The Last Enemy (6 page)

Too often, however, she was caught unaware, betrayed by her senses. Just yesterday while working in the cemetery, a large black bee with blue-violet wings, its body shiny like patent leather, had lighted on one of her flowers. Startled by its beauty, she had looked up and caught her breath at the sweep of countryside below, so like the countryside where she and Sergio had spent their summers. The memories flooded in of the long hot days when they were fifteen. They would escape from pulling weeds in her grandparents’ kitchen garden and hide behind the tall ears of ripening corn. When she managed to steal some of her grandfather’s tobacco, they would roll it in the yellowing corn leaves and assault their lungs with the pleasures of illicit smoke. It was there, hidden behind the tall rows of corn, that they had first kissed.

When they’d turned sixteen, it was spring and the corn was still in seed, so they sought privacy further afield, by the river that ran below her grandparents’ farm. Sophie had spotted wildflowers growing amid the meadow grass on the other side of the river, and they had waded through the cool muddy waters, holding hands and laughing as they stumbled on the smooth rocks that lined the riverbed. On the other side, they’d climbed the steep bank until they reached the elusive flowers. Their petals, the color of crushed strawberries, curved inward to cup golden yellow stamen. The flowers reminded Sophie of the magenta goblets flecked with bits of gold that her parents had brought back from their honeymoon in Venice.

That day she and Sergio made love for the first time. He had picked one of the flowers and drawn it softly across her neck and, later, when she had asked, between her breasts and thighs. Afterward, they lay on their backs, the flower filling the air with its delicate perfume, and talked of their future, the children they would have, and the work they would do. They were young, idealistic, and gloriously in love with each other and a world that had not yet betrayed them. Sophie kept the wildflower to show her grandmother. It was she who gave it a name—
peony peregrina
—the rarest of wildflowers and the most protected. For Sophie, it was the most beautiful flower in the world.

“Signora Orlic?” she heard a voice say, drawing her back to the present. She looked up to see a man standing directly in front of her. He was tall, two or three inches over six feet, of medium build, and casually dressed in a brown leather jacket and faded jeans. Perhaps because she was still caught up in her memories, she noticed the color of his eyes first. They were a translucent blue-violet, the color of lapis lazuli, a sharp contrast to his jet-black hair. Like the bee, she thought, and just as likely to sting.

She nodded in assent, looking down at the baskets of flowers at her feet, avoiding his eyes. She had done more than day-dream in those four hours of waiting; she had also planned. She would say nothing beyond what they asked.
Yes, No, I don’t
know
, she had chanted to herself, creating a mantra that would protect her and Christina.

“I’m Commissario Cenni,” he responded to her nod. “This is Inspector Tonni,” he added, introducing a shorter, slightly rotund man, with ginger hair, light green eyes, freckled skin, and a glum expression. “Officer Tonni is ordering lunch. Which will you have, pizza or panini?” Cenni asked, smiling.

8

From the sergeant’s description, he had expected a countrywoman, large, broad-boned, ruddy complexioned, and stolid. The woman who gazed back at him before lowering her eyes could have stepped out of any of the Annunciation masterpieces in the Uffizi museum: da Vinci, Botticelli, di Credi. It didn’t matter. The youthful Virgins were all alike, with their delicate pointed chins, short upper lips curved into a cupid’s bow, pencil thin brows emphasizing the heavy-lidded eyes, translucent fair skin with just the faintest blush of rose on the rounded cheeks. Her nose was less perfect than those of her predecessors; it had a slight bump, and she was certainly older than they, in her mid-thirties he guessed, but her expression of impassivity was the same as theirs.

She had refused his offer of food, her manner of refusal suggesting that to eat with the police was a compromise from which she would never recover. Cenni had told Piero to buy extra, just in case, but Orlic had watched in freezing silence as they ate their pizzas. Forgetting his diet, Piero had eaten the extra pizza, whether frustrated because he was still smarting from Sergeant Antolini’s cold shoulder or because Orlic’s fixed stare made him nervous. Cenni asked if she would like an interpreter, but she responded,
No
, that she understood Italian well enough. And she didn’t want a lawyer either, not unless the police were paying. Not that she needed either, he acknowledged to himself later that day. Her answers to his questions were a series of
si’s
,
no’s
, and an occasional
non lo so
. When she couldn’t provide a monosyllabic answer, her response was brief and unelaborated. A defense lawyer’s dream, he thought.

From what he was able to piece together from her reluctant responses, she had spent all Friday evening in her apartment near Porta San Giacomo arranging flowers for the next day. And,
no
, she hadn’t gone near the cemetery. On Saturday morning, she’d left her apartment at ten minutes to seven to walk to the cemetery with two large baskets of flowers. Orlic had expected her assistant to meet her at the side gate at seven but she was late. “I left the side gate unlocked so my assistant could get in and went ahead to begin the day’s work.”

“How did you come by a key to the side gate?”

“The cemetery gave it to me.”

“Why did the cemetery give it to you?”

“I asked.”

“I doubt that everyone who asks for a key gets one. Let’s try again, Signora Orlic. What reason did you give for needing a key?”

“I have twenty-three customers and I need to get in before the gates are opened to the general public.”

“Does anyone else have a key?”

“I don’t know . . . maybe.”

“Does your assistant have a key?”

“No.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Who?”

“Your assistant. And please don’t answer
yes
. I’d like her name!”

“Alba Luchetti.”

It took another series of questions to elicit that Orlic normally started her work at the Casati mausoleum, as it was the closest to the side gate. It was right after entering the side gate that she realized the key to the Casati vault was missing.

“Was that when you were at the vault or before you reached the vault?” he asked, wondering why she hadn’t seen the body through the grilles.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” he asked sharply, losing patience.

“Yes, before I reached the vault.”

“Isn’t it a bit unusual to check for the key only when you get to the cemetery?” Cenni asked. “Why didn’t you check for it before leaving your apartment?”

“No, it’s not unusual.”

Another series of questions before she gave a fuller explanation.

She kept the keys in order on a large rectangular key ring. The Casati key was nearest the catch as it was the first vault that she visited every Saturday. “And I always check my keys before leaving the apartment,” she added matter-of-factly, responding to Cenni’s earlier question. It wasn’t until she was walking toward the vault, just after she had entered the side gate, that she realized that the key she needed first was gone.

“The key ring is old, it has a faulty catch,” she added by way of explanation.

“Why don’t you buy a new one?” the commissario asked with a half-smile.

“Key rings cost money,” she replied.

“And just that key was missing? No others had dropped off?”

“Yes. No others,” she replied, ignoring the implication of his question.

After another three questions, she acknowledged that she had walked back along the path to look for the key. When she didn’t find it, she started to look in the bushes along the side of the path.

“How long did that take?”

“Ten minutes.”

While Orlic was still looking, Alba came down the path. Alba had a copy of all the vault keys, and Orlic suggested that they use her key to open the Casati vault. At that point, with some urging from Cenni, Orlic described her normal routine. For the first time she responded with some enthusiasm, pride in her work overcoming her obvious dislike of the police.

She worked in two cemeteries, Assisi and Santa Maria degli Angeli. For the Assisi cemetery, she purchased all the flowers from a wholesaler in Rivotorto on Friday mornings and did all the arrangements in her apartment on Friday evenings. On Saturday mornings, she left for the Assisi cemetery before 7:00, carrying half the flowers in two large baskets. She usually met Alba at the side gate. She removed the dead flowers from seven of the vaults, replaced the water, and then arranged the new flowers in their containers. Alba did the same for five of the vaults. When they finished the first set of flowers, they would walk back together to her apartment to pick up the remaining flowers, a five-minute walk. Sometimes they would have a coffee in her apartment. She generally finished her arrangements by 11:00 and then checked on Alba’s.

“Why, don’t you trust her?” Cenni asked, amused.

“You don’t just plunk flowers into a container. You have to know how to arrange them. Some flowers in a mixed arrangement need to be positioned so they’re more prominent than others. Most of my customers want the more expensive flowers to be more visible, roses before carnations. And the foliage needs to be arranged correctly. It’s not that easy and Alba is still learning!” She responded at length and with spirit, irritated by his question.

“So you and Alba went to the Casati vault together. Why didn’t you just take her key and let Alba get on with her work?” Cenni asked, watching her face carefully. She took more than the usual time to reply.

“The key ring is large and the catch is difficult to open. Besides Alba had to pass by the vault anyway,” she replied in the indifferent tone that she’d used for most of her answers, but a barely perceptible twitch at the side of her mouth told Cenni that she was pleased with her response. It’s her first unrehearsed answer, he thought.

The gate to the Casati vault was shut. It was only when she inserted the key and tried to turn it that she realized the gate wasn’t locked. She’d even remarked on this to Alba. They had both seen the body even before they entered the vault. But it wasn’t until they were inside that she knew it was the American. She also agreed with Sergeant Antolini’s earlier statement that Alba probably hadn’t known Minelli.

“Did you or Alba touch anything in the vault while you were there? The body?”

“No.”

“Why not? Weren’t you concerned that she might need help?”

“I knew she was dead as soon as we entered the vault.” For the first time that day, she volunteered some information without being asked. “I trained as a physician’s assistant. I was married to a doctor. I know a dead body when I see one,” she stated, haughtily. The carrot or the stick, Cenni thought. One of them usually works.

“The statue. Where was it when you entered the vault?”

“It was lying a few feet from the dead woman,” she replied.

“Did you touch it?”

“No.”

“Where was it normally located?”

She shrugged before answering. “It was the first time I’d seen it.”

“What about the murdered woman’s handbag? I understand from Sergeant Antolini that you brought it back to the station. Surely you know from all the police dramas you’ve seen on TV that you’re not supposed to touch anything at the crime scene.”

“I don’t watch television,” she replied.

At that moment Piero looked up from his note-taking, pleased that the interview was finally going their way. The suspect was getting less cautious. A half-smile flitted across his face, but not quickly enough. Orlic met Cenni’s eyes for a brief moment before she looked away. Cenni knew immediately that she wouldn’t be making any more flippant remarks that day nor any mistakes.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” she said, responding a second time to the previous question, this time without being asked.

“I don’t understand? Why should you think that?”

“The bag was open. I thought someone had tried to rob her. I was worried he might return before the police arrived?”

“Why he?”

“It was obvious from her clothing that she’d been . . .” She stopped in mid-sentence and breathed deeply. “Raped,” she finished abruptly and looked down at the basket of flowers at her feet.

“You didn’t consider that the murderer might have made it look like rape, that it might not have been a man?” he asked, scrutinizing her face.

“No,” she replied, looking directly into his eyes. If she’d been injected with botox, he thought, her face couldn’t have been less expressive.

Cenni had questioned many murder suspects in his years of police work, and Sophie Orlic was certainly a suspect in the murder of Rita Minelli, with motive, means, and opportunity. None, except those with their lawyers present, had kept their composure half so well. He reflected that Sophie Orlic was either a complete innocent, just dull-witted and distrustful of the police, or a highly intelligent adversary. From the flashes of intelligence she had displayed in the last hour, he was inclined toward the latter opinion. He thought of the poster that he had hung on his bedroom wall when he was fourteen, the
Annunciation
by da Vinci. Too bad for Sophie Orlic that he was no longer susceptible to Renaissance Madonnas.

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