Authors: Grace Brophy
At the end of the interview, Saverio Volpe was confident that the commissario was in complete sympathy with his cause. “When you find the letter, you’ll provide me with a copy so I can give it to my lawyers,” he said in parting. In a final show of male camaraderie, he revealed to Cenni that the count had wanted Marcella to marry him, but that she had refused. “Can you believe it? That homely lesbian refused to marry me!” he said, still licking his wound some sixty years later. Cenni smiled in sympathy.
I hope she screws him out of the palazzo and the other one gives him a good dose of the clap, Cenni thought, as he walked toward the train station.
9
THE TRAIN WAS just pulling into the Santa Lucia station, forty minutes late. A half-day strike in the morning had played havoc with train schedules, and Cenni should have been grateful that his train wasn’t four hours late instead of a mere forty minutes. But he wasn’t, although he’d never admit it to the questore, who religiously blamed everything that went wrong in Italy on the Left, even during the five years that
Forza Italia
was in power. Cenni had concluded years ago that Carlo’s affinity for the Right had little if anything to do with politics and almost everything to do with his resemblance to Silvio Berlusconi: short and stocky, with a large head, a mouth full of teeth, and an overriding physical vanity. Someone who didn’t know Carlo, or his wife, might have concluded otherwise, and assumed it had something to do with their economic status, which was filthy rich, except that the money was Romina’s, and in the last election, Romina had stood as a delegate for Prodi. The questore was demanding a meeting in the morning, which meant that Cenni would have to leave Bologna no later than seven to arrive at the Perugia Questura by ten. Damn you, Carlo! I’ll get there when I get there, was Cenni’s thought as he boarded the last intercity train leaving Venice.
Two hours, eight minutes to Bologna. It was early in the tourist season, and the train was almost empty, at least in first class. Just a few English-speaking students sitting at the other end of the carriage, text-messaging one another. Peace and quiet, and a bit more than two hours to solve the puzzle of who had killed Jarvinia Baudler. What he found unsettling was that the case had two distinct lines of investigation. The Swedish letter offered the most possibilities. Baudler had been a blackmailer, promising Mar-cella to withhold the letter for money and then, doing a neat little pirouette, promising Saverio to release the letter for money, a tricky balancing act that could have easily gotten her killed. And how did Juliet, “the good little spy,” fit in? Was she Baudler’s assistant, playing the Venetian cousins against one another, or was she running away from Baudler? If the latter, why was she running, and was it a motive for murder? And then there was the Rome connection. Dieter Reimann wanted that letter as much as the Venetian cousins. Was he acting for his government or playing a lone hand? Initially, Cenni had thought the revelations in the letter were innocuous, particularly if viewed through the prism of time; but his grandmother, who had a dead-on political sense, disagreed.
The other aspect of the case, at least on its surface, had nothing to do with Baudler’s blackmailing propensities. Anita Tangassi and Lorenzo Vannicelli had both acted strangely when questioned about the 1978 murders. The use of excessive violence in both cases was similar, and it seemed too coincidental that Vannicelli was the one who’d found Baudler’s body—and in the house of Anita Tangassi no less! And how did the mutilation of Baudler’s body fit into all this? The medical examiner believed the mutilation occurred after the body was moved, suggesting it was a cold deliberate act. Was it meant to be a symbol of some sort, or did the killer conceive of the mutilation as a diversion, a signpost pointing to those who had sent Baudler the poison-pen letters?
This was not one of those cases where he could sit back in an armchair, consult his little gray cells, and arrive at the name of the murderer, and there were no forensic clues— at least not yet—to get him there. The victim had conveniently provided the means for her own murder, a log of firewood; and she had provided motive as well, through her blackmailing schemes. What he needed was opportunity. The postmortem indicated that Baudler had been killed between two and four in the afternoon, but Cenni wanted to determine a more exact time. A narrower time frame would give him a better chance of finding her killer. Paradiso was far too small for anyone, particularly a stranger, to move around freely on a beautiful sunny day without being seen. Signora Cecchetti was not the only close observer in Paradiso.
Lorenzo Vannicelli said that the German was wearing her going-out shoes when he found her body. Her comfortable shoes, the ones that she wore around the house, were found sitting on a shelf just inside the front door, which suggested to Cenni that she changed her footwear right before she left or entered the house. So why was she wearing her good shoes and best dress in the dirty basement? The other open question was the disappearance of her car. He’d been mulling this over for two days now, and he thought he had an answer. She must have driven her car to a local garage for repair, and someone from the garage had driven her home. The person who drove her home would have noticed if other cars were parked in the square; maybe Baudler had mentioned something to the driver. If they could find that person, they’d be a lot closer to knowing the time she was killed.
Perhaps when she entered the house, she realized that someone was inside and, instead of changing her shoes, she went looking for the intruder. Or perhaps she heard the neighbor’s cat meowing. He could see her calling down from the top of the stairs,
Is anyone there?
Getting no answer, she would have started down slowly, hesitating on each step, wondering if she should continue, wondering who waited for her below. Too melodramatic, he decided. He had visited the basement, and there was no place where an intruder could hide and not be visible from the middle step, and that included the cave. If a stranger had been lurking down there, she would have immediately retreated. But she hadn’t; she had walked over to where the firewood was stacked, some ten feet distant from the last basement step. Wouldn’t that indicate that she had known the intruder?
He liked it! He’d send Elena a list of questions to be researched, and he’d emphasize again the urgency in finding that garage. On Thursday, he had been issued one of those new text-messaging phones, but he was clueless about how to use it. Perhaps he should get a coffee first and attempt to use it later. That’s when he noticed one of the English-speaking students, a good-looking blonde, walking toward him, headed toward the toilets.
“Excuse me, signorina,” he said, displaying his best Cenni smile. “I wonder if I could impose on you for a minute?”
1
“SO, WHAT HAVE you to say for yourself?” the questore asked, mindful that it was unlikely that Cenni would have anything to say that he wanted to hear.
“I’m not sure what you want to know, Carlo,” Cenni replied. “I spent two days in Venice, interviewing the two major suspects in this case: Countess Molin and Count Volpe. Baudler was blackmailing them both. I haven’t decided to arrest either one of them yet, but I’m certainly thinking about it. That should keep Dieter Reimann off your back—metaphorically, of course,” Cenni responded.
“Metaphorically! Good God, Alex, what are you trying to do to me? I bring you back from Foligno, promise to make you vice-questore, and you’re off again on one of your ridiculous starts. Molin is one of the richest women in Italy and comes from a very important family. I never heard of this Count Volpe, but I’m sure he’s important too. That’s not the kind of arrest I meant, and you know it.”
“Who is it you’re expecting me to arrest, Carlo? Is there something about this case that you’re not telling me?”
“Damn it, Alex. Don’t play cat-and-mouse with me. You know very well who I want you to arrest. Reimann told me that Baudler was living with a black woman, an illegal from Zimbabwe. Who else do we look to in a domestic quarrel but the husband or the wife—the wife, I guess, in this case? And this murder certainly appears to be a domestic quarrel, particularly if you consider what was done to her afterward.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Carlo. But there’s a lot more going on here than a domestic quarrel, and Juliet Mudarikwa, the illegal you speak of, hasn’t been living with the German for a number of months now. And she’s not an illegal. In fact, she’s Molin’s cook and general factotum, and she recently acquired legal residence
.
To add to the mix, she’s been dating Volpe, and you’re right, he is important, very important.”
The questore, who’d been standing by the window trying to determine if one of his people was blowing his horn like that, groaned loudly and sat down again. “Every time you get involved in one of these high-profile cases, Alex, I get screwed. Give me something I can tell Reimann to pacify his government, and ours. If we don’t hand them the murderer soon, I can kiss Rome good-bye. You know, Romina was really looking forward to moving to the capital. She’s been up there twice this week, looking at apartments. She says hello, by the way.”
“I have two additional suspects, aside from the Venetians, so we may get you to Rome yet. Neither of them is so important that an arrest would incur anyone’s wrath.” Cenni paused for a moment, wondering if he dared, and thought: why not. “Actually, that’s not entirely true. One of them is a very important official in
Rifondazione Comunista
and may be a good friend of Bertinotti, or at least that’s what I’m hearing.”
“Good Lord, Alex, you can’t arrest a friend of Bertinotti. He’s the head of Parliament.”
“You’ll have to make up your mind, Carlo. Apparently, you want me to arrest someone, but also, apparently, not the murderer. Is it to be the Right or the Left? You decide!” Cenni had a strong suspicion that the questore didn’t really want him to put an innocent in jail, and that he staged these little dramas only because he knew his senior commissario would never follow through. But it was only a suspicion and one he hoped never to test.
“Have it your own way, Alex, but don’t expect me to smooth this over with the Germans. From now on, when Reimann calls, I’m going to have Vittoria transfer his calls to you. I don’t want to know any more about this case until you have the murderer in custody. And don’t turn your cell phone off again. You work for me, and don’t forget it.”
He slammed the door of Cenni’s office when he was leaving, rocking it on its hinges, and Cenni didn’t know if he should laugh or start cleaning out his desk. A minute later, Carlo stuck his head back in the doorway:
“Don’t look for me for the rest of the day. I’m going to Rome with Romina. She says she’s found the perfect apartment.”
* * *
THE MEETING WITH the questore had ended pretty much the way Cenni thought it would. Carlo did his dance of death, threatening all kinds of dire happenings if Cenni didn’t arrest someone soon, but not, of course, anyone important enough to cause him political heartburn. It happened in every case that had political implications. He always managed to pacify Carlo while still doing exactly what he wanted, but it was getting increasingly tedious, and he was getting increasingly tired and old, too old to continue playing political games. Since Venice, he had been mulling over the possibilities of a career change, should he decide to leave the police, and he’d finally decided to become a defense lawyer. At least he would do some good for someone, and his years of experience in the police wouldn’t be totally wasted. As soon as this case was wrapped up, he’d visit his brother and talk it over with him, and in the meantime he had a stack of files on his desk to review, including the photographs of the basement where Baudler had been killed, which had finally arrived from forensics. But first he’d send a text message to Elena, whose office was across from his.
“Lots of goodies for you,” Elena announced, putting her head around the door twenty minutes later. “Real coffee as you requested,
capo
.”
“Come in and shut the door,” Cenni responded. “And be quick about it! Carlo’s looking for you.”
“Why’s he looking for me?” Elena asked a bit surprised. She was convinced he didn’t even know her name.
“He wants you to train a new officer.”
“A woman?” Elena asked rhetorically, sure already that it was a woman.
“Probably. I told him you’re far too busy on this case, but whenever Carlo decides to do something, it’s rather difficult to dissuade him. Hide out in my office for a while. He’s not too happy with me at the moment, so I doubt he’ll check in here. And he’s off to Rome later this morning.”
Elena nodded in agreement, scowling. She was rather tired of being the token female in her position, the only woman holding the rank of inspector. She was beginning to wonder if, by the time she was ready to retire in thirty years, she’d still be the only female inspector in the department.
“So, you got my text messages last night, I assume,” Cenni said, trying to suppress a grin of self-appreciation, but it broke out despite himself. “Pretty good for a rank beginner, wasn’t it?”
“Remarkable. I showed it to Piero.”
Cenni detected a note of irony in her response and decided to ignore it.
“So, how about the car? Any news there? Finding that car is more important than anything else I asked you to do.”
“Then you’ll be very happy. We found the man who’s repairing Baudler’s car. He lives between Paradiso and Spello and works on cars after he finishes his regular job, which is driving a gas-delivery truck. No doubt he charges less than a licensed garage for the same repairs. He’s coming in later today to sign a statement, but he told me over the telephone that he drove Baudler back to her house and dropped her off at precisely three thirty, right in front of the house. He remembers the time because Baudler said she was meeting someone at the house at four and she was fussing about the time.”
“Did he see anyone, or any cars, in the square?”
“Not a one!” Elena replied blithely.
“Damn! I was hoping he’d provide a lead.”
“He did. When they were returning to Paradiso, as they were passing that gas station that’s located just before the entrance to town, a black Mercedes was pulling out of the station, headed away from Paradiso. He says that Baudler made a comment about it, so he took particular note of the license plate. He can’t remember the exact number, but it was a Veneto plate.”
“And the comment,” Cenni asked, clearly elated.
“‘So the bitches are still together,’ is what he says she said. According to him, whatever it was about, she wasn’t particularly happy.”
“I suppose if he had to identify the car and the plate, he could do it?”
“I think so. He was trying to remember the plate number while on the telephone, but he could remember only two numbers: four and seven, and the VE. And the driver of the Mercedes was a man, by the way. He couldn’t see if anyone was in the back. Tinted glass, he said.”
“That’s Molin’s car. She and Juliet Mudarikwa both denied being in or anywhere near Paradiso on the day of the murder. This gives me something with which to squeeze the African. There’s something she’s not telling us.”
“Yeah, but he said the car was headed in the opposite direction. I assume it was returning to Venice.”
“Maybe, maybe not. They, or she, could have turned around and come back, maybe even for the four o’clock appointment, although it doesn’t sound like it from Baudler’s comment to the garage guy. When you take this guy’s statement, try to get as many details as possible, including a description of the driver. Anything else?”
“As your text message requested—at least I think it’s what you requested—I called our people in Venice for a copy of Mudarikwa’s residency application. It should be here this afternoon. By the way, you might want to work on your shorthand if you’re going to be texting a lot. I still haven’t figured out what CLABTMLNDRVVNC means. And MUSM doesn’t mean what you think it means. That one I won’t show to Piero,” she said. “Still nothing from our door-to-door inquiries in Paradiso, but we’ve just started. I’ll let you know as soon as anything turns up. And now I’m going to find a closet to hide in until after eleven.”
“Before you do, call Venice and see if they can find out the name of Molin’s driver. She employs only two full-time people at the house: an old crone and the African. She probably uses an agency when she needs a driver or temporary help. Our people in Venice can find out.”
As Elena got up to leave, he added, clearly pleased, “Nice job, Elena. If you run into Carlo and he gives you a hard time, tell him to come see me.”
After Elena left, Cenni opened the envelope that Fausto Greci, Perugia’s senior forensic officer, had delivered that morning. There wasn’t anything in the written report that Cenni didn’t already know from the medical examiner, but he was curious to see the photographs. There was always something to be learned from the way the body had been left by the killer. One thing about Greci, Cenni thought: he’s thorough. The envelope contained more than forty photographs. A good number of them were of the victim sprawled against the bottom two steps. He found it difficult to view the body without getting angry; he was relieved when he reached photos of the area surrounding the woodpile. He flipped through them absentmindedly, thinking of what Lorenzo Vannicelli had said about the killer humiliating and degrading Baudler. Maybe because he agreed with Vannicelli, he’d found himself liking the man. That was always something to watch out for in a murder investigation, liking a suspect. You start liking suspects, and then you find yourself believing whatever they tell you. Another good reason to work with Elena. She usually took an instant dislike to all of them.
As he was thinking about Vannicelli, he realized that he had flipped back to one particular photograph of the stacked firewood. Something’s wrong, he thought. The wood was stacked neatly just as it had been when he was in the house on Thursday afternoon, but in the photograph the wood was in a different location, some three to four feet further to the right. It makes sense, he concluded. The carabinieri probably restacked the firewood after searching for the log that had killed Baudler. But just to be sure, he started to call Elena. Instead, he decided to use his newly acquired skill for text messaging. He rather liked communicating this way and considered himself surprisingly good at it for a beginner.
2
“WHAT?” ELENA SAID, blasting into his office a few minutes later holding up her mobile phone. “I haven’t a clue what this says.”
“It’s very simple,” Cenni responded. “You drop the vowels when you write, then fill them in when you read. I asked if the carabinieri had searched the woodpile after the body was removed from the cellar.”
“Who taught you to text-message, anyway?” Elena asked, thinking she’d like to wring the person’s neck.
“A woman I met on the train last night.”
One of his blondes, no doubt!
“Well, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. How am I supposed to know which vowels you dropped? My office is right across the hall. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just walked across?”
After they’d agreed that Cenni would stop the texting, Elena admitted that she didn’t know if the carabinieri had searched through the woodpile. “But I doubt it. They left everything else in a mess, so why would they neatly stack the wood again?” She promised to call Gianluca in Paradiso to find out. “Immediately!” she said, realizing from the wrinkle between Cenni’s brows that he was on to something. And like the questore, when he was on to something he was not easily dissuaded.
While Elena was telephoning Gianluca, Cenni was reviewing the likelihood that the person who’d entered or exited the back door on Thursday evening or Friday morning had been searching for the papers that Baudler had stolen from the embassy, and that one of the areas searched had been the woodpile. A clever hiding place, Cenni conceded. It would be a dirty job looking through that stack of firewood, and not a place that most people would think to look. Baudler’s lover might have known if she usually hid things in the woodpile; so might Reimann, who’d known her for twenty-five years. But if either of them was the murderer, why not search the pile immediately after killing her? Why risk getting caught by coming back?
“Nope!” Elena said, hanging up the telephone. “Gian-luca says the log that killed Baudler was found lying a few feet from the stack. Probably it’s shown in one of those photographs. They didn’t think to search through the firewood, as they already had the weapon. And get this: Anita Tangassi has been to the station house to make a claim for broken dishes. Remember, how she insisted on unwrapping each one of her
periwinkle
dishes to check for damage. She claims that two are broken and that the carabinieri are responsible.”