temptation in florence 05 - seaside in death (12 page)

The office had heated up until he felt hot and sweaty. He downed a bottle of water and checked his watch again. Where had the morning gone? And when would Schmidt call back? Where was that famous German efficiency when you needed it?

There, the phone rang. Finally!

He pounced onto it and heard Schmidt's cheerful voice. “I say, Commissario, everything is all right. We did issue a report for a gun from Forte dei Marmi yesterday, after we had matched it with a bullet. It's about that hotel murder case, isn't it?”

Garini wanted to swear and throw the dusty cactus against the wall. Instead, he said, “But the report doesn't bear your stamp.”

“Now, go easy on a young guy.” Schmidt chuckled. “It was the first time that he was all alone at the lab, and he was already in jitters when he had to admit that he was the one who worked on that case. Wanted to know if everything was in order.”

“Is it possible that he made another mistake, too, and that the bullet doesn't match the gun after all?”

“Oh, no,” Schmidt said. “I thought about that and asked him if he was sure, and he was positive because another senior colleague happened to stop by – he had forgotten something -- and my young colleague made him take a look. I called the senior colleague up to be sure, and he confirms the story. That's why it took me so long to get back to you. So you see, the bullet is from that gun all right. There's no maybe about it.”

“All right. Thanks a lot.” Garini had trouble keeping his voice friendly. “Tell the young man not to forget the stamp in the future.”

“Will do,
Commissario
.”

What a wild goose chase! Garini hung up, kicked the leg of the dusty table and decided he had lost enough time for one day. He pushed the case file back into its place underneath the cactus and left the police-station equipped with a recording device that Lampone had unearthed somewhere. To his surprise, it worked without any problems once he managed to take off the layer of grime on top of it with some vigorous rubbing.

The morning's activities had taken much longer than he'd thought. He had missed lunch and could feel his stomach rumbling, so he stopped by a little
trattoria
and got a grilled sandwich to go. What a way to celebrate the middle of summer. No doubt the Mantoni family had eaten a wonderful and elaborate lunch and were now resting somewhere in the shade. He envied them.

When Garini arrived at the hotel, he stopped for an instant and took in the peaceful scene. The midday sun beat hot on the hard-baked earth, and from somewhere came a whiff of rosemary and pine. A fat bumblebee came up and circled him, then, having discovered that he wasn't an interesting kind of flower, flew off into the blue. The hotel had most of its shutters closed to keep out the heat, and it looked like any other drowsing summer building. But somewhere, there was evil, and he was determined to find out what had happened the night
Signor
Rosari was murdered.

He squared his shoulders and decided to take a cool shower and change his shirt before continuing with the investigation. It wouldn't do to face Aunt Violetta with anything but the coolest of minds, and it helped if his body was cool to begin with, though he didn't doubt for a minute that she would manage to get him hot under the collar in record time.

Fifteen minutes later, as cool as he could get in spite of the scorching heat, he set out to find Aunt Violetta. The hotel was deserted. At the pool, Emma rested on a sun lounger, fast asleep. Her husband lay on the lounger next to her, reading a paperback thriller. When asked if he had seen any of the other members of the family, he mutely shook his head.

Garini thanked him and ventured further into the garden, into the area where a small grove of olive trees provided a dappled shadow. He could see something red shining through the dark-green branches and followed a sandy footpath in that direction until he came to a charming clearing. Two hammocks were strung between three olive trees, creating a triangular space between them, and the space in between was filled with four sun loungers that were all occupied.

The lounger in the middle was an extra sturdy piece of garden furniture with a reinforced frame and a movable shade fixed to the top of the adjustable back. This shade was pulled down as far as it would go and almost touched the face of the person hidden beneath. A soft snoring floated out to him, sounding way too gentle for the formidable lady he was looking for. However, the sheer bulk of the resting person and the unmistakable red and white striped summer dress told its own story. It was the red stripe that had beckoned to Garini through the trees. He had found Aunt Violetta.

Garini sighed, but before he could decide what to do next, a cat-like face appeared over the edge of one of the hammocks, and Carlina beckoned to him. She wore the bikini with her favorite leopard print, and a few new freckles had appeared on her nose since he had last seen her.

He went up to her and kissed her softly, wishing that things were different and that he could join her in the hammock. It looked as if it could bear the weight of two.

She flung one arm up and pulled him close. “Hmm, you smell nice.” Her voice was low.

“I just took a shower to cool down.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “The heat? Or is it that bad?”

“Hmm.” He stroked her cheek. “Muddled.”

“What do you mean, muddled?” Benedetta, who'd been resting on the sun lounger right next to Aunt Violetta, pushed her sunglasses up into her dark hair and sat up with surprising energy, considering the time of the day and the heat. “Have you managed to clear Ernesto?”

Garini suppressed a sigh. He'd thought she was sleeping. Moreover, she had not kept her voice low, so now the other members of the family – spread out on the loungers around him - were showing signs of awakening, too.

“Not yet,” he said. “I can't work wonders.”

She pushed her red lips into a pout. For an instant, she looked very much like a five-year old instead of a mother with three grown children.

“But you've been gone for hours,” she said. “I think you should have accomplished something.”

Carlina sat up straighter. “Aunt Benedetta! I think you should be grateful that he's giving up his vacation to help clear Ernesto.”

“Well, I don't see much progress,” Benedetta insisted. “And I have a feeling that time is running out for my lamb who never did anything bad at all in his whole life.”

“If that's really true,” Aunt Violetta's booming voice interrupted them from beneath the shade, “then it's high time that he started. Young men have to test the waters at some point.”

Benedetta gasped. “It's easy for you to talk, Aunt Violetta! You're not the person they suspect of being the murderer.”

Garini decided to throw normal procedure to the wind. He was not going to get any results if he advanced in the official way with this eccentric family. So he placed a restraining hand on Carlina's shoulder, knowing her tendency to interrupt, and said, his voice relaxed and clear, for all to hear, “Oh, I don't know about that. After all, the police found a gun in Aunt Violetta's room, too.”

The effect was much better than he'd expected. From all the sun loungers, heads lifted with alacrity, as if pulled by strings: Fabbiola to the left, then Leopold Morin, Benedetta, and finally, Aunt Violetta, who pushed back the shade with one decisive hand and sat up straight.

From the hammock opposite, Omar's dark face appeared with a jerk that made the whole thing swing.

“What's this about a gun?” Fabbiola asked. She pulled her flowery cushion from beneath her back and started to knead it with nervous hands. “Who had a gun?”

“Aunt Violetta had one,” Garini replied. “In her room.”

Aunt Violetta rolled her eyes. “And why shouldn't I have a gun in my room?”

Benedetta stared at her with wide eyes. “But why should you? Were you expecting trouble? Did you know there would be a murder?”

Aunt Violetta snorted. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm a helpless old lady in a wheelchair, and when we set out for our vacation, I suddenly realized that I'd forgotten to pack it.”

“So that's why we had to go back,” Carlina said, understanding dawning in her voice. “And that's why you refused to share what you had forgotten to take.”

“Of course I didn't tell you,” Aunt Violetta shook her head. “A nice discussion that would have caused! But I never go anywhere without my gun.”

“Your husband's gun,” Garini interrupted.

She waved a nonchalant hand. “Never mind the petty details. When he died, I inherited everything, and that included his gun.”

“Not a gun, you don't,” Garini said. “You have to register it in your name if you want to keep it.”

Aunt Violetta sighed. “All right, all right. But who sticks to the rules all the time? I bet even policemen don't.” She waited a minute, but when Garini didn't rise to the bait, she added. “Omar can confirm that I always take it along when we go on vacation. There's nothing extraordinary about it.”

Omar nodded.

Garini ignored him. He was still waiting for the day when Omar would contradict his overpowering stepmother. He already knew that Violetta's gun wasn't the murder weapon, but he needed to clear something up, and he hoped that Aunt Violetta wasn't going to mislead him with a made-up story that would only delay the investigation. “When did you last shoot it?”

Their eyes locked.

Without blinking once, Aunt Violetta said, “I've never used it in my whole life.”

Darn.
The police records had been clear on that point: The gun had been used within the last week.

Omar jumped from his hammock with an athletic grace few people would have been able to imitate and came to stand next to Aunt Violetta.

Garini looked at him. He liked Omar. In spite of being so wholly dependent on Aunt Violetta, he had managed to keep a certain dignity that spoke for quite a bit of character. Garini wondered how different Omar would be if he wasn't mute. It's difficult to judge a man who can't express himself easily. “Is there anything I should add to Aunt Violetta's statement?” he asked.

Omar nodded, then pulled out a little notebook, scribbled something onto it, and gave it to Garini. It said, “I practiced with the gun just before we left.”

“Where?” Garini asked.

Omar wrote, “In our garden.”

Aunt Violetta's hand shot out and took the notebook. When she'd read the terse words, she shouted, “Don't you dare make a case against Omar, Garini! He's the most peaceful man I know. Do you hear me?”

“Ah,” Benedetta said with a faintly malicious smile, “it's interesting to see your change in attitude as soon as your own son is threatened.”

“Be quiet,” Aunt Violetta hissed. “Garini, listen.”

Garini suppressed a smile. “I'm listening.”

“Omar here didn't have anything to do with the murder.”

“I see.” He kept his voice dry.

Aunt Violetta looked daggers at him. Then she rapped out with a harsh voice, “Have you found the bullet yet? The one that killed that . . . that useless manager?”

“The bullet has been found,” Garini confirmed.

“Ha!” She straightened. “And what about it? Is it from my gun?”

Garini shook his head. “It's not.”

Aunt Violetta dropped back onto her sun lounger with such a sigh of relief that the whole structure narrowly avoided collapsing. “There you go. My gun is completely unimportant.”

Garini looked at her and was inclined to agree, but he wasn't going to let her know that anytime soon.

“When will I get it back?” Aunt Violetta asked.

He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “As soon as you get a license.” Then he turned to kiss Carlina. “I've got to go.”

“What will you do now?” Benedetta asked. “Are you going to arrest someone else?”

“Not quite. I'll first talk to a few concerned people.”

“You'd better start with the wife.” Fabbiola nodded sagely and lifted the cushion in a mute greeting. “When a man is killed, you should always check the wife first. Stands to reason.”

Chapter 9

Fabbiola is right
, Garini thought as he was mounting the worn wooden steps in the old house on the outskirts of Forte dei Marmi where
Signora
Rosari was living. Commissario Pucci should have talked to Rosari's wife immediately. Maybe he had done so and had only forgotten to write the report?

He shook his head. Pucci's boss, the raspberry, had obviously been forced to accept Pucci into the department and had had a difficult time getting him to work in any useful way. It was often done like that – if you couldn't get rid of people for whatever reason, you shifted them to an area where they couldn't do much harm – or good. Well, Pucci was out of the running for the moment, and that was sheer luck for Ernesto.

Garini mounted yet another flight of rickety stairs. The plaster was flaking from the walls, and an intense smell of unwashed bodies and overcooked food hung in the stale air. He started to sweat and wondered how
Signora
Rosari managed to schlep her child and shopping upstairs all the time. Deep gratitude flooded him for his own life. The apartment he had only recently started to share with Carlina in the center of Florence was eons away from this world. He had not yet gotten used to that sudden surge of happiness when he opened the door returning from work.

Finally, he came to a flimsy door that had a hand-written sign stuck onto it with a bit of yellowing tape. Rosari – the name was written with a ballpoint pen in crooked letters that showed little expertise in writing. He couldn't see a bell, so he knocked on the door.

It was flung open immediately, as if Rosari's wife had been waiting right behind it. “Now what?” She glared at him. “Who are you?” Her bleached short hair stood up, held there by a ton of hairspray, but it wasn't able to gloss over the fact that there wasn't enough of it, so that a bit of pale scalp showed.

In the background, a child howled.

Garini showed his identification. “I'm Commissario Garini from the homicide department, and I'd like to ask you a few questions concerning the murder of your husband.”

Her mouth tightened. “Ah. I was wondering when you'd come.”