Authors: Grace Brophy
“How does Anita fit into this?” Cenni asked.
She shook her head with regret. “Anita is the baby that Marta had nine months after her brother raped her. The father found a shepherd from Sardinia who was working in Castelluccio to marry Marta. They paid him off, and he disappeared a few months after Anita was born. The woman policeman, she told you about Anita?” she asked, turning away from him to get the coffee pot, and also to avoid looking at him. Cenni said, “Yes,” and she continued. “Monsignor Lacrimosa told Marta that Anita’s deformity was the price of original sin. Marta’s parents were killed three years after Anita was born, in a car accident, on that terrible curve as you come into Paradiso. If you ask me, that was the price of original sin, bringing that monster Orazio into this world.”
“Did the priest know that Marta had been raped?” Cenni asked.
“Oh, yes! Marta told him. She was devoted to him . . . and the Church. When Anita was four, Monsignor Lac-rimosa insisted that Marta take the child to Rome for surgery to fix . . . you know,” she said, coloring deeply. Cenni nodded to indicate he understood, and she continued: “He said it served as an occasion of sin to the child. Marta was always very careful with money, and Orazio refused to contribute any money toward the operation, so Marta had a doctor in Perugia do it. She said Rome was too expensive.” She picked up the coffee cups and moved toward the sink, again avoiding his eyes. “The surgeon cut too deeply, and Anita continues to have problems—back and forth to Rome all the time—and she can’t have children. When Anita was old enough to understand what had been done to her, she blamed her mother. They never got along.”
“Is that why you told Inspector Ottaviani that she killed her mother?”
She got flustered. “Did I tell her that?”
“I believe you did,” Cenni said.
“I think she misunderstood,” she responded. “But it’s strange, you’ll have to admit. Marta was fearfully afraid of heights and never went near the edge of that terrace.” She paused, and the lines in her forehead deepened. “I completely forgot about it until now. Marta told me that Anita was just like her—terrified of heights. Perhaps she didn’t do it.”
“You also told Inspector Ottaviani that Anita killed her uncle, the one who died from eating poisoned mushrooms.”
“That isn’t just me talking,” she protested. “Plenty of others say the same. Orazio paid Anita to cook for him. She’d leave his meals at the door, but she never went inside, not while he lived there. It’s true that she was in Rome when he died, but she could have left the food for him before she left. I even said to my sister that it was very strange. If you want, I can call her and she can tell you exactly what I said.”
Cenni declined the offer. “What about the priest? It appears that he died in the same way.”
“Doesn’t that prove what I was saying? The police said Orazio shared his supper with Monsignor Lacrimosa, and they both died from eating the same stew. Orazio never gave anything away, certainly not his supper. Marta found him. She was heartsick.”
“She was heartsick about her brother?” Cenni asked, surprised.
“Good heavens, no! She hated Orazio. I meant about Monsignor Lacrimosa.”
“Did Orazio have anyone besides his sister? A woman friend, maybe?”
“No woman would have anything to do with him. Marta was his only family, and when he died she got it all: the other half of the house, the store, and the apartment building. Anita’s a rich woman, although you’d never know it to look at her. She actually cuts her own hair!”
She was shocked when he asked her about Anita and the Lanese murders. “Anita was just a little bit of a thing back then. Everyone in town, and I mean everyone, felt for the child and the horror she experienced when she found her friend’s bloodied body. Commissario, we are not monsters!” she asserted. “No one in this town ever made such a suggestion.”
She was as informative about Lorenzo Vannicelli as she had been about the others, and he didn’t come off a whole lot better than Orazio. “If you want my opinion, the whole family is crazy. Lorenzo is a staunch Communist, yet he wouldn’t give a heel of bread to a starving beggar if he could get a coin for it. That house of his also belongs to Anita, and to Marta before her. Lorenzo helped with Anita when she was growing up, taking her to school and doctors, but only so he could live rent-free. And he treats that cat of his like it’s his child. A few days ago, I saw him carrying it in his arms like a baby. They were coming out of Dottor Rotondi’s office. That cat sees the doctor more than I do.”
“You don’t like cats, signora?”
“Hate them! They’re always doing their business in my flowerpots. I’ve gone to town meeting after town meeting to complain about the cat problem. Keep them indoors or get rid of them, is what I say; but nobody listens.”
Cenni wondered if her dislike of Lorenzo Vannicelli was stimulated by his affiliation with
Rifondazione Comunista—
she had crossed herself four times during their conversation— or by his cat fetish. He’d rather liked the man himself.
“Life in Paradiso must be rather uncomfortable for Signora Tangassi,” Cenni observed, “with everyone knowing she’s a hermaphrodite and, also, that Orazio was her father.”
“Anita doesn’t know that Orazio was her father. No one would tell her that. Marta never did. What kind of people do you think we are?”
When he was ready to make his escape, equipped with a small bag of Signora Cecchetti’s almond biscotti “for later,” Cenni asked one last question:
“Signora, why didn’t you tell all this to Inspector Otta-viani when she was here?”
“She didn’t ask,” the signora replied. “And I don’t like to gossip.”
13
ELENA WAS SITTING in a darkened office when he returned to the Questura toward the end of the morning.
“As my mother always says, you’ll go blind reading in the dark,” Cenni told her, hitting the light switch.
“I wasn’t reading,” she responded icily.
“Okay, tell me what’s wrong.” He read her moods as easily as she read his.
“Yesterday, you told me to visit Signora Cecchetti, and when I arrive here this morning—at eight o’clock too!—Marinella says you’ve already left for Paradiso. You couldn’t wait for me? Or better yet, let me do my job as instructed. I asked Sergeant Giachini, who lives in Spello, to meet me in the café in Paradiso at nine o’clock. It was a good training opportunity for her. Lucky thing she carries a cell phone, or I would’ve had that long drive to Par-adiso for nothing.”
Cenni was tempted to say that everyone in Italy carries a cell phone, usually two, but he thought better of it. “Sorry, Elena! I had nothing planned for this morning, and I took off without thinking. Where does the sergeant sit? I’ll apologize to her as well.”
“Never mind. I caught her before she left home.” He was looking at her with concern, so she added, “Okay, forget it. But next time, remember when you tell me to do something, and don’t go off and do it yourself.”
“Tell you what, Elena. I’ll buy you lunch and give you the lowdown on Piazza Garibaldi and its residents, straight from the horse’s mouth. And for after, we have biscotti.” He held up the paper bag.
Elena laughed. “Signora Cecchetti, of course. Where to for lunch?”
“Across the street, where else?”
“Sorry! Piero made me a better offer. He’s taking me to the trattoria in Piazza Dante. The first place he ever took me,” she added.
And every woman he ever dated!
“Anything else happening that I should know about?” he asked.
“I almost forgot,” Elena said. “Dottoressa Falchi came by. She left the final version of the postmortem report. She got tired of waiting for you. Said for you to call her. Some dodgy findings, I gather.”
“You didn’t read it?”
“Of course not. It’s on your desk. It’s marked
confidential.”
“Never stopped you before,” Cenni shot back.
Two copies of the official postmortem report were inside the envelope. The final report included the identity of the deceased, time of death, nature and extent of internal and external injuries, cause of death, circumstances surrounding death, and a review of existing and former diseases: coronary heart disease and polio. He glanced over the information quickly but saw no major changes from what he’d previously discussed with Falchi. But on the report copy, she had highlighted one line in yellow: Baudler’s blood group was type
O negative.
A footnote indicated that two different blood groups had been mixed in the blood samples collected at the crime scene. The second was listed as
type unknown.
A handwritten note on the side margin said, “Call me.”
He got through to Falchi immediately. She’d been waiting for his call.
“I asked you to call because I’m not sure what to make of the blood groupings. The blood samples we collected from the floor and by the steps definitely are mixed. The
O negative
is Baudler’s blood. I’m not one hundred percent sure on the other blood group, but we don’t think it’s human. Possibly it’s from the neighbor’s cat, but let’s be sure. You never told me that the cat that found Baudler’s body was injured. It helps, you know, if you give us all the facts.”
He was staring off into space, putting two and two together and probably coming up with five, when Elena looked in to announce she was off to lunch. “Sure you don’t want to come with us?”
“Yes, very sure. And you’d better call Piero and cancel. We can grab something later. We’re off to Paradiso.”
ON THE DRIVE, he told Elena what he’d learned about the Vannicelli family. Elena, who had an amazingly negative view of human nature, was not in the least surprised to hear that it was probably Orazio who had killed the Lanese mother and child. He had raped his sister, after all. What seemed to bother her most, though, was his refusal to pay for Anita’s surgery. “Such a prick!” she said. “He deserved to choke on his own supper and so did that priest he took with him. Male chauvinists!”
No greater sin!
By the time they reached Paradiso, Alex had decided on a course of action. “Listen, Elena, and don’t blow up! I’m going to see the vet as a private citizen, and not as the police, so I can’t take you with me. Wait for me in the café and, if you can, get some of the locals talking. You never know what you might learn. Have lunch on me,” he said, handing her ten euros. “And park the car. I’m going to walk.”
Dottor Rotondi’s office was on a hilly back street overlooking the valley, and no one else was hanging about when Cenni rang the bell for admittance. He hoped he’d be as lucky inside the clinic, and he was. Just one patient was waiting, a rabbit carried by a young girl of twelve years or so. “He has indigestion,” she said, picking him up so Cenni could get a better look. “It would appear he doesn’t like carrots,” she said in a very grown-up manner. Cenni was rather interested in the rabbit’s digestive problems and was disappointed when the vet invited the girl and the rabbit into his surgery before he could learn more. They were inside for twenty minutes, and when the girl and the rabbit emerged, she was carrying a small vial of pills. “A bad stomach,” she said as she was leaving, “two a day for one week, and we’ll keep our fingers crossed.”
Cenni’s story to the vet was very simple. He had a cat that was ailing. It wouldn’t eat and wasn’t having regular bowel movements. His own vet didn’t seem to have any idea of what was wrong, and Cenni had come to make an appointment with Dottor Rotondi, who had an excellent reputation, especially among cat owners. Lorenzo Vanni-celli had recommended him.
“Of course, Lorenzo and Tommaso, one of the great love stories of our age,” Rotondi said, laughing. “Lorenzo loves that cat more than himself.”
“Yes!” Cenni agreed. “Lorenzo was in a great deal of distress this past week when Tommaso hurt himself. How is Tommaso doing, by the way?”
“You know what they say about cats having nine lives. Another week off that leg, and he’ll be fine. A bit gimpy afterward, but he’ll still have the stuff to terrorize the neighborhood. Nasty wound, that! Looked more like it had been caught in a trap than on a fence, but Lorenzo knows best. He found him. And now they have a new member of their household. Tommaso’s not too happy about that!”
“SO, WHAT DOES it all mean?” Elena asked. They were sitting at a back table in the café, and Cenni was telling Elena what he’d learned from the vet.
“I’ll start with the facts, without drawing any conclusions,” Cenni responded. “Some type of animal was loose in the basement before, during, or after the time Baudler was attacked, and some of the blood recovered from the crime scene belongs to that animal. We know of two animals that were in the house the day Baudler was killed: her own cat and the neighbor’s cat. My visit to the vet confirms that the neighbor’s cat was injured around the time that Baudler was murdered. No one has seen Baudler’s cat, so it may also have an injury.”
“Do you think the killer attacked the cats?” Elena asked.
“If that were the case, I’d have to wonder why Vannicelli didn’t tell us. What reason would he have for concealment? And if he was the killer, why would he attack his own cat, or even Baudler’s cat? He’s a cat lover. I don’t know what it means, Elena, but I have my suspicions.”
“What exactly did the vet say?”
“The cat had a serious injury to its right front leg and paw when Vannicelli brought it in the morning after the murder. Vannicelli claims his cat injured himself on a barbed-wire fence. Dottor Rotondi made it clear without stating so directly that the cat’s injury doesn’t match Van-nicelli’s story.”
“And you didn’t threaten him with the tax man to get the full lowdown?” Elena asked.
“Since I had sold myself as the owner of a cat with a shit-ting problem, I could hardly have done so. I’ll leave that to you if it becomes necessary,” he responded, not provoked.
Elena hated it when he left her out of things.
“Right now, I want to talk to Vannicelli about his cat’s health. I took a walk around town after visiting the vet, looking for barbed-wire fences, and discovered only one. It’s eight feet high and encloses the property behind the olive oil cooperative. I suppose a cat could climb to the top, but it wouldn’t be easy, particularly for a cat that’s overfed. From what the vet said, Tommaso is no lightweight.”