Aaron Elkins - Dying on the Vine

Cesare, his coughing under control, if only barely, broke in. “He killed my mother, and he profited from it! I thought that was against the law in this country!”

“How did he profit from it?” Luca asked angrily. “He’s dead .”

“Well, yes, technically—”

A snort from Luca. “What the hell is ‘technically’ dead?”

“I mean . . .” He didn’t quite cough, but another fit was clearly on its way if he continued. He gestured to signora Batelli, who took over.

“What my client means, of course, is that his estate profited by Nola’s death, which, in a legal sense, can be interpreted as the same thing. And Franco Cubbiddu was the primary beneficiary of that estate.”

“Now, signora.” Severo was practically oozing condescension. “As an experienced attorney I’m sure you know perfectly well that, while it is true that our laws prohibit a murderer’s profiting from his crime, that prohibition applies to the contents of the victim’s will, not the murderer’s, so you see, the issue is moot.”

“Severo,” Franco snapped, “will you kindly stop calling our father a murderer?”

“What would you call him?” Cesare snarled.

“Please, gentlemen,” said Quadrelli, “I am speaking in general terms. Let me continue—”

But signora Batelli was running out of patience. “You do not understand me, signore. We are not challenging signor Cubbiddu’s will. We are bringing a wrongful death suit—”

“A wrongful—”

“—to recover damages for the loss by my client of his mother’s love, affection, companionship, and emotional support, as well as the financial and economic support that would have eventually ensued had she not been so tragically murdered.”

“Please, signora,” Severo said more severely, “do not play these semantic games with me. You know perfectly well that that your client has no standing from which to bring suit. The codes involved are entirely clear on this. If you are unfamiliar with them, I would be happy to provide you with the relevant citations.”

Signora Batelli, now openly irritated by Quadrelli’s manner, stood abruptly and shoveled papers into her attaché case. “As I’ve said, gentlemen, we’re not here to argue. We came to tell you what to expect, and we have told you. Signor Quadrelli, you’ll hear more formally from my office very shortly.” A crisp nod. “ Arrivederla, signori . Come, Cesare.”

Cesare, tottering and blinking, already unsure of what had just transpired, followed her.

“You did well, Severo,” Franco said once their visitors had left, although he didn’t look so sure about it.

Severo accepted the praise with a sober nod.

“What you said is true, isn’t it, Severo?” Luca asked. “He can’t really do that, can he? Sue us? The little turd?”

Severo responded with a grave, sympathetic smile, kind and kingly. “I’m afraid he most certainly can, my boy.”

THIRTEEN

IThad been overcast in Florence, but a fine, crisp day all the same, so John and Gideon, having been cooped up at the conference for most of the past week, had simply wandered the city for a few hours after their meeting with Rocco, not going into any museums or churches or palazzos but basking in the fresh air, the architecture, and the chic bustle.

Lunch had been at one of a string of funkily quaint old sidewalk eateries on Borgo San Lorenzo, the narrow, cobblestoned alley, now a pedestrian walkway, that served primarily to lead tourists to the Medici Chapel and the Laurentian Library. This particular place featured an outdoor menu held up by a four-foot-high plywood figure that looked like one of the Mario Brothers in a chef’s hat. Mario’s stubby, white-gloved, four-fingered hand pointed directly to a boldly lettered message at the top: The Biggest, Most Delicious, Most Authentic Bistecca alla Fiorentina (Beefsteak Florence Style) in the City. One full kilo (2.5 pounds), only €21.

“Now that’s what I’ve been looking for,” John said, stopping in front of it. “The real thing. What do you say?”

“Well, I tell you, John, I’m not sure that the restaurant that serves the most authentic Italian food in Florence would have a sign out front that was in English, not Italian. Or serve lunch at a quarter-to-twelve, for that matter.”

“Yeah, but two-and-half pounds .”

There was no arguing with that, Gideon knew, so they took a table at the railing and John ordered his bistecca rare. “Raro,” he said. “Peenk.”

“ Al sangue ,” the waiter said, nodding approvingly. Like Bruno the previous evening, he kissed his fingertips. “Ah, a very wonderful choice, signore. You will enjoy.”

Gideon was less hungry and ordered a simple ravioli burro e salvia , ravioli with butter and sage. About this choice the waiter was less enthusiastic, merely shrugging and writing on his pad. But then, the bistecca was the most expensive item on the menu; the ravioli, meant to serve as a starter, not as a main dish, was only €7. John ordered a glass of cabernet, Gideon one of pinot grigio. On these, the waiter was noncommittal.

The steak, when it came, was as advertised: truly enormous, a two-inch-thick slab of porterhouse so big that it hung over the sides of the plate, and bloody enough to please the most dedicated of flesh-eaters. By the time Gideon, who was not a particularly fast eater, had finished his pasta, John was only halfway into his steak, but there was little doubt that he meant to see the job through. Gideon settled back comfortably to watch, ordering a plate of assorted cheeses to go with his remaining wine.

“Say, John, are you sure you don’t want a couple of pounds of fries to go with that?”

John just grinned and chewed away, jaws grinding and neck tendons popping. “Let me finish this first. Then we’ll see.”

It took him another forty minutes to reach his limit, at which point he regretfully but contentedly set down his knife and fork.

When their waiter brought coffee and cleared their plates, he looked at the tiny amount of meat that John had left and shook his head wonderingly. “Only Americans can eat so much. And Germans.”

“Was that a compliment or an insult?” John asked Gideon afterward.

“John, I honestly don’t know.”

• • •

ASone would expect, John took a long time over his coffee, so it was two thirty by the time they got back to Figline and the villa. There was a tour bus at the front of the building— Degustazioni di Vino, Visite Guidate it said on the side—and the occupants, two dozen or so rather beat-looking older people, were slowly descending the steps and moving toward the entrance, so John and Gideon went around to the back and entered through the opening in the section of the old city wall that served as the back wall of the garden.

At the other end of the garden were two people seated at a table on the terrace: a placid, sturdy-looking older woman in Birkenstocks and a young man who was anything but placid. The woman sat there stolidly. The young man was agitatedly gesturing and talking angrily away despite a near-continuous, shuddering cough. The closer Gideon and John came, the more obvious his agitation was.

“Guy’s on something,” John said.

“Sure is. He’s practically vibrating.”

As they neared, a particularly violent bout of coughing shut down the young man’s ranting, and he reached for a purple, hourglass-shaped bottle on the table. Gideon recognized it as Giorniquilla, an evil-tasting Italian cough medicine that he’d tried when he’d had a cold during an earlier visit to Italy and had found to be about as effective as American cough medicines were, which is to say not very.