Aaron Elkins - Dying on the Vine

“Of course,” said Julie.

“Nico was the older one, the more secure one, so he sort of took Cesare under his wing, spoke up for him, took his side, that kind of thing. Made excuses for him. Baby brother playing big brother. And he still does; he still sees himself as Cesare’s protector. I have my doubts about how Cesare feels about Nico these days, but I do know that there’s still a genuine love there on Nico’s part. You wouldn’t think so from that loosey-goosey way of his, would you, but Nico’s a deeply affectionate guy. He’s never given up on trying to bring Cesare more into the family.” She shook her head fondly. “It’s kind of touching, really.”

“But apparently it hasn’t worked,” Julie said. “Bringing him more into the family.”

Linda paused to let another zeppola go down before continuing. “That’s right, Franco despises him, and Luca’s not exactly crazy about him either. Neither am I, for that matter. And this I can tell you from my own experience: ‘manipulative’ and ‘self-centered’ still fit him to a T . He’s always . . . I don’t know, hatching something for his own benefit, if you know what I mean. As far as I’m concerned, I’m glad we don’t see the little worm that much.”

She paused, hesitating, but decided she might as well finish the story. “And it doesn’t help any that he’s been into and out of drugs since he was fourteen. Marijuana at first, then other junk, then cocaine. Babbo paid for him to go to rehab three, four times, but it never took. His best friend died from it, from mixing cocaine and booze—”

“A lethal combination,” Gideon said with a shake of his head.

“And that stopped him for a while, but then he started thinking, ‘Well, I guess I better give up one of them, but do I really have to quit both?’ Unfortunately, it was the booze he gave up. He doesn’t even drink wine any more, which is pretty unique around here. But now he’s back on coke. Nico says it’s all because of stress, because Pietro threw him out, and maybe it is, but I don’t know. . . .” She shook her head. “It’s all just too damn bad.”

“He injects it?” asked Gideon

“According to Nico, he snorts it. He thinks it’s less harmful than injecting, less addictive.”

“About harmful I don’t know, but about addictive he’s probably right. You get a more immediate, more intense high from delivering it straight into the bloodstream.”

“Nico keeps thinking he can get him to quit, but . . . well, good luck to him, but I think it’s way, way too late. He’s already lost his cellar-master job. Doesn’t have a job at all, as far as I know. Lives on babbo’s will.”

“That’s really sad,” Julie said.

Linda nodded. “Yes, it is. But trust me, he’d still be a creep even if he wasn’t stoned half the time.” She drank the last of her cappuccino and set the cup down with a satisfied sigh. “Well, that’s pretty much the story, and I’d better head back to the booth to help out. Things are winding down here.” She gestured toward the piazza, in which the crowds had indeed thinned out. A general sense of fatigue now hung over it. Several of the booths were already being dismantled.

“Can I help?” Gideon asked. “Need some muscle?”

“No, thanks, we’ve got everything under control.” She pushed herself to her feet. “You know how to get to the villa from here?”

Gideon nodded. “SR69 to the A1, and then straight up to Figline.”

“Right. You’re in the same apartment you were in last year. Key’s in the door. Reception’s at seven. Totally informal; what you’re wearing is fine. With the weather so nice, it’ll be outdoors, on the garden terrace. Remember where that is?”

“Oh, I think so.”

“You won’t have any trouble finding it. Things haven’t changed since you were here last.”

“Wait, one more question?”

Linda paused. “Okay, shoot, but I need to run.”

“You mentioned issues with Pietro. Anything serious?”

Linda studied him for a moment, wondering why he was interested. “Well, not really, not until last year. Cesare took an offer to become assistant cellar master at this big winery right here in the valley—an old enemy of Pietro’s. It was a few months before you came the last time. From babbo’s point of view—after all the things he’d done for him, all he’d taught him about wine, yada yada—it was nothing short of treachery. He threw him out of the villa the day he found out about it, which is why he wasn’t here anymore when you showed up.

“How did Nola feel about that?” Julie asked. “Throwing out her son?”

“How do you think? But if anything, she was madder at Cesare than she was at babbo. I think down deep she thought the kid had gone out of his way to screw up a pretty decent situation—which he had—and what he got was what he deserved. At the same time, well, he was her son, and she and Pietro had some pretty good dustups about it. You could probably hear them in Florence. But there was only one padrone here, and it wasn’t Nola.”

“So Cesare must have been pretty ticked off at both of them,” Gideon said.

“Not as ticked off as babbo was at him. Babbo cut him out of his will, disowned him. Or rather, he was going to. It was the first thing he was going to do when he got back from the mountains. ‘You are henceforth no longer the son of Pietro Cubbiddu.’” She shrugged. “But of course, he never did get back, so Cesare wound up getting the exact same share as the brothers got—from the will, I mean. Which is a damn shame, in my opinion. Babbo probably turned over in his grave. Or he would have if he’d had one at the time.”

“Well, how—” Gideon started.

“No, I really have to go. Luca and Cesare will screw everything up without some responsible adult supervision. Talk to you later. Bye-bye.”

Julie and Gideon, still seated at the table, watched her leave. Then Julie looked at Gideon curiously. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

“I suspect so. One more person with a reason to murder Pietro—to murder both of them, really.”

“That’s what I was thinking you were thinking, all right. I was thinking it too.”

“Great minds,” said Gideon. “Well, I’ll tell Rocco about all this tomorrow. I’m not sure how happy it’s going to make him, though. What do you say, shall we go?”

“Let’s take what’s left of the zeppole for John,” Julie said. “After a day out with Marti, he’ll appreciate them.”

“After a day out with Marti, he’ll need them,” Gideon said, picking up the carton.

NINE

THEFigline Valdarno of today is basically a small manufacturing center and Florence-area bedroom community, but some of it is centuries old, and Villa Antica was situated half in, half out of the old part. Half in, half out of the city, for that matter. The buildings of the one-time convent were just within the ancient city walls, with a hundred-foot section of the wall, including a romantic and evocative watchtower, providing the back border of its formal garden. Once upon a time, Gideon assumed, this beautiful, enclosed garden had been the nun’s cloister. It had probably looked much the same then, six hundred years ago, as it did now, with four paths, bordered by well-pruned boxwoods, that intersected at its center, making four symmetrical triangles of lawn, lush and closely mowed. At the center, where the pathways met, there was an old stone fountain, now lichen-encrusted and still. Set along the outer edges of the lawns were clay olive oil jugs planted with shrubs. Lined up along the back wall was a row of cypress trees spaced a few feet apart. It was this beautiful garden that Gideon had most looked forward to seeing again, a lovely, tranquil space equally conducive to quiet contemplation or—even better—free-floating woolgathering.