into the waiting hopper below.

I stood on the same side of the Castello as the wine library, one floor above, and therefore the scene outside was essentially identical to the one my grandfather last saw. He may have witnessed the first days of the white grape harvest, and undoubtedly nodded with satisfaction as he watched the work progressing in the Sangiovese vineyard. But he ran out of vintages with that fall from the heights. It reminded me of something said by Martin Ray, a famous though somewhat reclusive American winemaker. “In winegrowing you have but one chance a year,” he said, “and in an entire lifetime, a winegrower has only a comparatively few vintages.”

“Buon giorno, signore,” came a soft but confident voice behind me. I knew before turning around that it was Anita.

Buon giorno, signore“Buon giorno, signora,” I responded, walking over to greet her. Shaking hands was customary in America, but there were still vestiges of class-conscious tradition in Italy, especially in a place like the Castello dei Trantini with such a long history. So, I didn"t shake Anita"s hand, but merely approached her to talk. She stood there with a broom and dusting rag and seemed intent on beginning her daily chores.

Buon giorno, signora“I"m very sorry for your loss,” she began, but I interrupted her.

“Yes, and I am sorry for yours. You have been a part of this estate long enough to be part of the family, and I know you were dedicated to Nonno Filippo"s welfare.”

“Yes,” she said, casting her eyes toward the floor to hide the glistening tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “I cannot understand why this happened to him.” She said this, shaking her head slowly side to side, then repeated the same words again. Anita was keenly distraught, missing my grandfather and possibly worrying about her future at the Castello. I couldn"t help with the first, but I could offer consolation on the second.

“As I said, you"re as much as family here and I hope you will agree to stay on.”

As Anita looked up again, she eyed me with a mixture of affection and concern. Her head c****d slightly to the side, she was probably pondering her new position in life. We had maintained a certain closeness over the years, through her relationship with Nonno Filippo, and she appreciated that, but I could tell she also worried about how it would work out with just us, without my grandfather as the connection.

I, too, was reflective at that moment. Instead of promising her a job, I had simply said I hoped that she would agree to stay on. There was a subtle difference, leaving me more room to terminate her in the future if it didn"t work out, and a subtlety that the lord of such an estate would be able to make without effort. I must have picked up such close distinctions from Nonno through constant contact, but didn"t even realize I was doing so at the time. All my life, all those months spent in the vineyard, the winery, and the Castello, he was grooming me to succeed him and it wasn"t until this moment that I realized how carefully he had trained me.

Anita served primarily as the cook for the residential portion of Castello dei Trantini. She was a robust woman of about fifty who often took it upon herself to tidy up the house during the afternoons when there was no meal to prepare. My grandfather seldom had more than a quick cup of coffee for breakfast and preferred to eat his meals at 2:00 in the afternoon and about 9:30 at night. So, Anita had several hours in the morning and late afternoons to herself. She didn"t often leave the Castello, except to do the shopping every other day. The rest of the time she spent preparing meals, managing household chores not assigned to her, and meddling in a loving way with Nonno Filippo"s personal affairs. Just as she assumed the right to tidy up his house, Anita intended to tidy up Nonno Filippo"s life. He would always make a show of objecting when others were present, but when he thought they were alone, he would accept her chiding with a satisfied — yet resigned — look on his face.

“I would like to speak to the police who investigated Nonno Filippo"s death, Anita. Do you know their names?”

“Sì, Signor Filippo. The one in charge is named Franco Mirelli.”

Sì“Good. Thank you, Anita.” Her apparent absence of feeling made me want to change the subject, and so I added, “You know, Anita, you do not have to clean the house. Nonno Filippo…”

“Sì,” she responded warmly, “Nonno Filippo always said the same thing. But I cannot just sit around, can I? If there is work to do, why shouldn"t it be done?”

SìHer look reassured me, and I realized that continuing with the usual chores of the Castello relieved the tension and loss that we both felt. Somehow, I envied her and wished that I could resume my usual schedule to dull the hurt I felt.