Aaron Elkins: Good Blood

Francesca flung her hand up in disbelief. “Is the man serious? He has actually come here, uninvited, to a private residence, to accuse us of”-she faltered, but only for a moment-“of a few balance-sheet irregularities in the effort to recover Achille without harm coming to him-something we successfully accomplished, I need hardly remind anyone here, without the assistance of the colonel and his vaunted regiment.”

Somewhere along the way she had turned it into theater. She was speaking now for the benefit of the onlookers, most of whom had joined the two women in drifting inconspicuously backward, leaving Caravale, Vincenzo, and Francesca all alone on center stage. Theater-in-the-round.

Caravale, normally averse to public performances, went willingly along this time. “I am not referring to the peculiarities in your company’s balance sheet,” he said evenly. “That is a matter for another officer, another time. I am talking about your contracting to have your nephew kidnapped in an effort to extort money from your insurer.”

That naturally brought a round of gasps and exclamations, almost enough to drown out Francesca’s ragged, harsh “Absurd!”

“Caravale, this is outrageous!” said Vincenzo. The muscles in front of his ears were bunching and knotting under the skin. “Now you’ve gone too far. You can expect to hear from my attorney about this before the night is out.”

“Oho, he’ll hear from more than our attorney,” Francesca said hotly. “I’ll have your job for this, you stupid little man! You don’t know who you’re dealing with. To have the nerve to walk into our home with unsubstantiated-”

“In addition, signora, I am also placing you under arrest for contracting for the theft of material evidence in the form of the remains of Domenico de Grazia-”

“How dare you-”

“-and for the assault on Professor Oliver to thwart his examination of said remains so as to prevent-”

Francesca cut him off with a raucous laugh. “Unbelievable! He’s gone completely mad.” She appealed to her audience, arms outspread. “Is he now accusing us of murdering our own father?”

He could see Lombardo and Fasoli making motions from the doorway: Enough already, let’s go, let’s get out of here. They were right, of course, but that “stupid little man” rankled and his juices were flowing.

“Not ‘us,’ signora,” he said and paused, relishing the dramatic effect more than he knew he should. “You. Only you.”

Her body stiffened, and for a second he thought she might stagger or fall, like a heroine in a melodrama. Vincenzo, staring at her with his mouth open, automatically reached out to steady her. “Francesca. ..?”

She shook him off and shouted at Caravale: “What an utterly despicable accusation. Why would I do such an inconceivable thing?”

Caravale was now winding down. Besides, he had yet to come up with the answer to that question. “We can deal with that later,” he said, speaking more gruffly. “Now, I think it’s time for you come with me.”

When she again failed to move, he turned toward the doorway. “Corporal? Sergeant?” He motioned them into the room.

Vincenzo looked as if somebody had hit him over the head with a baseball bat, but Francesca was afire, jerking her hands away when instructed to hold them out for the handcuffs. She was in full fury now, not so far from hysteria, with flashing eyes and high color in her cheeks. If he didn’t know better, Caravale might have thought she was enjoying herself. Possibly, she was.

“No, I want to hear why! I want everyone to hear! Don’t you all want to know? You can’t arrest me without a reason. The law doesn’t allow it. Tell me, why did I kill my father?”

Fasoli, holding the cuffs, looked at Caravale for guidance. Caravale sighed. It had been a mistake to let it get this far, and now he was paying for it.

Gideon had appeared at the doorway a short while before, watching quietly like everyone else. Now he came up beside Caravale. “I think,” he said, “that I can give you the answer to that.”

He had spoken quietly, but in the electric silence that surrounded them, his words seemed to bounce off the walls and go rattling around the room.

“You?” Francesca threw back her head and looked down her formidable nose at him. “The skeleton man? All right, why?”

Vincenzo was trying to shut her up. “Come, Francesca, let’s go with them,” he coaxed. “I’ll come with you. There’s no reason to make a scene. We’ll easily straighten this all out later. Don’t worry,” he said, and threw a fierce, hawkeyed glance at Caravale, “there will be hell to pay.”

She pushed him away, still watching Gideon. “I’m waiting. Why?”

Gideon looked at Caravale, who shrugged and wearily waved a hand. Go ahead, why stop now?

“Because you wanted to keep your father from disinheriting Vincenzo-”

“Disinheriting Vincenzo?” Vincenzo shouted, his voice cracking. “Disinheriting…”

“-and installing the legitimate heir in his place.”

“Installing the… the…” Vincenzo swallowed and made an effort to collect his resources. “And who, who would that be?”

“That,” Gideon said, and looked along the wall until he found Phil, standing next to Julie, “would be that man right… there.”

“What?” Vincenzo said.

“What?” Caravale said.

“Whoa,” said Phil, doing his best to shrink into the Chinoiserie-tiled wall behind him.

The police launch could hold no more than five passengers, and even that took some doing, what with one of them in custody. So, while Gideon went back in it with Caravale, Vincenzo, Francesca, and the two officers, Julie was shuttled back to Stresa with the other guests in the family launches. Phil remained at the villa. Like the rest of the de Grazias, he was thoroughly shell-shocked-which meant that he would probably do what he usually did when events piled up on him: go to bed and sleep it off in hopes that things would be better in the morning. A futile hope in this case, but all things considered, it was probably a good idea.

It was a little after 11 P.M. when a weary Gideon finished making his depositions at carabinieri headquarters and was dropped off by Corporal Fasoli at the hotel.

Angela, behind the reception desk, caught him before he reached the elevator. “Your wife got hungry,” she said. “I sent her over to the Ristorante Piemontese.” She pointed to her right. “Next block, Via Mazzini.”

“Thanks, Angela,” Gideon said, turning back toward the door.

“Try the risotto alla monzese!” she shouted after him.

He found Julie plowing vigorously into her meal at a table toward the back of the restaurant, a sedate, invitingly restful place with dark wood decor and low, arched ceilings.

“Sorry,” she said with her mouth full. “I was starving. I couldn’t wait anymore. I started on my primo piatto. Cotoletta alla milanese to follow.”

“I don’t blame you,” Gideon said, his mouth already watering. Neither of them had had lunch or dinner, and the grilled meat and rich, wine-barrel smells of the restaurant were making his knees weak. “That looks delicious, what is it?”

“Angela recommended it. It’s wonderful. Risotto with sausage, tomato, Marsala-”

“God, I need some of that too.” His signaled the waiter for some for himself, tore off a chunk of the bread in the basket that was on the table, and demolished it in two bites.

“I understand it’s better if you chew,” Julie said.

“Too hungry to chew.” He reached for her glass, half-full of red wine from a bottle beside the bread basket. “Mind?”

“Help yourself. It’s local-Barbacalo. Ever hear of it?”