“So how does he?”
“He can’t. I am looking forward to hearing what Captain Cataldo has to say today. He was going to run the tests over again and make absolutely sure that there was nothing harmful in Pellegrini’s stomach.”
I looked out of the window casually. “The rest of the day was more informative. I had another meeting with Brother Angelo.”
Her eyes widened. “He didn’t try to kill you again, did he?”
I told her the whole story. She listened with parted lips. “He said he wasn’t trying to kill you before? Just make it look as if you were the victim so that when Signor Pellegrini died, it would not look like murder?”
“Right.”
“So Signor Pellegrini was murdered?”
“If we believe Brother Angelo.”
“But how?”
“Like I told you—he didn’t get that far. He didn’t tell me how or who. This car stopped and a man was leaning out, staring at him. Brother Angelo—or whoever he is—seemed to be terrified and ran for the bus.”
“Did the car follow him?”
“I think so, but I couldn’t be sure.”
“You didn’t recognize the man in the car, I don’t suppose?”
“Never saw him before, but I think I’d know him if I saw him again.”
Francesca shook her head in despair. “I am not letting you go anywhere alone any more. You can’t even go to a cathedral or a police headquarters without getting into trouble.”
“There’s no point in risking your life too.”
“I’ll have a gun today.” She screwed up her eyes; it was supposed to give her a ferocious look. “Carlo is bringing me one.”
“At a funeral?”
“Why not?”
“I’m probably the one who should be carrying it.”
“You’re a foreigner. Better not.”
I was relieved to hear her say that. I hate guns and never carry one, even when a case gets dangerous—which is rare. I recalled my view of this assignment as having “no risks at all” when I had first talked to Desmond Lansdown. How wrong I was.
The ceremony was an elaborate one, and the big church in Bologna was nearly full. Elena, Pellegrini’s wife, sobbed throughout, and the monsignor conducting the service spoke eloquently of the deceased’s benevolence and many donations to charity. I saw many familiar faces—Tomasso, the silvery-haired friend and lawyer, supported Pellegrini’s wife, and on the other side, the lawyer’s wife, Clara, was dry-eyed but stone-faced. Giacomo and Bernardo were there, though on opposite sides of the aisle. I could see no sign of Ottavio or Captain Cataldo.
The coach that took Pellegrini’s body to the cemetery was the most magnificent vehicle I had ever seen. Massive and with enormous wheels, the outside was decorated with angels, saints, cherubs, and harps. The coffin was almost as elaborate, and the bearers, six of them, were resplendent in black tail-coated suits and towering shiny black hats.
Some gray clouds flitted across the sky, giving a clichéd grimness to the scene during the burial. Elena was still weeping and so were other women, evidently relatives.
Half an hour later, the scene in the banquet room at the Hotel Excelsior could not have been more different. True, there were no balloons and no jazz band but hardly any other feature was lacking from a festive affair. People seemed animated and even more talkative than usual. Drinks were being dispensed and the air was crackling with bonhomie and good humor.
“Italians really know how to celebrate an occasion, don’t they?” I commented.
Francesca nodded, surveying the chattering crowd eagerly pressing around the buffet tables. “The sad part is over—the service in the church and the burial. Now we remind ourselves that life goes on. It sounds heartless to some foreigners, I know, but we are saying ‘It is a shame he is dead but we celebrate the fact that we are still alive’.”
Before I could respond, she grabbed my arm. “Look, he’s here!”
It was the tyrannical master of the Palazzo Astoria, the scourge of the kitchen—Ottavio Battista. He looked scruffier than ever and his hair was even more unruly. He came within earshot and we could hear him saying. “What a place to have a reception! Worst food in town!”
Despite his appearance and his manners, he had a small crowd around him and Francesca looked on starry-eyed. One of his admirers asked him a question and he snapped, “I’m not sorry he’s dead—maybe I won’t have to pay back all that money I owed him.” His adoring fans were lapping it up and squealed in delight when he said, “Oh, God, here comes Bernardo! Let’s move on, he’s going to say something pious.”
I shook Francesca by the elbow, breaking the spell. “Shall we try the buffet?”
We surveyed the tables. Despite Ottavio’s criticism, the Excelsior was one of the best hotels in the region. Contrary to many other countries, hotel restaurants in Italy offer a very high standard of food and this looked as if it was maintaining the standard.
Francesca studied them dubiously. “None of them have flowers, do they?”
“Stop spreading propaganda about Bernardo’s food. It is innocent until it is proved guilty.”
“Italy still has the Napoleonic Code, didn’t you know? Guilty till proven innocent is the law here.”
“Anyway, I don’t see any flowers. The shrimp look good.”
They were butterflied and served with a spicy dipping sauce, strong on the red chilies. Crab on jicama wedges was even better, a fresh tomato sauce with plenty of lime juice in it making it lively on the tongue. We made our way over to the drinks table where white-uniformed bartenders were a chorus of flashing hands and bubbling liquids. Francesca had a Campari and soda, I had a gin and tonic. She spied a friend and went to chat. I was back at the buffet tables when a voice hailed me from behind.
It was Tomasso Rinaldo, the silvery-haired lawyer. “Have you recovered?” I asked.
He held out his glass. Its contents were clear and a few bubbles were rising.
“Mineral water,” he said. “Yes, I feel fine now but the doctor suggested I eat and drink carefully for a few days.”
“What do you think caused it?” I asked.
“H’m,” he pondered. “Well, I can’t say it was a poisonous plant or flower. I just don’t know. It didn’t affect me until several hours later.”
“Did you have hallucinations?”
“Yes and when I tried to sleep, I had the wildest dreams.”
“Sounds like a mild dose of—whatever it was.”
“Fortunately for me,” he agreed. “I have been asking around to see who else was affected. You had no problems?”
“None at all.”
“So far Elena Pellegrini seems to be the only other one,” he mused. “Strange, that. She apparently had the symptoms worse than I did. She was strongly hallucinated and disoriented.”
We both sampled the squares of focaccia, the Italian cornmeal bread, spread with mozzarella, prosciutto, and chopped olives, pronounced them excellent, and went back for more.
“I certainly hope it wasn’t a dangerous plant or flower that caused poor Silvio’s death,” said Tomasso Rinaldo. “Bernardo is fanatical about that stuff—it’s obvious he wouldn’t kill anyone with it.”
I sipped some gin and tonic and looked thoughtful. “Doesn’t seem very likely that anyone actually killed Pellegrini anyway, does it? Some kind of bizarre accident is a more probable answer, surely?”
He nibbled on another focaccia. “Certainly.”
“Although if someone did want to kill him, using a poisonous flower would be an easy way to do it and at the same time, push suspicion onto Bernardo.”
“I can’t think who it would be.” He finished his mineral water. “Oh, he has some business rivals and competitors but I can’t believe any of them would do anything like this. The man did have a knack for getting people angry at him, though. He has been wanting me to bring a lawsuit against a big landowner here for weeks.”
“Not enough motive for murder there though surely?”
“Not in my opinion.”
“What kind of action was it?”
“Ah.” He looked away then shrugged. “Can’t do any harm to tell you now. It was a breach of contract. Silvio wanted to buy some rice fields, and he believed that the owner had given him a verbal promise to sell.”
“That’s something I want to see, the rice fields,” I told him. “Hope I can do it while I am here.”
He brandished his glass. “Have to get some more of this, keep me healthy.”
He left me and I wandered, having a few desultory conversations. In one corner of the big room, I heard what sounded like singing and I strolled in that direction. Anita, the wife of Giacomo, was playing a guitar and accompanying herself as she sang what sounded like a very bawdy song. Guests were moving nearer so they could hear. Giacomo himself was in a small group and talking spiritedly. I edged closer to listen.
“It is a shame that Bolognese cuisine, the finest in Europe, has to have clowns like these,” he was saying. “One of them behaves like a spoiled child, all tantrums and nasty remarks. The other cooks with flowers and plants—food isn’t good enough for him!” That brought a laugh and he went on, his beard waggling as he talked. “The good name that our cooking has—our great reputation that has been amassed over the centuries—what is going to happen to these if egotistical prima donnas like these two continue to wreak havoc in this way?”
His booming voice was attracting more listeners, who came with full glasses and ready laughter. “Poison both of them, Giacomo!” shouted someone at the back, while another wit called out a suggestion that would require the assistance of a local noblewoman who claimed to be a descendant of Lucrezia Borgia.
Anita was playing louder now, seemingly in an attempt to drown out her husband, and her lyrics were getting more ribald. Francesca drifted back to me. She was dressed very demurely as befitted a funeral but spoiled that image at once. “Coarse bitch,” she said, commenting on Anita.
“Have you tried these
salsiccie
?” she asked me. Tiny sausages with a wide variety of flavorings are an important part of any antipasto selection. These contained fennel and garlic, a very toothsome combination.
I told her of Tomasso’s comments.
“No one would kill over a breach of contract, would they?”
“Hardly. Is the dashing captain here yet?”
She shook her head. “We’d have seen him.” She had a point.
“How about the master chef? Talked to him yet?”
She pouted. “He’s in a foul mood. Can’t say a nice thing about—or to—anybody.”
“Sounds like he’s normal.”
She raised a finger in a charming gesture—sometimes she had the mannerisms of a teenager. “I wanted to tell you, I just heard a strong rumor. It’s about Giacomo. They say he’s about to lose his third star in Michelin.”
I whistled. “Whew, that’s serious!”
She looked surprised. “Is it? Who cares about that as long as the food’s still good?”
“Lots of people. It could have damaging consequences for his career.”
As I said it, there was a stir in the room, a sudden shift in the timbre of the conversation. A majestic figure with a tall, plumed hat and swinging a black cloak had swept into the room.
Captain Cataldo had arrived.
T
HE PLUMES ON THE
hat were undoubtedly eagle feathers, I would not believe that the captain would wear any other. The uniform was similar to that he had worn in our last encounter, but this one had three rows of medals. The epaulettes had shiny silver emblems, and the most striking feature of all, the cloak, was big enough to make a tent for a platoon.
He made his way to Elena, the widow, first of all and was clearly consoling her though he was too far away for us to hear. The monsignor who had conducted the service was next for him to talk to, and then he chatted with several relatives one after another. “I know he swaggers a lot,” said Francesca, “but he is a very compassionate man.”
I got Francesca and myself another drink and we had time to pay another visit to the buffet table before Captain Cataldo had fulfilled all his duties. He exchanged greetings with a few other people then finally made his way over to us. Francesca hugged him, cloak and all.
“Is this your first Italian funeral?” he asked me.
“It is. Very illuminating, new viewpoints on the Italian character.”
“The Anglo-Saxon funeral is a very depressing affair. I attended one once. It tried hard to match the dark skies and the rain which did not stop.”
His handsome tanned face with its bold features and proud Roman nose was even more impressive than I remembered it, perhaps accented by the magnificent outfit. I congratulated him on it and he preened. “I wear it for special occasions,” he explained. “I have another—well, two—three if you count the full dress uniform—but this one is more suitable for a funeral.”
He eyed me reflectively. “So, no more attempts on your life, I hope?”
Francesca and I traded glances. He was quick to interpret them correctly. “Better tell me,” he ordered gravely.
I told him of the latest episode involving the murderous monk.
“So he claimed not to be trying to kill you or even frighten you …” He thought about that for a moment. “At least you showed good judgment in choosing a rendezvous.” He permitted himself a slight smile. “In front of the Questura, near the guards—that was good.”
“I didn’t tell him about the assistant public prosecutor who was shot dead in front of that building a few weeks ago,” said Francesca matter-of-factly.
“Probably different circumstances altogether,” I maintained lamely.
“A drive-by shooting,” she said.
Cataldo was tactful enough to change the direction of the conversation. “You say you think you would know the man if you saw him again?”
“I’m pretty sure. Now, what can you tell us?” I asked, hurrying to head off any more helpful comparisons from Francesca.
“Further analytical work has found absolutely nothing harmful in Signor Pellegrini’s stomach. We have tested and double-tested samples of all the different plants and flowers in Bernardo’s kitchen—nothing.”
“Any other victims?”
“Another guest reported having severe internal pains that night. Our police doctor is conferring with the man’s family doctor to see if the symptoms match. There may be no connection—we Italians have
crisi di fegato
—problems with the liver. It is a national complaint like you English have always had the gout, Jews are always constipated, and Americans all have stomach problems.”