Aaron Elkins - Dying on the Vine

“You mean about digging in the ground for the bullet? You mean you hadn’t thought of that?” Rocco mimed surprise. “Hell, I thought of it a long time ago. I was just making the old guy feel like he was being helpful.”

Gideon looked at him from under a raised eyebrow.

“I wonder what you guys are talking about,” John said. “The last thing I understood was buongiorno .”

“We’ll fill you in on the way,” Gideon said. “We’re heading back to the villa.”

“All of us?” John asked, meaning Rocco too?

“All of us,” Rocco said. “I’m driving you. You’re going to be seeing a lot of me over the next few days.”

They were halfway down the steps when they heard someone hurrying after them. They looked back to see Captain Conforti, brandishing something in his hand. “Here,” he said, speaking English now, a little out of breath. “For you. I forget. Is a gift for to remember us.” And he happily handed John and Gideon each a blue-and-red (the Carabinieri colors) plastic ballpoint pen with www.carabinieri.it on the clip and 112 , Italy’s version of the 911 emergency number, on the barrel. “Please.”

Gideon appreciated the gesture. “Thank you very much, Captain.”

“ Muchas grazie, mon capitán ,” said John grandly.

SEVENTEEN

IFRocco was right about there being a surplus of bureaucratic red tape in the Carabinieri , it certainly didn’t show in the way they handled the reopening of the Cubbiddu case. On the drive down to Figline, no more than fifteen minutes after they’d left Conforti’s office, Rocco got a call from Cosima, the captain’s secretary, telling him that the new investigation had been provisionally approved. Did the lieutenant want her to call Villa Antica and inform them that he would like them to make themselves available for a meeting shortly; at, say, two o’clock? Would he like her to contact Maresciallo Martignetti to tell him to be there as well?

The answers were yes and yes, so that when they arrived a few minutes before two, having stopped for panini at a dreary roadside café, the Cubbiddus were already waiting for them in the frescoed sitting room (decorated with faux eighteenth-century depictions of the villa and its rolling green vineyards—which hadn’t been planted until the twentieth) of Franco’s suite. They sat, singly and in pairs, on slender, elegant, flute-legged Louis XVI armchairs and settees. They all knew the meeting concerned Pietro and Nola, but none of them had any idea of what to expect, including Martignetti, who was in a corner, a little away from the others, with a pad and pen at the ready on his lap. Franco and Nico shared a settee, as did Luca and Linda. The Cubbiddu’s lawyer, Severo Quadrelli, was twiddling his thumbs, prudently seated in the only chair really suited to his heft: a so-called tub chair, a wide, substantial object built along the lines of a half barrel set atop short, thick legs. A sort of chair version of the man himself.

Antonio Martignetti was seated against a wall and partially hidden by an ornate, eighteenth-century ceramic heating stove. During the drive, Rocco had told them that Martignetti was a trusted associate, among whose many virtues were fluency in English and skill at shorthand. Rocco went directly to him and squatted on his haunches to confer briefly. Then he stepped out to the middle of the tapestry-carpeted floor and greeted the rest. He was friendly enough—he knew them all—but got quickly down to business.

“Dr. Oliver will carry the main part of this, so to make it easier for him, we’ll do it in English. Is that a problem for anyone?”

Quadrelli lifted a hand. “Well . . .”

“If there is difficulty at any time, signor Quadrelli, simply say so, and we’ll translate. Is that satisfactory?”

It was, and Rocco continued. “Let me come right to the point. Your meddlesome pal there”—he pointed at Gideon—“has convinced us that we had it all wrong. It didn’t happen the way we thought it did.” He waited a few seconds for dramatic effect. “Your father didn’t kill anyone, and certainly not your stepmother. We are therefore reopening the investigation into their deaths.”

“Great!” Luca said.

Nico pumped his fist. “Right on.”

Franco said nothing but looked pleased.

“This is terrific news, Rocco,” Nico said. “But what changed your mind? Is it what Gideon told us about yesterday—that babbo would have had to climb back up the cliff, and you didn’t think—”

“No, there’s more to it than that now. Gid, would you take it from here, please? Tell them what you found.”

He went to lean against a wall to make room for Gideon at the center (and to observe the people in attendance), but Gideon spoke from his chair, giving them a fairly thorough description of what his examination of Pietro’s remains that morning had added to the picture he’d drawn for them the day before: mainly that Pietro, having preceded Nola in death by several weeks, could hardly be guilty of her murder. There were questions, of course, and he answered them as factually as he could but refrained from getting into anything deeper than necessary, which Rocco had earlier asked him to do. Predictably, this satisfied no one.

The last question came from Luca. “Okay, one thing I don’t quite get—”

“Only one?” Nico said. “You’re way ahead of me.”

Me too , Gideon thought.

“Okay, so what was it that killed him?” Luca continued. “You said—I think you said—he was shot and thrown off the cliff weeks after he was dead, but what killed him in the first place? Did you find any, what do you call them, the causes of death on the bones?”

“Not so far, no,” Gideon answered, and explained a little more about the green-stick fractures and how they might or might not be perimortem. “But John and I will be heading back over to the funeral home to see if we can’t find something more definitive.”

“Oh, you mean I’m invited along?” John asked. “That’s great, it’s been hours since anybody told me to shut up or get the hell out of their face.”

Quadrelli, who had been growing restless, got to his feet. “If you will excuse me, lieutenant, I must make a telephone call.”

“Right now, this minute?” Rocco’s eyebrows went up. “Who to?”

Severo hadn’t expected to be impeded. He was flustered. “To . . . signora Batelli.”

“The lawyer?” Rocco, of course, had already heard about signora Batelli and Cesare’s suit from Gideon.

“Yes, I want to call her, the lawyer, to inform her of what I have just heard.” He had retreated to Italian. “I hope to put a stop to a pointless and unpleasant proceeding. I am sure she’ll see that their suit is no longer tenable.”

“Very well, signor Quadrelli,” Rocco said. “But please make yourself available to us over the weekend. We’ll want to speak with you again.”

“With me? Why?”

“With everyone. We’ll want to interview you all. If any of you have problems with that, I need to know now. Anything we should be aware of?”

“I’ll be here, I’ll be here,” Quadrelli said, and scuttled off.

“How long are these interviews going to take?” Luca asked. “I have this class I’m doing all day long Saturday.”

“Not long,” Rocco said, switching the conversation back to English. “A half hour should do it, I’d guess. An hour at most. We’ll try to accommodate your schedules as much as possible, and we do appreciate your patience. Well, thanks, everybody. I think we can wrap up for today. Anybody have any questions?”

“I sure do,” Luca said. “Who do you think did kill them? Do you have any leads? Do you have a motive? Why would anyone kill them?”