We were both eating pepperoni
ripieno,
red and green peppers with onion and anchovies. It is a simple starter, satisfying but not filling, tasty but not obtrusive. Crusty Italian bread rolls redolent with garlic accompanied the dish, and we were drinking the house Chianti. This is yet another wine which gained tremendous popularity only to have the market flooded with inferior product and severely damage Chianti’s reputation. It has begun to fight its way back, and the quality of this house variety was proof that the fight was being won.
“I am sure you know the story of Chianti,” Francesca said.
“I think I heard it once but I have forgotten it. Tell me again.”
“All right—whenever I do my guide duty, I tell it.”
“Guide duty?”
“Yes, when I don’t have any film work, I’m with the escort agency. We also conduct guided tours. When things are slow there—”
“Surely that never happens?”
“The tours slow down out of season. The escort business is always in demand.”
“I’m sure it is,” I murmured.
“Plus the interpreting and doing jobs like this one for Desmond and you.”
“You have a busy schedule.”
“I do, and when I am guiding tours, I tell the story of Chianti.”
I did not interrupt this time and she smiled delightfully and went on. “The story starts with the Baron Ricasoli early in the nineteenth century. He was very ugly and very cross-eyed, poor man, but he was argumentative and stubborn—not at all likeable. Even so, he was clever and became prime minister for a time. He married a young woman called Anna Bonaccorsi and was extremely jealous of her. So much so that at a ball in Florence, when a young man danced with her several times, her husband, the Iron Baron as he was called, immediately took her out to their coach.
Instead of going to their family home nearby, they drove through the snow to Brolio, his family castle. It was a grim and gloomy place, empty for many years. The baron kept his wife there all the rest of their lives.”
“It’s a sad story,” I agreed. “But what about”—I raised my glass—“Chianti?”
“I’m coming to that. The baron’s hobby was experimenting with different types of wine and he tried something very experimental—he mixed black grapes, Sangiovese, with white grapes, Malvasia. He allowed this mixture to ferment twice. Others in the region tasted it and copied it and it became famous.”
“And that was called Chianti.”
“Right. One of the best Chiantis today is the Ricasoli and the best and most expensive variety is still called the Brolio Castle.”
“A terrific story,” I admitted.
“The baron preserved the sanctity of his family, kept his wife’s name unsullied, maintained his own honor, made a fortune, and gave generations after him much pleasure.”
“Everybody came out fine except his wife,” I reminded her.
“Sometimes honor is more important than happiness,” Francesca said primly.
“I’m not sure I’ll drink to that but I will drink to your knowledge as a tour guide.”
We did and confirmed that the Chianti really was as good as the earlier sips had promised. This one had not spent eight years in an oak cask like some of its more privileged relatives but Francesca said four grapes go into the blend that makes Chianti today and this one certainly extracted the maximum from them.
Francesca put her glass down. “I don’t understand,” she said, chin at a determined angle. “Just when you had decided that the buffalo stampede was an attack on Signor Pellegrini—
pam!
—you are attacked in the duomo. So now it is you that someone wants to kill. Then Signor Pellegrini is found dead—
pam!
—it is not you!”
Her eyes glowed with a passionate intensity. It was almost enough to make me wish I was still in danger.
“Perhaps Pellegrini’s death was an accident,” I reminded her. “Maybe he had a heart attack or a stroke.”
“The buffalo and the duomo?” she questioned.
“Then both must have been attacks on me.”
She regarded me gravely. “No connection?”
“None.”
“Hm,” she pondered. “No, I don’t like coincidence.”
This was getting to be a tough trade-off, be a target for a killer so I could get Francesca’s sympathy. “The question why is the same, though,” I pointed out. “Who would want to kill me because I’m seeking a chef?”
She finished the peppers and looked impatiently towards the kitchen for the main course. Her gaze switched back to me. “Are you?”
“Of course I am. Even the chefs know it.”
“Perhaps there is something else?”
“Certainly not…”
There was a glitter in those beautiful almond-shaped eyes that made my disclaimer fade away. “Someone thinks I am here for some other reason, is that what you mean?”
She nodded. “Doesn’t it sound reasonable?”
“First of all, let me tell you that there is no other reason. I did use the cover story of collecting information for an eating guide, that’s true. But my mission here—the job that Desmond sent me to do—really is to advise which of the three chefs he should choose for his new restaurant in London.”
She looked deep into my eyes. “I believe you.” She took the last bread roll and bit into it. “But someone else may suspect more.”
Mama came in from the kitchen with two heaping plates of beef in Barolo. The red wine of Barolo, deep and strong in color, flavor, and aroma is the perfect medium for the long cooking of the cubes of shin of beef. We might have gone along with the conventional advice that says when a dish is cooked with wine, that same wine should be drunk with the meal but Mama had already told us they had used the last of the Barolo in the stew.
Food is almost always good in Italy and this was no exception. Foods look, smell, and taste as they should. All of them are honest, there is no subterfuge. Everything is eaten fresh—frozen and canned goods are rarely used in restaurants. It is true that the best French meal is better than the best Italian meal but in that rarified culinary atmosphere, the comparison is largely academic. Italy offers more good meals at any other level.
When we stopped eating to drink Chianti, I said, “You may be right. It makes sense. The problem is I can’t imagine who suspects and what it is.”
“Nor can I,” Francesca said, returning hungrily to the stew. “We’ll see what Carlo has to say tomorrow. He will have some ideas. He is a very clever policeman.”
“Have you known him long?”
She nodded. “Yes, many years.” She took another large mouthful of stew and added, “My cousin is married to his sister.”
In Italy, everyone seems to be related to everyone else. Families are large and especially in villages and small towns— for Italy is dominantly rural—family connections through marriage spread endlessly.
“When do we see him tomorrow?”
“Ten o’clock at the
Questura.”
“This is my first contact with Italian police. You said there are five police forces. Which branch is Cataldo with?”
She called for more bread as she answered my question. “The
Carabiniere
deal with serious crimes and are attached to the armed forces. The
Vigili Urbani
handle minor crimes and take care of traffic control. The
Polizia Ferroviaria
take care of crime on the railways and the
Polizia Straddle
are the highway police. Carlo belongs to the
Questurini,
the
Pubblica Sicurezza
—you would call it national security, I suppose. They investigate crimes.”
“I’m impressed. How do you know so much about the police?”
“It is necessary in the escort business.”
“You have to know who to bribe, you mean?”
Her eyes danced.
“Corruzione!
Corruption! What a terrible thing to suggest!”
“I thought you were kidding when you told me you were with the escort service.”
“Oh, no. We really do supply escorts. It’s all very high class, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed solemnly.
“This beef in Barolo is very good, isn’t it?” she asked demurely.
That redirection of the conversation kept us off that topic, although I made one attempt to return to it. She was a strong-willed girl though, and once she had made up her mind not to discuss the escort business, she held to it.
A pear soaked in wine was Francesca’s choice for dessert and I opted for some fresh strawberries. Cappuccino completed the meal, and as we walked out into the warm night air, Francesca said suddenly, “I believe you—about only being here to find a chef, I mean.”
“Good.”
“Do you believe me?” she asked innocently.
“About your escort agency being high class? Yes, I do.”
She giggled. Almost any other response would have told me something.
Police stations in most countries tend to be very much the same. I don’t want to sound as if I have been in a lot of them but the ones I have do not show much variance. The Questura, headquarters of the Questurini, was a prominent four-story building with crenellated stone trim above all the windows, several large flags, and a pair of smartly uniformed police on guard duty in front. Not as smart as Captain Cataldo, but that would be a real feat, as well as not being a recommended route to advancement. We were conducted through passages and corridors lit by barely adequate bulbs. Men and women in uniform were hurrying to and fro, computer screens glowed proudly as they presented thousands of statistics, and the phone bill must have been horrendous. Cataldo’s office, as I might have expected, was almost plush. If anyone in the building had a better office, he was the general or its police equivalent.
The floor was carpeted, a glass-fronted cabinet was filled with law books, and a large framed photo of Cataldo in full dress uniform dominated one wall. He was not a shy man, but then one of the surrounding photos showed him with the Pope and another with the man who had been the last prime minister so maybe Cataldo had no reason to be shy.
He greeted us cordially. He wore the same outfit as yesterday but the decorative hat was on a rack above the red-piped black jacket. His impeccable white shirt was his only condescension to informality, and he apologized for not being fully dressed. He moved aside a photograph of himself mounted on a magnificent black horse so that he could spread his elbows on the leather-topped desk.
“We have much information since yesterday,” he said in a tone just short of a boast. “I will tell you of it because I think you can help.” His glance went from me to Francesca and back. “First, the examination of Signor Pellegrini shows that he died from drowning. The contusion behind his ear evidently rendered him unconscious—he could have been hit by the waterwheel. There are no other signs on the body. His heart and other organs are in normal condition. He did not suffer a heart attack or a stroke.”
He moved his elbows closer together and raised his head to survey us.
“Did you check the contents of his stomach?” I asked, not sure whether he was going to continue or not.
“Yes, there was nothing in the coffee.”
“I had thought that perhaps something he ate at the birthday party—”
“That was the night before.”
“Yes but some edible substances that upset the stomach can take twelve to twenty-four hours to take effect.”
“Edible substances, you say. Can you clarify that?”
I nodded. “I can. I think you’ve already considered it, though. The plants and flowers used by Bernardo Mantegna in his cooking.”
He took his elbows off the desk, leaned back, and beamed at Francesca.
“You have a clever man for a client this time,
cara mia.
He knows about poisons—and what else, I wonder?”
“I didn’t say he was poisoned,” I objected heatedly. “It’s an obvious suspicion, that’s all.”
He waved a placating hand. “One of the reasons you are here is because you know about food. Oh, Signor Desmond spoke very well of you, and Scotland Yard also holds you in high regard.”
“You’ve spoken to the Yard? Already?”
He was almost purring with pleasure now.
“Certezza!
We do not grow grass under our feet here!” His mood changed. “There is one disturbing factor. When I took upon myself to tell the sad news to Signora Pellegrini of the death of her husband, I found that her doctor was with her. She is hallucinating and vomiting.”
Francesca looked at me, her face puzzled.
“You already told me you had a suspicion about Bernardo’s plants and flowers,” Cataldo said to me. “Is not hallucination a symptom caused by some of these?”
“Some, yes, but I am sure that Bernardo would not be using any likely to be harmful or dangerous.”
“I spoke to Signor Pellegrini’s lawyer and friend this morning,” said Cataldo. “Tomasso Rinaldo. He was not in his office and I had to call him at home. He was not feeling well. I am awaiting a report from his doctor.” He leaned forward to fix us with a stern look. “Did you eat anything at that party?”
“Everything,” Francesca said promptly.
“Yes, I remember that you always had a large appetite,” Cataldo agreed.
“Including a lot of foods with plants and flowers in them. My English client here”—she flashed me a mischievous glance— “introduced me to some I did not know.”
“I ate a lot of them too,” I said. “I suppose it’s possible that just one plant or flower was poisonous and was only eaten by Pellegrini, his wife, and Tomasso.”
“You both feel well?”
We concurred that we felt fine.
“So how could three people get sick—and one so sick that he died?” Francesca wondered.
Captain Cataldo sighed deeply. “I see I have a lot of work ahead of me. I will start with you two. Before this day is out, I want a list, as near as you recall it, of everything you ate that evening. I will try to match it up with the same information from everyone else. I have asked Bernardo for a list of every plant and flower he used. You all drank only prosecco, I believe?”
“I didn’t see anyone drinking anything else,” I said and Francesca nodded.
“And you, signor, you will write out for me your professional opinion as to the characteristics of every plant and flower used at that party.”