L'Oro Verde (11 page)

When she hung up, she turned to Sister
Daniela who, only able to hear half of the conversation, was fidgety.

“Well? Can I do something else for you?”
the novice asked.

“Yes,” Sister Angela said. “While I
think it might be best to stay away from Father Domenic right now, I need a favor
concerning a shirt that belonged to Bernardo.”

“Isn’t that evidence? Shouldn’t you tell
the inspector you have something?”

“I have to give it to the inspector
soon, but before that, you could help me by taking this with you into
Petraggio. Be careful. Remember that it’s evidence.”

*

Nicola continued to think of that
fateful day with Enzo.

The sun shone directly through the car windows
after they
finally loaded Enzo’s
car for their return trip and climbed in.

Nicola’s head ached. “I shouldn’t have
had so much wine.
The drink
and sun must have done a number on me,” she said, looking Enzo in the eye. “I
hope you still think I’m worthy of the promotion.”

“Of course. Thank you for the wonderful
day. You are such a
giving
person, Nicola. God knows I don’t deserve this.”

“Well it’s back to work now. We can’t
take just any day off. I
want
to do the best job I can for you. You know that, Enzo.”

“And you will,” he said, putting his arm
around her shoulder.

He leaned over and pulled her toward
him. She could smell his breath. Stale alcohol permeated the sweet salt air. It
made her want to retch. She longed to pull away but did not dare, giving him a
short kiss. His response was not so short. His wet lips enveloped hers until
she automatically pulled away.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked,
his voice like steel. “You were much more responsive on the beach. Did you want
me to give you the house too?”

She smiled. “I guess it’s me. I don’t
feel so fresh now. The wine and heat were too much. Please don’t take offense.
It’s not you
.”

*

Nicola felt relief as soon as he dropped
her off at her car in the factory parking lot. She would return home and bathe
before joining her father and brother for dinner. But by the time she drove her
car up the drive to L’Oro Verde, she had already changed her mind.

Leaving her things in the car, she
walked up the path, passed Carlo’s little building with the olive processing
equipment and into the first orchard. Her pace slowed as she approached the
clearing. It was the same field she always used when she wanted privacy. The early
evening sun cut through it, leaving shadows imprinted on the unturned soil. She
waded through the mud around the sprouting grass to a dry spot and fingered the
clumps of dirt.

“I’ll do anything to get out of here,”
she said, the damp chill of early spring seeping through her jacket. “He’s not
that bad,” she said, still trying to convince herself. “Granted, I’ll have to
watch my step. He’s married, for god’s sake. But how can I expect him to love
me when I can’t return it. I’ll just have to avoid him. I’ll throw myself into
my work and scratch my way up. If I can’t have love, I’ll just have to be
satisfied with travel and a big yacht.”

*

But so much had happened since that trip
in the spring—so much had changed. Did he still want to help her move up? In
the office, she groped for the framed picture of someone else in her desk drawer
and positioned it in front of her. Would Enzo ever take her for a trip on the
yacht? More important, did she still want him to?

Lazaro Tortini was new on the force.
Years earlier he daydreamed in Sister Angela’s class, but he always wanted to be
a policeman. He trained for his career in Bologna but had to wait five years
for an opening in his hometown, Montriano. He already had a family—three boys,
two girls, two cats, and Anna, his wife. At first, he was afraid to tell her he
wanted to switch jobs. When they were newly married, he worked as a guard in
the Etruscan Museum and was beginning to make better money. As a junior police
officer in the village, he would have to take a cut in pay. But Anna
understood. Montriano was not a dangerous place, and as long as he was happy,
they would make ends meet.

Today, Lazaro was going to drive the
inspector to Roma. The A1 was the easy part. He knew the way to the
autostrade
,
and once there, signs to the capitol would be abundant. He was rather nervous,
though, about finding his way around the large city.

He cleared his throat, nervously. “Sir,
you
did
bring a map of Roma, didn’t you?”

DiMarco smiled. “Yes, of course. It’s in
my pocket. I have marked the way to Paolo Ferro’s house. Do you need to see it
now?”

“No.” Lazaro let out a long sigh.

At least they did not have to go to all
the hospitals. He and DiMarco checked out many of them by phone the day before.
None had a Mrs. Reni in their records on any dates around the boy’s birthday.
Of course, Ferro might say the dates were miscalculated or actually tell them
the hospital was wrong. But then they would only have to make their way to the
one hospital. Surely Ferro would not lead them on a goose chase.

He leaned forward to turn on the radio.
This was his car. They used his car since taking a marked car would make things
more difficult. Polka music burst out of the speaker.

Surprised, DiMarco stared at his driver.

“Sorry, Sir. My wife likes it. Do you
enjoy rock? I can find some of that.”

*

DiMarco did not reveal that he preferred
Puccini. Tortini probably could not find that on the radio anyway. The
inspector always carried a cd in his back pocket but did not bring it out. No,
rock was not his style, but it was only a couple of hours. He would survive.

DiMarco thought about the possibilities.
If Mrs. Reni did not have the baby in a hospital, then she must have had it in
Paolo’s house. That must be it.
There were complications—they couldn’t get
her to a hospital, and the family’s covering up
for a midwife so she
won’t lose her license
, he thought.

DiMarco remembered the births of his own
children. Wanting his son to be born at home, his wife had worked with the midwife
and thought she was ready. When the time came, however, there were problems.
The baby’s head was caught. She was in labor for more than twenty-four hours.
DiMarco rushed her to the hospital himself, not thinking about the midwife’s
feelings—only of his wife and baby. The hospital physician performed a
caesarian, and everything seemed to be all right. Maybe if Mr. Reni had been
there, the correct decision would have been made.

DiMarco’s son did not seem slow.
Although it was still too early to tell what kind of student he was going to
be, the boy would probably become a soccer star. He was already kicking the
ball accurately. DiMarco had put him into the town youth league, and he was the
star of a championship team. One of his daughters was also good at soccer, and
his wife made sure she supported the girl’s team. But it was the boy’s team
that interested DiMarco.

The inspector played in a league too.
Since there were not enough policemen in Montriano, he joined the league in
Petraggio. Calling themselves the
Petraggio Marksmen
, the police force
had lots of men eager to play. Some of the team wanted to call themselves the
Bombers
,
but since they were law enforcement officials, the name did not seem to be
appropriate. Tortini had played for a while, but he was not well coordinated.
DiMarco was glad when his officer decided he was too busy to drive to Petraggio
several times a week. A younger more talented man replaced Tortini. The team
was five-two-two after they beat the firefighters, who were supposed to be
good, the week before. After that game, DiMarco felt like he was on top of the
world. This Friday, they would play the team from San Anselmo University. Many
of the players were seminary students, teaching or taking classes there.
DiMarco was a little worried about them. He did not think it was fair to use
students let alone ones who had an edge with God

“When does Fiorentina play?” he asked
Lazaro.

“Tomorrow night—against Milano. I can’t
wait for the game against Roma. I think that’s coming up soon.”

“Ah. Fiorentina’s play has been a bit
disappointing. I’m looking forward to the Euro Cup. I think the schedule is coming
out next month.”

“Yes, two weeks from Thursday. That’ll
be exciting,” Lazaro said, turning down the music. “Do you go to Roma often?”

“Yes, my sister and her husband live
there,” DiMarco said. “He’s a commander in the Papal Guard.”

“The Swiss Guard?”

“Yes. He’s Swiss.”

“Then they live in Vatican City. Do they
have a nice place? What a job that is. I’ll bet you are a bit jealous, Sir.”

DiMarco did not answer. “I think it’s
the second exit. We follow that road until we get to Piazza Trasimeno.”

“Are we going directly to their house?”

“Yes. They live in an apartment on Via
Rubicone. We’ll have to park about a block away—at least that’s what Ferro said.”

*

Paolo Ferro waited on the steps of his
building. After shaking hands with the two policemen, he led them up the stairs
to the second floor. The apartment building was nice on the inside. The marble
staircase spiraled around a small courtyard. The glass ceiling, about six flights
up, illuminated a fountain, gurgling in the center of the lobby. Paolo’s wife,
Giuliana, waited nervously upstairs and seemed to cower behind a chair as the
two men walked inside. After introducing themselves, the policemen sat down. Mrs.
Ferro made them coffee.

“I’m so sorry for the sudden death of
your nephew, Bernardo. The funeral was nice. Did you come to Montriano for it?”
DiMarco asked.

“No. I had to work. My sister has
forgiven us,” he said. “Do you have any leads?”

“We have actually questioned a suspect
and obtained some evidence, but no motive. That’s why we’re here. Anything you
can remember will be of help. We need more documentation. The suspect can’t be
put away on what we have.”

“Oh. Have you told my sister? She didn’t
mention this new development.”

“We didn’t want to bother her with it
just yet. Right now, I think you can give us the information we need.”

“I’ll try to answer your questions the
best I can.”

“I’m afraid we haven’t been able to
locate the hospital where Bernardo Reni was born,” the inspector said.

Paolo looked at his wife. “Yes, that
surprises me,” he said. “My sister didn’t tell you she went to San Giovanni Hospital?
Did you call them?”

Lazaro looked down at the crumpled list
of hospitals he had stuffed into his pocket. “Yes, they responded that Mrs. Reni
had never been a patient there.”

“Oh my, I knew this would happen. The
hospitals always lose records. It’s a national embarrassment. Anyway, that’s where
she went.”

“Then may I have the doctor’s name?” the
officer asked. “Perhaps he can give me the records I need.”

“Giuliana, do you remember his name? He
was just on duty there,” he said, moving his head from side to side until his
neck cracked. “It was over twenty years ago. How can we be expected to
remember?”

“Mr. Ferro, yes, it has been a long
time. Perhaps you should think more carefully. Could a midwife have delivered Bernardo?
That might be the reason why we can’t find any records,” DiMarco said. “I ask
not to find fault. Of course things were handled differently twenty years ago.
Officer Tortini and I are trying to track down his murderer. We need the birth
documents so they are available for use in court.”

“No, no, no. I drove her to San Giovanni
Hospital myself. She was in a lot of pain.”

We know you are very close to your
sister, Mr. Ferro. I repeat that no action will be taken against any of your
family or the midwife. We just need to clear up this one detail.”

“I don’t lie, sir. Giuliana, tell them
she went to the hospital. I remember driving her myself.”

“No need, Mrs. Ferro. My partner and I
shall go to the hospital again,” the inspector said. “If you remember anything else,
please call me. Here is my card with the cell number.”

*

Sister Daniela stood outside the small
perfumery in Petraggio and sniffed inside the bag again. Then she pushed open
the open and bravely trundled inside.

A woman busily wiped the counters,
straightening bottles as she walked along. “
Buongiorno
,” she sang. “What
can I do for you, Sister?”

“Good morning. I’m looking for a certain
fragrance.”

“Ah, a gift. I can wrap it for you too.
What did you have in mind?”

“The truth is, I’m not sure.”

“What is the age of the recipient? I can
tell you what’s popular for that age.”

“I come from the department store that
just opened off the
autostrade
. You know the one in that new shopping center?”

The woman frowned. “I’m aware of it,
yes. They couldn’t find something for you? Something on sale, maybe? If cost is
your primary interest, Sister, perhaps the department store is the better
choice.”

“No, no. I’m not in search of a certain
fragrance,” the novice said. “Well, actually I am. But I don’t know its name.
When I inquired at the perfume counter at the store, they said only you would
be able to identify what I need. They said you were very good at that because
you knew your business.”

“Oh,” the woman said, beginning to
relax. “What do you have?”

Sister Daniela slipped the bag from her
pack and handed it to the shopkeeper who opened it and put it to her nose. She
immediately turned away, her face crumpled like a prune.

“I’m sorry,” the novice said. “It’s
difficult to make out the fragrance. I’m afraid the occupants of the house
smoke.”

“I suggest you get a better sample, if
you can’t ask the recipient for a name directly.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. The owner
of this shirt is dead. I’m investigating a murder, and the wearer of that fragrance
is a possible witness.”

The shopkeeper sniffed again. “I do
smell something there, though it’s faint.” She walked along the counter to a section
of sale items. “Try this,” she said, spraying some on the novice’s wrist.

The novice put it to her nose and then
sniffed the shirt. “They do smell similar,” she noted, inhaling the scent
again, just to be sure. “What’s it called?”

“This is called
Brezza Marina
by
Carrero. Would you like me to wrap up a bottle for you?”

“
Sea Breeze
? That’s a pretty
name. I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay for a bottle of perfume.”

“This brand is an economical one. It
isn’t really classified as a perfume. I don’t know why the department store
couldn’t identify it. This is the type of aroma they sell. I have it on sale for
the tourists but probably won’t reorder it.”

“You have really helped me. All I need
is the name. If the police are interested, they will return and buy some.”

Sister Daniela walked back up to the
register to stuff the plastic bag with the shirt into her pack. About halfway, she
stopped and stuck out her other wrist. “Do you mind letting me try the one in
the silver and blue box?”

The shopkeeper picked up the sample
bottle and gave the novice a quick spritz.

“Thank you. This is my favorite. It’s a
Versace, isn’t it? I would give anything to receive a bottle of this,” Sister
Daniela said, turning to leave. “I promise I’ll recommend your shop to all of
my friends.”

*

The two policemen indeed went directly
to the hospital after leaving Paolo and Giuliana. DiMarco was positive they could
get something from the institution this time, even if it was an admission of
bungled records. Mr. Ferro was right. The whole medical system did seem to have
problems keeping them straight.

The office of historical records was a
small room in the basement. The man in line in front of them, looking like some
kind of deliveryman, leaned on the desk and talked to the administrator. The
woman giggled. Afraid the conversation would never end, DiMarco shifted his
weight several times before he finally waved his badge.

“Can I help you?” she asked, sounding
annoyed.

“We would like to see the records of a Bernardo
Reni, born in this hospital in February 1985.”

“Someone called here yesterday. I
already checked. There was no one by that name born here that year or any date
in February.”