Murder A La Carte

Chapter 11

The maddening curves and switchbacks are the best thing and the worst thing about roads in rural Italy, but driving them is never dull. The Maserati is very maneuverable, so I hugged the outside of my lane, trying to make room for the sudden appearance of a wild driver coming too hard from the other direction around a curve with little concern for safety. The ground rose up through the hills, then down again in a roller-coaster ride that is more thrill than fear, and suddenly I was winding my way down into the rolling green valley below.

Most of the land was covered with vineyards, an unending stretch of lines of vines bearing fruit that would soon be bottled as some of the world"s most sought-after wines.

Perched atop hills to my left and my right were small clusters of stone buildings, of a color which made them blend into the rocky landscape but clearly of human design. Usually, these were small settlements that housed the crews of employees working the vineyards that sprawled down the slopes below. But I could pick out some older, and more robust, structures on some of the higher peaks that were walled cities dating back hundreds of years.

In medieval times, moneyed families with the small societies that made up their workforce were protected by these fortresses on tops of mountains. In the centuries that followed, these vast buildings and collectives turned into cities, with each successive generation adding new buildings that fell like stony veils down from the crown of the hill. These things were Tuscany"s roots in the past, the castles and fortifications that evolved from military necessity to social convenience, a stamp from the antiquity of Tuscany.

The verdant green hills and mustard-gray buildings stood out against the blue sky as soft billowy clouds marched on toward the horizon. The Maserati seemed to pick up speed in the excitement of our surroundings and I soon noticed that I was racing down the road at a daring, though still comfortable speed. This car made driving easy, I thought, doing most of the work itself, expecting me only to point the direction.

As I crested a low hill and began my descent down the opposite side, I saw the town of Salina approaching. The golden dome of the church shimmering in the morning sun stood above the many scattered buildings, and children scampered across the roadway as they saw me approach. They had been playing soccer on a large open space that straddled the road, and they stood on the side, patiently waiting for me to drive through and vacate their playing field.

I drove past a few buildings at the edge of town, and then on to the Piazza di San Marco at the center of Salina. There was a large fountain in the shape of three maidens pouring water from jugs carried on their shoulders, and mothers watched while children played in the water the stone maidens provided. It was common in Italy to see such beautiful sculptures, especially in the village squares, even in small places like Salina. Over the centuries, Italian artists had sculpted thousands of these adornments and they were scattered throughout the country as if they had been sprinkled from heaven.

On the far side of the piazza, men sat at tables set close together, drinking coffee and gesturing grandly while they discussed a variety of topics from politics to sport. The appearance of a Maserati Quattroporte in their midst drew some interest, but after a few minutes they resumed their animated debates and I felt as though I had become just one more subject for them to discuss that day in the cafés.

The sun was shining brightly over the police station at the west side of the piazza as I parked the Maserati in front of it. Two men who were exiting the building as I got out of the car threw a sideways glance in my direction then returned to their conversation. The taller man with the jet-black hair and thin mustache was gesturing animatedly as he tried to make his point, while his lighter-complexioned companion walked along in near silence, smiling at times and occasionally getting a single word in among the stream from his partner, but otherwise serving only as the sounding board for his more loquacious companion.

I quickly bounded up the steps and went through the door. The lobby to the police station was dimly lit and there was a ceiling fan turning slowly to distribute the dank air in the room. After my eyes adjusted to the low light, I approached the lone desk at the far end of the room, just below the stairway leading to the single story above the ground floor.

A uniformed man with a very serious disposition listened to my request to see Signor Franco Mirelli, and he peered at me as if I was some curiosity. It wasn"t the nature of the request itself; rather, it was the fact that I was asking him to do something, anything. In Italy, clerks have a sinister way of communicating to the people standing before them that they, the clerks, are not there to help us, and if they do anything in response to our questions, it is out of generosity or — perhaps — a momentary sense of boredom. This clerk treated me in just that way, c*****g his head slightly to the side and regarding me with only a little interest while he decided whether my request was sufficiently compelling to make him rise from the chair and fetch Signor Mirelli.

Without commenting on my question, he slowly rose and exited the room. I could only hope that his movement was a positive sign of action on my behalf.

Soon a middle-age man with gray hair and a crisply trimmed, black mustache appeared at the door behind the desk, followed the finger pointed in my direction, and walked over to me.

“Buon giorno, Signor Trantino. I am Franco Mirelli,” he said extending his hand. “I"m so sorry about your grandfather.”

Buon giorno“Yes, it was very unfortunate. Can we speak in private?”

“Yes,” he said, hesitantly. “Please follow me.”

As we entered the room to the left of the dispatcher"s desk, Mirelli closed the door then beckoned me to sit at the table and seated himself across from me.

“Now, Signor Trantino, how can I help you?”

“My cousins have told me that you consider my grandfather"s death to have been an accident.”

“Yes, this is true,” he answered, sitting back, as if he knew what the next statement would be. “And you do not?”

“I have no opinion yet, but there are certain things that cannot be explained.”

“Like what, Signor Trantino?” he asked, sitting forward again.

“Well, like the half-full glass of wine on the window sill, the pulls in my grandfather"s trousers, and —”

“But we have already discussed these matters with your cousin, Santo, and his sister. The trousers were undoubtedly snagged on the stones of the windowsill as your grandfather fell out. As for the half-full glass…well, he couldn"t be expected to drain the wine as he was making such an unusual exit, could he?” This he said with a careless grin then caught himself and resumed his serious tone.

“But we know that my grandfather never set the glass down,” I retorted. “After tasting many wines and blends at the table, he always chose the one he liked best, filled a glass full of that wine, and drank it while he looked out the window at the vineyards. Something, or someone, caused him to put it down.”

“Something, yes,” Mirelli interjected. “Perhaps deciding that the wine was not so perfect after all.”

“He always held it in his right hand. The glass was found on the left side of the windowsill.”

“Signor Trantino, how do you know that he never put the glass down? I thought Santo said that your grandfather preferred to taste these wines in private.”

“He did, but as children we were adventurous and a little curious about what Nonno Filippo did in that hallowed room. We hid in the closet that is to the left of the door and watched him as he tasted the wines and then selected one to drink. He always stood at the window with the glass in his right hand and his left hand behind his back as he observed the activities in the vineyard below. He never put the glass down until he finished the wine in it, and then he would return the glass to the table, sometimes hiding it mischievously among the other glasses, and leave the room. This pattern never varied.”

“And how many times did you observe it?” Mirelli asked.

“A few. I don"t know, maybe five or six. After a while, we realized that there was nothing mysterious going on in the room, so we lost interest. Children do that you know.”

“Yes,” he added, rubbing his chin, “children do lose interest. But sometimes I wish adults would. Signor Trantino, as a child you watched your grandfather drink wine a few times and from that you think that any variation in his behavior suggests some nefarious act. I wish police work was so simple, then I would be able to solve all these cases and spend more time with my family.”

“But don"t you even care? Shouldn"t you investigate the possibility?”

“Yes, we should, and we did. We spent many hours after his death questioning people, and not once did we come up with a motive. Not even a suspect. Signor Trantino, everyone loved your grandfather. We couldn"t find anyone who had a reason to murder him. Why should we assume he was killed by someone if we can"t find anyone who wanted to kill him?”

I was silent for a moment, pondering his statements and deciding on the best time to discuss the footprints. But I held back.

Mirelli stood up and motioned to the door. As he followed me through the front room with the dispatcher and the other polizia milling about, I decided to play my trump card at the last possible moment. Soon, I was settling once again into the deep luxury of the Maserati, and Mirelli was pushing on the door to shut it, unable to disguise his admiration for the automobile.

“Signor Mirelli,” I began, looking up at the gray-headed figure looming over me, “how did you explain the footprints?”

“The weather had been bad here for weeks. More rain than we need, and certainly more than the vineyards want. We were all tracking mud into our homes and offices.”

“But Nonno Filippo would never have allowed his tasting room to be soiled with mud. Everything has an odor, he always said, and I"m sure dirt was on that list.”

“That"s fine for your grandfather, and I"m sure he wiped his feet when he entered. But what about everyone else?”

“Only one other person went in there. Beppo, the man who sets up the bottles and glasses for my grandfather. Did you question him?”

“Yes,” Mirelli responded thoughtfully. “He was even insulted that I would ask him about the mud stains.”

“Insulted?”

“Yes. He said he would never allow dirt of any kind to enter that room,” he said with great concentration, rubbing his chin once more.

I started the motor of the Maserati and looked away from Mirelli and at the men still seated at the tables across the piazza. They watched us keenly, as if conversations with a police official following a suspicious death might be more interesting than yesterday"s soccer score. I saw one of them point in our direction and nod to his companion.

“Perhaps we should wonder about that, Captain Mirelli.”

“Perhaps.”