“I will. I can tell you now, though, that the most common reaction to a dangerous plant or flower is hallucinations. One explanation of Signor Pellegrini’s death fits in here—perhaps he ingested something that caused him to hallucinate. He was dizzy, fell, dropped the coffee pot, knocked over the chair, broke the cup and saucer, staggered, and fell in the pool.”
“And the waterwheel hit him behind the ear rendering him unconscious so that he drowned.” Cataldo finished the grim scenario.
“One other thing you need to ask everyone who was at that party,” I said to Cataldo.
He might be a peacock but he listened. “Yes?” he said alertly.
“Ask about allergies and medication. There was an instance in the U.S.A. a couple of years ago where otherwise harmless vegetables caused death when taken with Prozac, a common antidepressant. Many people died before the Food and Drug Administration investigators were able to tie the two together.”
Captain Cataldo blew out his cheeks. “Very well. I will remember that.”
“We will leave,” said Francesca. “Let you get back to your work.”
It was not the way an interrogation usually ended. In my limited experience, the detective reluctantly allowed the suspects to go, but I suppose that when your cousin is married to the detective’s sister, you can change the rules.
H
OW DID DESMOND TAKE
the news? I forgot to ask you yesterday.”
Francesca and I were having an early lunch after leaving Cataldo’s office, and she asked the question as the waitress was bringing us two plates of spaghetti.
“He told me of his role as Sherlock Holmes and gave me some tips as to how to solve the crime.”
She gave a short laugh and said, “That sounds like Desmond. Did he appoint me as your Dr. Watson?”
“No, but I’m sure he would have if he had thought of it.”
The spaghetti was perfectly al dente and we were having it the simplest way:
alia prestianara,
seasoned only with garlic and olive oil. The restaurant was O Forno, a place with a good reputation for reliable local cooking. “If it is good, you can put it in your eating guide,” Francesca said.
She was expertly wrapping spaghetti strands round her fork while keeping it vertical and spinning it on the way to her mouth. In my business, I meet a lot of women with hearty appetites but Francesca was up near the top of the list. “You know the secret of eating spaghetti?” she asked me.
“No, what is it?”
“It was told to me by Sophia Loren on the set once. You have to imagine you’re a vacuum cleaner, she said.”
We were near Ravenna and close enough to the coast that the catches of the day were among the offerings. We both chose for the main course the
sorpresa di mare,
the surprise of the sea which today contained clams, langoustines, sole, scallops, octopus, and monkfish sprinkled with pine nuts, almonds, parsley, garlic, white wine, and olive oil. This was baked under a pastry crust then upturned on to the plate with the pastry crisp and golden brown. Pinot Grigio is another Italian wine that has become so popular that some of the vineyards producing it have let their standards slip in increasing their volume. The bottle we were sharing carried the Burti label and was one of the more dependable products.
“It was nice of Carlo to say we could help with his investigation, wasn’t it?” said Francesca between mouthfuls of food and appreciative oohs and ahs.
“I don’t think he put it quite like that.”
“Well, that’s what he meant,” she said in that definitive, feminine way that bars all further debate.
“Okay,” I said. “You know him better than I do. Meanwhile, let’s work on our lists. As soon as you’ve finished that spaghetti,” I added. Three more spins of the fork and she had finished. I took a little longer, then we compiled our lists, able to remind one another of plants or flowers that the other had forgotten. As we looked them over, she nodded. “That’s all I can remember. I’ll see Carlo gets them.”
“So what do we do next?” she demanded. “Who do we— what’s that lovely English word? I know—harass!” She gave it the American pronunciation with a firm emphasis on the second syllable. It sounds much more virile and disturbing that way.
“One thing I want to do,” I said, disregarding her flawed approach to investigation, “is visit some rice fields.”
She put down her fork—a sure sign that I had her attention. “Rice?”
“Pellegrini told me that he wanted to buy some rice fields. It sounded as if the owners were resisting him. That could be a motive. Besides, I’ve wanted to see an Italian rice field ever since that Anna Magnani movie.”
“You may be disappointed. She doesn’t work there any more.” She resumed eating but during the next break, she asked, “Do you think any of the chefs are involved?”
“I wondered about that. Didn’t someone tell me that all three of our chefs have financial interests outside their restaurants?”
“I am sure they do. Why?’
“I wonder if Pellegrini was involved with them in any of those?”
“Want me to find out?”
“Can you do that?” I asked in surprise.
“No e problema,”
she said dismissively. “My cousin is married to an accountant. He works for all the big banks.”
We finished the fish and agreed on its excellence. The waiter had brought us another bottle of Pinot Grigio, and as we drank that, Francesca said, “Carlo wants us to come to Signor Pellegrini’s funeral.”
“He does? Both of us? I didn’t really know him that well—”
“The Anglo-Saxon attitude to funerals is different. You are so serious, so somber about them. Here, they are an occasion for people to get together, eat and drink—and mourn their friend too, of course. But many come who are perhaps not his friend. They come nevertheless. Everyone talks about the dead person. Some say good things, some say bad. Everyone has a wonderful time.”
“Like the Irish.”
“The Irish?” said Francesca. “They do this? Like us?”
“Yes. It’s called a wake. They all enjoy it, get drunk …”
“The proper way to mourn.”
“So why does the captain want us to come?” I persisted.
“I think he has a motive,” she said in a lowered voice, enjoying the flavor of conspiracy. “All the people involved will be there. Maybe he expects one of them to get drunk enough to say something incriminating.”
“Funny place to solve a crime,” I mused. “Still, you’re right, we might learn something. We’ll accept his invitation.”
“I don’t think that’s what it is,” she said, emptying her glass. “It’s more like an order.”
Francesca had an appointment with a woman who wanted to engage the services of her escort bureau at a coming convention in Cremona. Francesca did not offer any details of the services and I didn’t ask. She was reluctant to have me go alone when I told her that I was going to Bernardo’s restaurant, but I told her to keep her appointment and assured her that she could not help me anyway as she had no gun yet. She giggled and gave me a peck on the cheek.
I had two reasons for my visit. One was to talk to Bernardo about his plants and flowers, the other was to see his kitchen and assess how he operated it. The timing was good, for it was about an hour before opening for lunch. It was convenient too, for Bernardo was in the kitchen directing operations, busy but willing to talk to me at the same time.
His tonsure, his clipped beard, and his sad eyes gave him a serious demeanor normally, but the death of Pellegrini made him even more austere. “I have been through the list of every flower and every plant that I used in the food for that party,” he said vehemently. “Not one of them was harmful—they couldn’t have been!”
“You are the expert,” I told him “but a man has died and it’s better to face some of these questions now.”
He stopped chopping radicchio and said earnestly, “Very well. What questions?”
“Plants that look alike, for example. One is harmless, the other is dangerous. Take jasmine. I know the Arabian variety is used widely but the Carolina variety—which looks very similar—is poisonous.”
“I know the difference,” Bernardo said simply. “I know too that certain food combinations can affect certain individuals—there was a woman who got violently ill whenever she ate vanilla and orange in the same meal. There are other food combinations that have been reported as harmful—beetroot and rhubarb for instance. Salmon and strawberries are another. But these incidents are rare,” he went on, becoming more ardent, “and they only affect something like one person in several hundred thousand. They are no more common when the food intake includes flowers and plants than in everyday foods.”
I nodded sympathetically. “I agree. Tomatoes, coffee, sugarcane, pears, spinach, almonds, strawberries—all contain toxins and are potentially harmful. But people eat them every day— and still they can be dangerous in large quantities or to people with rare allergies.”
“Exactly. I would like to use sunflowers, the seeds are delicious and the petals and the buds are very tasty. I don’t use them, though, as they cause allergic reactions in some people.” Bernardo was cooling down as he realized I was on his side.
“Still,” I went on, “we have this unfortunate circumstance of Signor Pellegrini’s death, and questions will continue to be asked.”
“And I will give answers,” he said earnestly. “I know that there is the suspicion that I may have picked a toxic flower and mixed it in with the others. There are so many of these. Azaleas, buttercups, marigolds, oleanders, rhododendrons—all are poisonous. Anyone who wants to kill a—” He paused as he realized where this was taking him. “But I have made a life study of plants and flowers and I know which are dangerous …”
I picked up on his previous words. “You were about to say that anyone who wants to kill a person can readily do so with a plant or a flower.”
He became more animated than I had seen him. “I didn’t kill Signor Pellegrini. I had no reason to do so.”
“But someone may have—and they could have done it by putting a hallucinatory flower or plant into the food.”
“It would have to be someone with a certain knowledge …”
“Like another chef?”
Several reactions to that question flitted across his face, which was more responsive now and no longer the clerical mask of innocence. “I—I am not suggesting that.” Further thoughts were occurring to him. He said, “That would mean deliberately throwing suspicion on me.”
I tried to look as if I had not already thought of that. He flicked his short beard with a finger. “You seem to know something about plants,” he hurried on to say. “You must know that many are hallucinatory but have no other effect.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“So how could a murderer know that Silvio, in an hallucinated state, would fall into the waterwheel pool and drown?”
I gave him a sage look, cocked my head on one side, and looked pensive.
“Then there are other plants or flowers that are hallucinatory in the immediate early stages and then become deadly,” I pointed out.
“The police would find them in Pellegrini’s stomach.”
I gave him an infinitesimal head movement meaning “Yes, the police would.” I had, in fact, considered that very problem and both those points, getting nowhere with them.
I knew something he didn’t though—namely that the police lab had not found any substance in Pellegrini’s stomach that should not be there. How did that help? I asked myself and got no answer there either.
“The police will come up with something very soon, I’m sure,” I told him. When all else fails, a platitude is soothing. “Captain Cataldo appears to be a very efficient officer.”
“He has a good record for solving crimes,” said Bernardo. That made the score 1-1 in platitudes.
“If you want to go ahead and prepare for lunch, please do,” I said. “Do you mind if I watch?”
“For your report?” he asked blandly.
I gave him a meaningless smile. Everybody else seemed to know, there was no reason that Bernardo shouldn’t know too. He went off to chop some turkeys.
This is a popular meat in Italy and not at all limited to feast days as it is in the U.S.A. and Britain. Bernardo was separating some of them—the breasts, which would have slices of prosciutto and mozzarella laid on them; the legs, which would be boned and filled with forcemeat and then braised; and the wings, which would be baked in sauce. He was removing the livers, for to some connoisseurs, these are more prized than chicken livers. He was also removing the head, the feet, the kidneys, and the gizzard for one of the classic garnishes such as
financiere.
He was setting aside the giblets, which are of special importance as they are popular in a number of ways: fried in butter, fricasseed, boiled with vegetables, in a ragu (the Italian version of a ragout), browned with chipolata sausages, or boiled farmhouse style, perhaps in a strong red Italian wine. His staff worked industriously and expertly. Unlike the mercurial Ottavio, Bernardo clearly saw no need to stand over them with a whip—his tongue.
I thought of Ottavio’s complaint that his kitchen fell apart when he was not there, which I disbelieved completely. I contrived to take a look at Bernardo’s meat grinders. That much-favored Italian dish,
polpettone,
contains a mixture of ground meats—beef, veal, and pork. The meat grinders used are difficult to keep clean, and they are a good indication of a kitchen’s condition. Bernardo had four grinders, the fourth for ham, and all gleamed clean metal.
I looked at the stock pots, but there was no indication that these were reused and topped up—another kitchen economy. I noticed that raw meat and poultry were separate from other foods, avoiding cross-contamination. Similarly, raw meat was kept well away from cooked foods. All in all, the place got high marks, and after looking through the storage, I thanked Bernardo and went back to my hotel.
Italian hotels are fond of a very large room key that discourages the guest from taking it with them. Always eager to adopt new technology, they were among the first in Europe to introduce electronic cards as door openers, but too many complaints resulted and the large key made a comeback. Consequently, I had to go to the desk to claim mine, and the woman at the desk pulled out a note along with the key.