Aaron Elkins - Dying on the Vine

“Nobody’s arguing with you there,” Rocco said.

“All right, let me introduce another possibility,” said Gideon. “Another possible scenario.”

Rocco lifted and eyebrow. “Could I stop you?”

“Not a chance,” John said.

“Well, I was thinking about the vendetta angle,” Gideon said. “Both families were upset with the two of them for getting married. Maybe this was the result. And then it was covered up to look like a suicide.”

“They were married twenty-five years ago,” Rocco said. “Why wait till now?”

“Maybe they didn’t know where they were,” John suggested.

“Nah. Look, I wondered about that myself at first, but that’s not the way vendettas work. They don’t cover up their assassinations. They want people to know who did it and why. And in Barbagia—I looked into this, see?—the standard finish is to shotgun the victims in the face, so the family can’t even have the satisfaction of saying good-bye to them in an open casket.”

“Nice people,” John said. “Salt of the earth.”

“Anyway,” Rocco said, stifling a yawn, “it’s all worth thinking about, but it’s not enough to go on. Regardless of how weird the situation was—Pietro shooting her after she fell, then climbing back up to shoot himself—it’s still where the evidence points. Mostly.”

“Well, we tried,” Gideon said. “Look, Rocco, I really think the family has a right to know what I’ve come up with, even if it doesn’t add up to anything solid. It just doesn’t feel right to keep it from them. I mean, living there, seeing them every day—I feel like some kind of sneak. And who knows? Maybe when they hear about it they’ll come up with something more.”

“I wouldn’t count on that, but okay, sure. I wouldn’t have any right to stop you anyway. And if they do come up with anything useful, let me know, will you? I’m keeping an open mind here. I just need more.”

• • •

“KIND of a waste of time, wasn’t it?” Gideon said on their walk back toward the station.

“You’re telling me,” John grumbled. “And for that you got me up in the middle of the night.”

“John, I really don’t think six thirty qualifies as the middle of the night. I understand some people regularly get up at that time.”

“Yeah, but not on purpose. I should still be sleeping. This really messes up my twenty-four-hour biological clock, you know?”

“Gosh, pal, I’m really sorry. How can I ever make it up to you?”

John stopped and looked up and down the street. “Well, you could buy me a breakfast panini in that bar over there. That’d be a start.” But as they headed toward the café-bar, he stopped again, looking worried. “Or should I have said panino ? I mean, God forbid I should get it wrong.”

“Tell you what,” Gideon said. “How about if I buy you two of them? That will make the grammatical niceties moot.”

TWELVE

“THIS is ridiculous,” Franco Cubbiddu said with an impatient gesture at the clock, the only infringement on the pristine perfection of the walnut-paneled walls other than the thermostat and the light switches. “Who the hell does he think he is? I’ll give him exactly two more minutes, and if he’s not here by then, this meeting is concluded.”

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Severo Quadrelli said. “I think it would behoove us to hear what he has to say.”

Franco tapped his watch. “Two minutes.”

The eldest Cubbiddu was not having one of his better days. Things had started going wrong at breakfast. When he’d come down for his latte, brioches, and fruit—a time usually given to quiet reflection—he’d found the refectory full of jabbering, cackling attendees of Vino e Cucina (about which he’d completely forgotten). He’d made a quick job of it, but even so he hadn’t been able to avoid a slew of inane questions: What wine would he recommend to go with chili? Why didn’t Villa Antica produce any fruit-flavored wines? Had he heard about the new method (scientifically proven!) of aging wines by means of a “magnetic flux path” that produced the same results in thirty minutes that would otherwise require laying down the wine for years?

On escaping he’d told Maria that from then on, until the conference was over, he would take his breakfast in his apartment. But as far as today was concerned, the damage had been done: his morning was ruined. And then an hour later had come a stupid dispute with Amerigo, his dim-witted cellar master, who was refusing to let his workers use the brand-new, phenomenally expensive, ozone-based sanitizing system because he’d heard somewhere that the ozone would get in the air and give them all cancer. Ordinarily, Franco would never have heard about it because dealing with this kind of problem was Luca’s job, but Luca was busy with his damned cooking school, and Franco had wasted half an hour of his own time setting Amerigo straight, or rather convincing him that if he didn’t stop arguing and start following orders, he’d be out of a job.

It was all too much to put up with. Never again would Villa Antica host Vino e Cucina , that was certain. If Luca wanted to put it on again next year, he would have to find someplace else.

And then, to top it all off, into his office a couple of hours ago had walked Cesare, twitching and jittery and looking even more like hell than the last time Franco had seen him, when he had appeared, unwelcome and uninvited, at Pietro’s memorial service. He had something of importance to say to the brothers Cubbiddu, he said now, and they would be well advised to assemble at two o’clock in the small conference room to hear it. Oh, and it might be a good idea for them to have il consigliere —fat, old Quadrelli—there as well. Thank you.

That had been it. No explanation of the reason, no inquiry as to whether the time was convenient or whether the conference room would be free. Just be there.

So here they were, gathered around their glossy new conference table in their new, mesh-backed, seven-hundred-euro Aeron chairs, watching the clock’s minute hand slowly stutter its way toward 2:06.

“If he doesn’t show up pretty soon, I’m out of here too,” Luca said. “Afternoon break is over at two thirty. I have to be back with my class.”

At 2:10 Cesare finally shuffled in accompanied by a gray-haired, square-built woman well into her seventies carrying a worn, old-fashioned, brown briefcase with straps, and dressed in a blue velour tracksuit and bulky, clacking Birkenstock sabots. No socks. On Cesare’s face was a smug, self-satisfied look, a cat-that-was-about-to-eat-the-canary expresssion that raised alarm bells in Franco and Luca. What was their little turd of a stepbrother up to now?

Even Nico, who was the closest thing Cesare had to an ally, didn’t like the looks of it. He didn’t like Cesare’s looks either. The previous weekend he had driven to Florence for the sole purpose of having a heart-to-heart with Cesare, toward the end of getting him to sign up for (yet another) drug rehab program before he was too far gone altogether. Nico had offered to cover all expenses. Cesare had said he’d think about it, but from appearances, it didn’t look as if he intended to take the advice. He was stoned. Nico’s heart sank to look at him.

“Hoo-hoo, what do you know, the whole family’s here,” Cesare said. “I’m flattered.”

“You asked us to be here,” Franco told him coldly.

“No, I asked you to be here, Franco.” He said it like a man who was enjoying a good joke.

“No, you asked—”

Luca began gathering himself to rise. “Good, if I’m not needed—”

The woman with Cesare interrupted. “You gentlemen are the family? The brothers? I think it might be better if you remained.” She had a surprisingly resonant voice, straight from the chest and almost as deep as Quadrelli’s basso.