L'Oro Verde (7 page)

“Did he pay you, or did the Renis do
it?”

“He did. I’m not sure Valeria knew about
it.”

“Did Bernardo like working at the plant?”

“Not at first,” she said, taking a long
draw on the cigarette, “but more recently he seemed very happy—I would say
especially in the last six months or so. I never told Valeria, but sometimes he
came home late.”

“Late for dinner?’

“Late like after eleven,” she said,
releasing her bangs to flop forward again. “He had to grow up some time, didn’t
he? My sister would never let him out of her sight.”

*

Sister Angela barely caught the bus. It
was just after six, and waving her arms, she ran the last hundred feet. She doubted
the bus would have waited if it were not for her habit.

Out of breath, she found a seat by the
window and fanned herself with a sheet of notepaper. The houses got farther
apart, and soon the bus was out in the countryside. Larger farms began to
appear. Rows of grapevines whizzed past the window, their propped branches
heavy with grapes. The sun had not yet sunk below the hills, and the nun used her
fan to protect her eyes. The road began to narrow, and the driver revved the engine
as the bus started up the hill. It took an hour to travel from Petraggio to
Montriano. Half an hour had already passed between the numerous stops at the
edge of town and the short hop through the valley. The trip would have been
shorter, but the road circled the large vineyards and olive orchards. The last
half hour, the bus would wind up and around the hill, stopping for farm
families along the way.

Montriano was at the top, the last stop.
The bus would then turn around and retrace its route. This was the final trip
to Montriano until morning.

Sister Angela was relieved when she
stepped through the town gate on the piazza. It was a long walk up to the school,
but she would make it just in time for dinner. And she was already hungry.

During the trek, the nun thought about
the murder and what she had discovered. According to Andreus, the killer had to
be a strong man. But of course, the medical examiner could not identify the
murder weapon definitively. She and the inspector would have to concentrate on
finding the bloody clothes and cross. Then there was Mrs. Giannini who told
Sister Angela more than she knew. Yes, his staying out late probably resulted
in his murder. But the fact that he seemed happy was a real puzzler. There were
the long periods in the bathroom in the morning. The household had only one
bathroom. Mrs. Giannini had to remind him to hurry more than once. And she
mentioned that the reason he stayed out late might have been a girl. The smell
of perfume mixed with smoke permeated his laundry, which Mrs. Giannini did for
him once a week. Sister Angela patted her bag. She was glad she had not
forgotten to ask for a shirt or part of his uniform—anything that had not yet
been washed. It had taken a while to find something. Mrs. Giannini was quite
efficient in cleaning his room. Yes, the nun verified the shirt still reeked of
cigarette smoke—no surprise since every crack in the small house smelled the
same. But underneath, very faintly, she could also smell another scent. The nun
hoped that by placing the shirt in a plastic bag and sealing it with tape, she
could preserve the odor which might hold the key to his having a friend—maybe
even a special one.

The front of the old building of Scuola
di Santa Donata was now in sight, and even though she was winded, Sister Angela
could not wait to eat and take time to think about the clues. She already knew,
however, that this was only the beginning and that the investigation into the
murder would undoubtedly be more complicated. An evil and unsavory part of
human nature loomed among the trees and vines that flourished in the hazy sunshine
hovering over Montriano.

Sister Daniela was anxious to share her
notes with her mentor. She was not sure if the clues were significant, but she
would find out. Sister Angela opened her door on the first knock.

“What do you have, my dear?” she asked.

“I did as you instructed. Father Domenic
led me down the sacristy stairs to the basement of the church. I had never been
down there before.”

“Nor have I. What did it look like?”

“Closest to the stairs, there were
washing machines, ironing boards, and a woodstove. The documents were kept behind
the boiler in a room along the back wall, though. It was darker and scarier
back there.”

“Was it full of junk, messy, or kept
up?”

“It wasn’t bad. In the corner, there was
a pile of old furniture and supplies. Toward the middle of that wall, there was
a door to an office. Father Domenic unlocked it for me. That’s where the mess
was. He said some of the crates were over a hundred years old.”

“Were the boxes in some kind of order?”

“No, but they
were
labeled. Once
I found the correct years, it became a matter of leafing through the
envelopes.”

“And you found one for Bernardo?” Sister
Angela asked, surprised.

“Yes, and I compared it to others like
you said. Let me see, each had at least three documents in them—certificates
for birth, baptism, and confirmation,” she said, peering at her notes. “Sophia
Dosso’s also had a marriage certificate because she was already married.
Bernardo’s documents were no different except his had a funny-looking birth
certificate.”

Suddenly excited, Sister Angela looked at
her.

“I left everything there because I was
told not to remove any items.”

“I’ll have to go over there tomorrow and
confront Father Domenic about it,” Sister Angela said.

“Don’t worry, Sister, I didn’t remove
the birth certificate, but I
did
hide it. It’s on the back of the
stove.”

“Did Father Domenic say anything else to
you afterward?”

“No. He hardly said a word the whole
time. He seemed to know what you wanted, directed me to the correct place, and
then left. He returned and stopped at the top of the stairs just as I was about
to leave. When I came up a few minutes later, he was already gone. I let myself
out.”

Sister Angela smiled. “You have done
excellent detective work, Sister Daniela. I’ll probably have more for you soon.
Tomorrow I’m going back to Petraggio to visit to the place where Bernardo
worked. I would like to speak with the inspector before I leave. Could you
handle my eleven o’clock class as well as those in the afternoon?”

“I’d be happy to.”

*

Nicola had not joined Vittorio and Carlo
at dinner, and Carlo told his father she was not well enough. Concerned,
Vittorio made his way down the dark hallway to his daughter’s room. Suddenly,
the lights went on as Nicola entered through the outside door at the other end.

“Nicola,” he said, surprised. “I didn’t
expect you to be out.”

“You shouldn’t be surprised, Father. I’m
an adult and can leave whenever I wish to.”

“But Carlo mentioned you were ill. Where
were you?”

“I don’t tell Carlo where I’m going
either.”

“But—”

“I had a marvelous time. Don’t have
Antonella save anything for me. I already ate. The food, the
entertainment—everything was perfect.” She glared at him. “And that’s all I’m going
to tell you. That’s all you need to know.”

Pushing open the door to her room, she
quickly shut him out and threw herself across her bed. The restaurant Enzo took
her to was wonderful—cut crystal stemware, starched linen tablecloths, and attendants—five
of them, all satisfying their every whim. And his car! He served her champagne
and drew the curtains so his driver could not see him pull her toward him,
could not ogle as she straddled his lap, unbuttoned his shirt, and pressed her
hard nipples against his warm chest. The thought of his tongue in her mouth
sickened her, but she forced herself to dream of other things until he was
through. When he talked about his yacht and the places they would go together,
she knew it was all worth it. Her luck was about to change.

“This is love,” she whispered walking
into the bathroom and turning the tap to fill the tub. She watched the steam
rise as she pulled her top over her head. “There won’t be more pain, more loss,
because I feel nothing.” She shivered at the thought of his semen staining her
panties, and stepped into the hot soapy water without removing them.

*

The bus made it to the bottom of the
hill and accelerated through the first straight stretch of road. Sister Angela
thought about her conversation with Alessandro that morning. He seemed happy to
get the information about the church documents, but it puzzled him.

“So you think there’s something fishy
going on with Bernardo’s birth records?” he asked her.

“It’s a possibility.”

“I talked to a neighbor, a Mrs.
Nigrelli.”

“I remember her. Some of my students
called her
Nosey Nigrelli
.”

“Nevertheless, she said she recalled
seeing Mrs. Reni just days before she left for Roma. That’s when she first
heard the couple was expecting.”

“Did Mrs. Reni look pregnant?”

“Yes, very,” he said. “Was Mrs.
Giannini’s story the same?”

“I didn’t ask her about the pregnancy
per se. She told me about the baby’s arrival home, about the gathering Mrs. Reni
has pictures of,” said Sister Angela. “I think that’s one thing you can follow
up on.”

“On what?”

“Make sure there are no discrepancies in
the stories,” said Sister Angela. “I’ll check with Mrs. Giannini. Maybe you can
talk to more of the Renis’ friends. There were several other people in the
snapshots of the party. How much do they know?”

DiMarco smiled. Sister Angela noticed
it. She must have sounded like she was taking charge of the investigation, telling
him what to do. But, as usual, the inspector was kind enough to let her
continue.

“Dr. Piombo called and said you had been
there,” he said. “Do you have doubts about the weapon?”

“It does kind of limit us. It has to be
a man, a big man,” she answered. “But the wound didn’t point to that weapon in particular.
I thought it would. And then there’s the question about how the killer got out
of there. Where would he stash the weapon and clothes?”

“That all points back to Father Domenic
again. I guess we’ll have another chat with him too. Anything else?”

“What have
you
found?”

“My men and I completely scoped the scene,
including the rectory. There were items which had to go to the lab. We too
asked the questions about how the assailant escaped unnoticed. I’m trying to
come up with a list of possibilities.”

“Did you talk to Mr. and Mrs. Reni?”

“Yes. I’m going to Roma tomorrow to talk
to this Paolo, the brother. Based on what you told me concerning the birth
certificate, I ought to ask him directly about the hospital. I assume you
planned to assign me that task next.”

Sister Angela smiled. “Good idea. I had
the feeling Mrs. Reni and Mrs. Giannini were holding back something.”

“And you are going to Petraggio to talk
to the boy’s employer?”

“Yes. He worked for Garibaldi’s, the
largest olive processing plant in the valley.”

“Good luck.”

*

The brakes squealed. This was Sister
Angela’s stop. She had to walk another eight blocks to get to the factory. She did
not mind because she had worn her sneakers, something the school forbade and
Mother Margherita frowned upon. But she had good reason today and would change
back when she reached the building.

It was nearly two when she sat down on a
bench in front of Garibaldi’s Olive Oil Incorporated. The air was thick, but the
smell heavenly. Sister Angela was raised around olives.

Her father owned a small olive orchard.
She used to take a basket of drupes into town to be processed by Mr. Tutti, who
had a small olive press he used for himself and his neighbors. The old man
would soak them for her and then crush them with his press. The procedure was
slow, and it took lots of olives to produce enough oil. She and Mr. Tutti would
sit and dip Mrs. Tutti’s homemade bread in it.

The process here was different. She had
read that once the olives were defoliated and washed, they were poured into a huge
press, crushing olives into a paste. A large centrifuge then separated the
paste into olive residue, water, and oil. The oil rested in a large cistern
until it cleared and then it was strained, bottled, and sent around the world.

When she went inside, Garibaldi was
coming out of his office. He had just finished a meeting with one of his vendors.

“Sister Angela, I suppose. Your timing
is perfect. Have you met Mr. Vitali? He’s one of my biggest suppliers.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding and then
extending her hand. “Mr. Vitali is a parishioner of San Benedetto Church,
though I’m not sure he has heard of me.”

“Of course I have, Sister. Aren’t you
the famous detective from Montriano?”

He turned to Garibaldi and shook his
hand before leaving. “Enzo, we should talk more about the problem.”

“Please come in and sit down, Sister
Angela,” said Garibaldi. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No thank you. I always carry a bottle
of water with me. It’s a fine day outside—not a bit sticky. Too bad you are in here
all day,” she said, pausing before mentioning her purpose. “As you are aware,
one of your employees was found murdered in Montriano a few days ago.”

“Yes, let me see.” He looked down at
sheet of paper on his desk. “A Bernardo Reni. He worked in bottling, I
believe.”

“If you didn’t know him, perhaps I can
talk to someone here who did.”

“I have already called his supervisor.
He may be able to give you more names, Sister, but we would prefer you talk to the
others outside of work. We are very busy. Business is good and we don’t want to
disappoint our customers.”

“Certainly, Mr. Garibaldi. I
understand.”

Suddenly the door opened, and a
middle-aged man walked in.

“Sister, this is Mario Rota, the young
man’s supervisor. Mario, you can sit here. I must excuse myself for another meeting.”

Sister Angela was surprised but waited
for him to exit.

“Mr. Rota, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m
Sister Angela from Montriano. Your name sounds familiar. Are you related to
Abbot Adriano Rota in Callanius?”

“No, Sister, just the Rotas of
Petraggio.

“Mr. Garibaldi tells me you knew
Bernardo Reni. I’m sure you are already aware of his death.”

“Yes. I knew he didn’t show up for work,
and I learned of his death later that day.”

“Mr. Rota, did you know Bernardo well?”
the nun asked.

“I knew him as an employee. He was very
conscientious. I never really had trouble with him. So when he didn’t phone the
next day, I became concerned he wouldn’t return.”

“Did he have many friends?”

“I wasn’t aware of any close friends. In
the cafeteria during breaks or meals, he never sat with anyone in particular,” Rota
said, his voice monotone. He folded his hands on the table and looked directly
at the nun when he spoke.

“Are there many women in the bottling
department?” she asked.

“Yes, a few. Most are middle-aged or
married with young families if I understand where you are headed.”

“Did he get along with everyone?”

“I saw no problems during working hours.
And let me anticipate the next question. Bernardo never came into work on drugs
or with a hangover that I could see. If he had an active nightlife, he was very
good at covering it up.”

“Who informed you about his death? When
you became concerned about his disappearance, did you call his aunt, Mrs.
Giannini?”

Rota paled. “Let me see. Maybe I didn’t
hear until the following day,” he said. “But I’m not sure who told me. I mean,
it was probably the talk of the shop, but I’m not certain who specifically came
to tell me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rota. I guess that
covers most of my questions,” she said standing up. She noted the man was very
good at guessing what she was going to ask.
But that last
question
threw him
, she thought, smiling to herself.

Rota’s tone softened for the first time.
“We are sorry for Bernardo’s loss. Please let his parents know we thought he was
a good employee.”

“May I see where he worked?”

“I can show you my department, but he
worked as a courier most of the time.” Rota said. “That would mean he
interacted with the other departments too. Please follow me.”

The supervisor led her down the hall
through double doors. The bottling department was loud, and Sister Angela realized
she would have to yell to ask any questions of the fifteen or so workers
standing around several machines.