A Murder in Tuscany (3 page)

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Authors: Christobel Kent

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BOOK: A Murder in Tuscany
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‘Ah, well, Frollini – ’ and she’d flushed, barely perceptibly, ‘he wants me to play more of an active role. In buying, you know.’
Frollini. And there he was again, between them, with his tan, his fine moustache, a beautiful villa not far from where Sandro stood, and a shiny sports car. He’d always been very good to Luisa; whenever he met Sandro, perhaps a couple of times a year, he would seize Sandro’s hand between his and shake it vigorously. ‘You’re a lucky man, Cellini,’ he’d say, before clapping him too hard on the shoulder.
On the frosty hillside Sandro made an involuntary, throat-clearing sound of exasperation at the thought of Frollini, at the memory of his own deceitful responses to Luisa last night, and at the pay-off. Served him right.
‘Well,’ he’d said earnestly, ‘that’s fantastic.’ He didn’t know what idea he’d had of what buying meant; Luisa looking through slides, or brochures, perhaps, or surfing to websites? Going to the Florentine shows, Pitti Uomo and the like, and picking out whatever took her fancy for the new season; harmless enough.
Well, up to a point, it had turned out.
‘When do you start?’ he’d said.
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Luisa had replied. ‘He wants me to start going with him to the shows. Frollini does.’
Sandro had felt his smile turn rigid at the thought of the handsome old man in his cashmere suits, holding his car door open for Luisa to climb in. He had a wife, up in the villa; they’d been married forever, their children grown up and working abroad. There’d always been rumours about Frollini and his mistresses, but he was discreet all right. And it came to Sandro that Luisa had always defended her boss against any such charges. ‘He’s not like that,’ she’d always say. ‘He’s not sleazy like that. No.’
But then you’d expect her to say that; loyalty was Luisa’s middle name.
‘Right,’ he’d said, nodding vigorously to cover up the fixity of his expression. ‘Shows. So, when? And where?’ He’d shrugged, with pretend nonchalance. ‘Milan?’
Next to him on the narrow sunlit street someone emerged through the arched side door to the school: the janitor. Sandro had already introduced himself. He’d had to; middle-aged man hanging around outside a school. Grudgingly the man had given him the benefit of the doubt; turned out he was an ex-cop himself.
Sandro nodded; the man nodded back.
Last night, Luisa hadn’t been able to look him in the eye. ‘Actually,’ she had said, and the flush deepened, ‘New York. The next shows are in New York.’
Sandro had nodded, dazed, not even asking the next question because the whole edifice he had constructed – the world in which Luisa would return to her old self and they would spend the weekends and evenings together on sedate meals out, picnics and drives in
the country – was crashing down around him with such calamitous inevitability that he knew there would be no need to help it on its way. She was going to tell him.
‘Next week,’ she’d said, looking up from her hands. ‘Flying out Monday morning early. Back Wednesday.’ Her expression had been half defiant, half guilty. ‘Late, Wednesday.’
He’d been dumbfounded. She was leaving in two days? So it was already arranged. So there was nothing he could do, anyway; feeling anger stir and knot inside him, childishly – ask me? She’s not
asking
me – Sandro had made a supreme effort.
‘How exciting,’ he’d said numbly. ‘
Mamma mia
.’
She’d leaned across and put her arms around him then, having heard his assent; Sandro could feel her softness against him, could smell her sweet familiar scent mingled with the richer smells of cooking and wanted to rage like a thwarted child. He’d said no more; he’d eaten the
polpettone
, which had smelt so delicious and tasted like nothing but sawdust in his mouth; he’d washed it down with too much Morellino and become too falsely jovial. He hadn’t slept well.
But this was where they were.
 
 
The sun was higher in the sky and the wall was warming despite the fine dusting of frost still visible in the valley below; beside Sandro the janitor was taking advantage of it, standing in satisfied contemplation. His bunch of keys dangling from the gate’s lock, he held a lighter in cupped hands around a cigarette, leaned back and let out the blue smoke with deep fulfilment.
It was 8.30 and Carlotta was inside, at school, where she should be.
The janitor turned to Sandro. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how’s it going?’ He nodded at the open gate, and the keys dangling. ‘The surveillance operation?’
The whole scene was so absurdly peaceful, the sharp blue winter light, the dazzle of white stucco, the picturesque, winding lane and the city spread out below them, that the question for a split second made no sense; for that second Sandro had even forgotten why he was there. Then the faint sardonic edge to the question hit him.
‘I saw her with a boy this morning,’ he said roughly. He wouldn’t have this man patronize him.
The janitor took a small circular tin out of his pocket, opened the lid and stubbed out his cigarette in it before shutting it up again with the butt inside. ‘Otherwise I only have to clean it up myself,’ he explained. ‘Tall, skinny boy? Long hair?’
‘That’s the one,’ said Sandro. ‘Is he bad news?’
‘Alberto? Depends how you look at it.’ Tight-lipped. ‘I wouldn’t want my daughter going out with him.’ Then he seemed to take pity on Sandro. ‘Though
her
parents might not object to him.’ His tone was sarcastic; Sandro looked at him blankly.
‘Very rich,’ said the janitor patiently. ‘One of the old families, but they’ve consolidated; they own half the warehousing in Prato. They’ve got a castle somewhere in the country, keep a yacht in Porto Ercole, mother spends half the year in India somewhere. Goa? She’s there now.’
He looked at Sandro expectantly, waiting for him to ask more. Sandro was damned if he would; he wasn’t interested. Leave it to airheads to buy the celebrity magazines. Goa, though: mostly what he knew about Goa was that there were plenty of drugs there. Or was she one of those religious nuts, yoga and Zen stuff? Either way, this wasn’t the kind of family he liked. As if responding to his expression the janitor laughed sourly. ‘Open house when the old man’s away visiting one of his girlfriends, that’s what I hear. And she’s – she’s a good kid, don’t get me wrong – but she’s not in his league.’
‘Ah,’ said Sandro. ‘I wonder if she’s told them about it. The parents.’
The janitor shrugged, already turning away. ‘Maybe there’s nothing to tell them, anyway,’ he said. ‘He’s just stringing her along.’
Hands in his pockets, Sandro nodded. He was cold.
‘Come back at one,’ said the janitor. ‘School’s out at one today. Get yourself a coffee, you look frozen.’ And he was gone.
Just inside the Porta San Miniato, a little bar was spilling its customers out into the cold air where they were smoking with gloved hands; inside it was warm and bright and bustling with local oddballs and artistic types, and a fat, theatrical, bearded barman served him an
excellent coffee and a pastry. Sandro settled himself down, and dialled Giuli.
At one he headed back up the hill to the Liceo Classico Marzocco. Carlotta Bellagamba was gone. He had lost her.
T
HEY CALLED A MEETING at eleven in the dining room, for all the staff. Luca Gallo, obviously, was in charge; he ran the place, after all, not her, even if she was called the Director. Dottoressa Loni might host the dinners and greet the guests and talk painting or books with them, but Gallo, who ate at his desk most nights, did everything else. Everything; his crowded office, above the kitchen, was like a general’s bunker; he even had a map of the world on his wall, with pins in it. Each pin represented a guest, past or present; Venezuela, Finland, Mexico, Germany, America, wherever.
Sitting quiet at the furthest end of the row of kitchen staff as Gallo talked to them in his soft, patient voice, Cate Giottone was still stunned.
For a moment or two after she had walked into the kitchen and slung her bag on the table and everyone suddenly stopped talking, Cate knew, they were really thinking whether they should tell her anything at all. Ginevra – the cook, sixty-five, rough-voiced, tight-lipped and rarely, grudgingly, kind – had exchanged a glance with the next most senior member of staff, Mauro, his face like thunder.
‘Well?’ Cate had demanded. ‘I just saw a police car.’
And then, of course, they had all started talking at once, Ginevra and Mauro, the other kitchen girl, Ginevra’s niece Nicoletta – Nicki – each
with their own version of what had happened, although, it turned out, none of them had actually talked to a policeman. What was certain was that it concerned Dottoressa Meadows, and the missing car. Ginevra had put a stop to it eventually; there was coffee to lay out in the library for the guests, and lunches to be prepared. They had to keep going as normal; they’d find out at eleven.
As she had filled the labelled wicker lunchboxes each guest was issued with on arrival, Cate had tried not to think about it; wait until you know, she’d told herself. But in the pit of her stomach she’d felt a kind of dread she didn’t quite understand. In each linen-lined basket she’d laid the small packages in their waxed paper –
frittata
, grilled peppers, a slab of bread and a couple of tomatoes – and then buckled the lid. Mauro or Nicki would deliver the lunchboxes to the castle’s apartments by one o’clock.
The American women were in the outbuildings; the artist, Tina, because she needed the studio housed in the
villino
, Michelle the poet in the bungalow behind the laundry, with huge windows looking into the woods behind the castle.
The others were in the keep itself; Tiziano the Venetian in the ground-floor suite on the corner, the Englishman on the top floor, with the Norwegian next door; they usually put guests of the same sex up there. Just in case, she supposed, though they all seemed to her to have their minds on anything but enjoyment; if Cate had learned anything since she got there about the artistic process, it was that it wasn’t much fun. The
Dottoressa
on the
piano nobile
below them, a corner of it turned into an apartment for the intern, but the
Dottoressa
had the lion’s share, great long windows looking down the cypress drive.
‘You do the coffee,’ Ginevra had said, preoccupied.
She had come to rely on Cate for anything even slightly complicated. It had to be done in three relays; silver trays with insulated flasks of coffee – American style – hot and cold milk, cups, saucers, silver spoons, three kinds of sugar, biscuits and pastries. There were thirteen steps up to the old library: Ginevra couldn’t manage steps and was terrified of the small ancient, creaky lift; Nicki might be family but her English was non-existent so she had to be largely kept
to kitchen tasks and besides, she was clumsy. So Cate did it, just as she served every night at dinner, seven days a week, before heading home in the dark on her
motorino
.
Last night she’d thought she might get home early, hadn’t she? Last night the guests had dispersed from the dining room nice and promptly, for once; sometimes they sat for hours guzzling the liqueurs while in the kitchen Ginevra and Cate snapped at each other, getting wearier and wearier. Waiting for them to leave. Last night the dining room had been empty by ten, and if it had been the three of them, it would have taken no more than half an hour to clear up. Only Ginevra had said Mauro wasn’t well, she had to get back, and when Ginevra went, so did Nicki, because Ginevra was too much of a nervous nelly to walk home in the dark alone.
So Cate had to finish up on her own, and it had taken her an hour. She’d thought about that little settlement over the hill as she rinsed and stacked, Ginevra and Mauro in the run-down tied farm; Nicki in the two-room cottage adjoining it, with her widowed mother. No wonder Nicki looked unhappy most of the time.
The money was good. But Cate really earned it.
The library was Cate’s least favourite room of the castle, although the truth was there weren’t many rooms she did like. Her mother had been in awe, looking at the brochures she’d come home with after her interview, and Vincenzo very impressed at the thought that she’d be swishing around the place from ballroom to
salotto
like some kind of princess. But it quickly seemed to Cate that mediaeval life must have been a pretty uncomfortable business, even for the inhabitants of castles. In the winter the castle’s tall and beautiful windows rattled in their frames, letting in a gale; its passages were damp and its ancient radiators silted up; Orfeo was freezing and dark at the best of times and the library was its cold and gloomy centre.
The room was immensely high-ceilinged, accommodating a gallery about six metres up lined with books, and a huge fireplace, almost never lit, with a great chimney flue that seemed to suck any tract of warmth from the building. From the coffered beams hung the only light source apart from the four long windows, a vast wooden chandelier with half
its bulbs blown. Mauro should have replaced them, but the list of things Mauro had to do was long.
The Englishman had already been there as she’d entered by the wide double doors that led to the landing. He was walking up and down in front of the windows, through which a thin winter light fell; the room faced north-west and the sun barely arrived here at this time of year. Alec Fairhead was always the first, always pacing out the space in which he found himself, made twitchy by the confinement. And shy, she thought, or was it just being English? His eyes would slide over her and away when they talked; she’d noticed the other women had the same effect on him.
In an attempt to improve her English, Cate had borrowed a first edition of his novel from the library – if the guests were writers, their work was always added to the bookshelves. She’d been under the impression it was a kind of love story. But if it was, it wasn’t the kind she recognized, and she’d pretty much given up on it. She didn’t like dark books, books about betrayal and death; Cate sometimes thought people’s lives were too easy, if they wanted to make themselves unhappy reading about other’s people’s misery.
‘Ha,’ he’d said abruptly, ‘Caterina. You are an angel.’
Despite the circumstances, she’d smiled; he was awkward, stiff, wary, but she couldn’t help liking the man. Like her, he seemed an outsider, but he was always polite, always thanked her for any service. He never complained, not even of the dark and cold, unlike the others, but then Cate imagined that the English were probably more used to it.
Fairhead had poured himself a cup of the weak, black coffee. It had been explained to Caterina by a wearily disbelieving Ginevra that
caffè americano
had been settled on as it suited the widest range of tastes; outside Italy it seemed that a good
espresso
set the unaccustomed heart racing dangerously, and there was the possibility of lawsuits. Cate, used to the bizarre eating habits of foreigners, had merely smiled sadly. Fairhead had set his hands around the wide white cup to warm them; from outside the double doors had come the sound of the lift as it clanked into motion.
‘Cate,’ Fairhead had said, ‘have you any idea what’s going on? The police?’
Her eyes accustomed to the dim light now, Cate had seen that he looked pale. He was, she had guessed, in his fifties; about the same age as Dottoressa Meadows. Not old; but old enough. Someone had told her he hadn’t written another novel since the one he’d read from at his presentation, the same book she’d tried to read before putting it back on the shelves, defeated. Fairhead himself had told her, during one of their over-polite bouts of small talk, that he did bits and pieces.
Just hack work
, was what he said reluctantly; helpfully Luca Gallo had told her that meant journalism. Travel stuff that kept him on the move, apparently.
The guests mostly seemed to be like that, migratory. Cate had listened in as she served dinner one night, early on in the current group’s stay, about where they would be going next. Visiting fellowship in Beijing, concert tour in California, creative writing course in Spain. It came as a revelation to Cate that people could exist in this permanent state of transit; it made her feel less of an oddity in fact. But even she assumed – hoped, if the truth be told – that one day the travelling would stop. Some day, surely, they would all arrive.
She’d heard the lift doors open; Tiziano. And slowly she’d shaken her head. ‘I’m not sure. Signore Gallo has called us to a meeting, eleven o’clock. The
Dottoressa
– the Director – she is – she isn’t here.’
‘Not here,’ Fairhead had said wonderingly. As though it might be something miraculous: and it did seem to Cate that Loni Meadows was everywhere in this castle, as a rule, even when she was away from it.
The wheelchair had glided through the doors, and Cate had felt her heart lift. Tiziano – from Venice, like his namesake, although not a painter but a pianist – was the only one who ever used the lift, which was commonly considered, not only by Ginevra, to be an antiquated deathtrap. By contrast Tiziano’s wheelchair was state of the art, like nothing she’d ever seen before he arrived in the castle some six weeks earlier. It was streamlined and bright, with tilted wheels, gleaming chrome and black rubber, and he could move like lightning in it when he wanted to.
Cate had fallen in love with Tiziano the moment he first beamed that wide, white smile up at her from his broad, stubbled face. Not much
hair, a good fifteen years older than Cate, but there was something about him. Broad-shouldered, he was always in T-shirts, never a sweater; he kept himself warm, he said, manoeuvring the wheelchair. Tiziano was always in motion, and for twenty years he had been paralysed from the waist down. An accident, in which his father had died. So fiercely private, so capable, she didn’t want him to think she even considered his disability: she hadn’t asked him about the accident. They had offered him a live-in helper at the castle, but he had refused.
Tiziano played the piano like a tumultuous force of nature; most evenings, Cate would come and stand at the foot of the stairs and listen when she heard him begin, until Ginevra called her back.
‘
Buongiorno
,
bellissima
,’ Tiziano had said, winking up at her. Cate couldn’t stop herself smiling.
He’d known very well he should be speaking in English, but Tiziano was as adept at disobeying rules as he was at circumventing obstacles to his wheelchair. He’d seemed exactly as cheerful as always; Cate’d supposed he had heard nothing of the police visit.
The two Americans – the women – weren’t here yet. They both lived in the outbuildings of the castle, and were often late, and they were as unlike as chalk and cheese, though it didn’t stop them sticking together. Tina – who made strange, graphic pots, stuck with leaves and detritus, a kind of Caribbean folk art – was from Orlando, in Florida. She was shy and slight, although some of her pots were as big as Greek oil jars and needed some manhandling.
As she knew Miami a little from the cruises, Cate had tried to talk to Tina once or twice about Florida, but it was hard going; Cate had come to the conclusion she was simply homesick. She was supposed to produce a little show, next week; there had been some talk about it from the others, but not from Tina. She was jumpy about it. She’d started slipping into the little room next to the dining room to watch the castle’s only television and catch the news every night; news of the world outside.
Then there was Michelle from Queens, New York, who lived out of choice in the modern studio behind the laundry building, with her long, unkempt grey-blonde hair and air of perpetual whirlwind fury.
Cate, walking past the wide windows of Michelle’s apartment one day with an armful of tablecloths from the laundry, had seen her hunched bodily over the long white table and writing furiously, like a child hiding her work from the class cheat. She’d seemed to sense Cate there, and had turned on her a blinding glare.
Michelle was a poet and a librettist, which, Cate knew, was someone who wrote the words for operas. She’d read her poetry early on in her residency, stonily, challenging her audience to comment. Cate wondered about the presentations; most of the guests seemed to dread them, when it came to their turn. Michelle was childless.
Tina didn’t drink coffee and half the time she didn’t turn up at all; when she did, she sipped a brew of her own, made of boiled-up Chinese herbs. She inhabited the small
villino
, divided now into an apartment on the first floor and a workshop below, where Mauro had grown up, although his family had never owned it. A tied house: Mauro’s father before him had been the castle’s gardener and factotum, but the tied house had lapsed on his death and the creation of the Trust. The office in Baltimore, established proudly by old Orfeo, setting his faith in American reason and logic and justice, got blamed for an awful lot around here. The
villino
was only five minutes away, at the end of a stunted avenue of cypresses planted by Mauro’s father and sadly neglected.

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