The Last Enemy (10 page)

Signora Minelli had eaten with the family when she’d first come to Assisi but had stopped some time ago. Concetta couldn’t remember exactly when and didn’t know why. The countess would probably know. The
Americana
was very health-conscious and ate lots of fruit and yogurt, which she kept in the refrigerator. Sometimes they would talk together when she came into the kitchen. They were both devoted to St. Rita. She explained, “Giulia, she’s my baby. She’s two now and very healthy.” She beamed: “And very beautiful! But when she was born, we thought we’d lose her—four months premature and so tiny, less than four pounds. Tony—he’s my husband— and me, we made a pilgrimage to Cascia, to pray to St. Rita. Now we go regularly, to say thank you, the last Saturday in every month. We made a sacred promise!

“The last time, two Saturdays ago, we saw Signora Minelli and Signorina Paola sitting together in a café near St. Rita’s Basilica. I wanted to stop and talk, but Tony said they looked very serious. He said I shouldn’t bother them. We both thought that Signorina Paola had been crying.”

She paused, and Cenni thought she wanted to say something more. “Is there something else?”

“I was surprised to see Signorina Paola there. Lucia says the Signorina’s a communist, and everyone knows that communists don’t believe in saints.” She sighed. “Lucia is a terrible gossip and doesn’t always tell the truth.” Cenni suspected that if Concetta’s happiness had an Achilles heel, it might well be Lucia.

15

Cenni began by offering his condolences on the death of her niece. “I understand from your husband that you’re under the care of your doctor. Inspector Tonni and I will have you out of here in no time. Just a few routine questions.” At his last statement, she looked down at her fingers, still noticeably ink-stained from recent fingerprinting, her gesture a silent reproach.

Cenni responded by explaining that the police needed to distinguish between prints expected to be found in the burial vault—those of the Casati family—and prints of people who could not be accounted for. He then asked her to describe her previous day’s activities with an approximate timetable.

She told him that she’d been to her doctor in Perugia in the morning—a routine checkup—and had returned a few minutes before one o’clock. She had lunch with the family in the dining room, finishing at 1:45. Immediately after that, she had gone to the garden room, located at the back of the family sitting room, where she had arranged some flowers that had been delivered while they were eating. At around two o’clock, she’d carried the arrangement, a bowl of yellow roses, into the hall and had seen Rita letting herself out the front door. For the remainder of the day, until six o’clock, when she retired to her room to bathe and dress for the evening, she had been in the sitting room, writing letters and reading. The doors had been closed to retain the heat and no one had come in during that time. She also told Cenni that she had not been near the cemetery since the previous Sunday, her usual day to visit, and that she had no idea who could have murdered her niece, although she did suggest that the motive may have been robbery. When he’d questioned her further in this regard, she indicated that her niece frequently carried large sums of money on her, a habit she’d tried to discourage but without success.

Cenni found her surprisingly unemotional in recounting her activities on the day of the murder. Umberto Casati had said that his wife was crushed by the news of her niece’s death, that she had been so traumatized, her doctor had given her a sedative and had suggested that they not tell her of the rape. Yet, in reciting her timetable, she was composed, articulate, and precise. Rehearsed, he wondered, or just a reflection of the punctilio that Italians find so irritating in the English. If her account was rehearsed, it didn’t unduly concern him. Most people have an atavistic fear of the police—the innocent as well as the guilty—and most people, if handed the gift of time, which Russo had allowed the Casati family, are likely to prepare their statements in advance.

Early in his career, Cenni had learned the hard way that the successful interrogation of suspects is a balance of thesis and antithesis. You ask the expected questions to gain their confidence, then counter with the unexpected to confound and intimidate. In one of his early murder investigations more than twelve years earlier—the brutal maiming and killing of a five-year-old child— one of the suspects, a gentle motherly woman in her late sixties, had answered all of his questions with assurance, prefacing each response with a gentle smile and a
mio figlio
. He couldn’t believe that she might be the killer and had shown great sensitivity in framing his questions. She had gone on to kill again, another child, even younger than the first. The face of the second child, slashed beyond recognition, had haunted him for years. He still lived with that failure and the knowledge that no one is exempt from suspicion.

Cenni said, “Some of our questions may be painful, and for that I apologize, but the answers are important. They could help us find your niece’s murderer. We’ve been told that she was an American, that she came to Assisi in June to bury her mother, but that’s all we know. It would be helpful if you could tell us more—why did she stay on in Assisi, what was she like. I would like to understand her better.” She surprised him by responding immediately, without further prompting and in some detail. Like day and night, he thought, remembering Sophie Orlic’s minimal responses.

“She was the daughter of the count’s sister, Livia, who died in June. Livia was seven years older than Umberto. They were never close,” she added, stressing this point. “After the war Livia married an American soldier who had been stationed in Perugia. They went to live in the United States, in Brooklyn. When Livia died in June, Rita called to ask if she could bury her mother in the family vault. She said her mother’s last wish was to return to Assisi.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I don’t believe Livia ever adjusted to living in the United States or to her lack of social status there. Her husband’s grandparents were immigrants from Naples,” she added with a wry smile. A snob but a gracious one, Cenni thought, as Amelia continued.

“The Casati family was of some importance in Umbria before the war and Livia was overindulged by her father until his death—at least that’s my husband’s perception,” she added, smiling shyly. “I only got to know Livia when she returned to Assisi with Rita and stayed with us for a year. Rita was five at the time.” She hesitated for a moment as though weighing what to say next, her eyes meeting his gaze with a surprising steadiness “In Italy it’s considered bad luck to speak ill of the dead; in England we’re less superstitious,” she said apologetically before continuing. “Livia was a bad mother. I can’t remember her ever hugging or kissing Rita or acknowledging the child in any way, beyond using her to run errands: ‘Rita,
cara mia
, run upstairs and get my cigarettes,’ was her usual request. I can imagine if she used a five-year-old that way, how she must have used Rita as she grew older and became less endearing. We all do grow less endearing,” she added somewhat sadly.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this about Livia, but I think it’s important if you’re to understand what Rita was like.” She paused for a brief moment, unwinding the lace-edged handkerchief that she had twisted into a ball so she could blow her nose, an action that Cenni found both surprising and appealing from a woman of such dignity.

“My niece spent most of her life caring for her mother. From what Rita told me, she had no life beyond her mother after her father died. She was eighteen at the time. She taught English in a secondary school in Brooklyn, returning home in the evenings to get her mother’s dinner and to clean house. Livia didn’t trust anyone and refused to hire anyone to help in the house. To Livia, all outsiders were
stranieri
.

“We each have different ways of reacting to rejection and abuse. Rita’s reaction was probably the healthiest for society, although perhaps not for herself. She tried harder to be loved, assuming, as most children do, that it was her fault that she was not. She was always offering help and advice—often to complete strangers—unfortunately, even when the help was clearly not needed . . . or wanted.” She stopped and looked at him directly.

She hesitated a moment before going on. “I think, Dottore, that you should know this, since you’ll probably hear it from others. . . . The count didn’t like Rita. It was her officiousness that irritated him the most. He’s a very private man and he doesn’t understand people who infringe on the privacy of others. I’m not making excuses for him. At times he was very unkind to Rita, but I do understand why—she was something of a busybody—always, of course, with the best intentions!” Her last remark, ironic and resentful, surprised Cenni. Until then he would have said that Amelia Casati had both liked and felt sorry for her niece. Now he was not so sure.

“You said she arrived in June to bury her mother but this is now March. Why was she still here?”

“Well, when Rita called to ask if she could bring her mother to Assisi to be buried, Umberto agreed immediately. But he assumed—actually, we both assumed—that she would stay a few weeks, then return to Brooklyn and her job. In August, she told us that she had resigned her teaching position before she’d even left Brooklyn. She said she had retired, that she was planning to settle in Assisi!”

“Retired?” Cenni interrupted. “She was young to be thinking of retirement. What was she planning to live on? Did she have money?”

“Under normal circumstances I would never inquire about someone’s finances, but I did ask Rita. Needless to say, we were all very surprised by her announcement.”

“And her response?” Cenni asked.

“She said there was a pension which she was entitled to claim in a few years. She had also sold the house in Brooklyn for close to a quarter of a million dollars. When Umberto’s mother died a few years ago, Livia inherited half her estate. I assume, although I can’t say for sure, that Livia left that money to her daughter, a considerable sum. Since July, Rita’s been teaching at our school, though only two classes a week. We pay . . . paid her what we pay our other teachers—thirteen euros an hour—but I doubt that even a month’s salary would buy one of the outfits I’ve seen her wearing lately.”

“This money—her money—do you have any idea who she’s left it to?”

“That’s hardly something I could . . . or would ask. She had an Aunt Marie, her father’s sister, and a younger cousin. She mentioned them both once or twice but not with affection. I know she had an attorney in New York. She spoke of him when she discussed the sale of the house.” She hesitated with a derisive smile on her face. “You probably know more about that than I do, Dottore!—Lucia told me that your officers found some papers in my niece’s room and took them away.”
And
without my permission
was left unspoken but clearly intended.

“Her teaching job at the
Academia
? How did that come about?” Cenni asked, ignoring the barely disguised rebuke.

“As it happened, one of our teachers, a woman from Liverpool, decided to return home in July without giving notice. We had an intensive English class scheduled to start in mid-July with ten students already signed up. Rita volunteered to teach it, and I suggested to Umberto that we let her. That was before we knew that she had no intention of returning to the States. Rita had great staying power!” The last, uttered more to herself than to him, held an undertone of bitterness beyond the ordinary displeasure a host feels when a guest overstays her leave. Cenni decided to probe further.

“Am I correct in understanding that the school is owned and run by your husband?”

“After the war Umberto and his mother had a very difficult time; Anna had no money. Her husband had foolishly invested all their fluid assets in state bonds. And then, shortly afterward, in 1943, he was killed by a bomb. My husband’s father had been a prominent member of the Fascist party and a great friend of
Il Duce
, a matter of public record,” she added in explanation, when Inspector Tonni looked up in surprise from his note taking.

“After the war Anna was ostracized by the very people who had asked the count for endless favors when the
fascista
were in power. She discovered, as we all do in the end, that loyalty is a virtue of selfinterest. Unfortunately, this was true of her daughter as well as her friends. As soon as Livia saw the hard times coming, she managed to get out by marrying an American. Anna was left with the house, a few antiques, a fifteen-year-old son to be educated, and the manuscripts: of great value now; back then, most people would have sold them to buy food or burned them for fuel. But Anna was an extraordinary woman. She sold the antiques—to Argentine bargain hunters—but figured out a way to hold on to the house and the manuscripts by starting the
Academia
. Most people think Umberto established it, but the credit really goes to Anna. There were very few women in postwar Italy who could have or would have done what she did. She saw immediately the importance that English would assume in the postwar world. It was a language that she spoke quite well; her governess had been English. She started the school in 1948 and ran it with our help until 1992, when she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Umberto has run it since.”

She paused for a moment and Cenni could see tears welling in her eyes. He waited patiently for her to continue.