ELEVEN

Monday morning, Nico and Gogol were finishing their usual breakfast at Bar All’Angolo. OneWag, having scoured the floor for crumbs, had left, sniffing out what goodies and smells the piazza might offer. Beppe, the newspaper seller’s chubby nineteen-year-old son, shuffled into the café to deliver two copies of the Florentine daily.

“You’re late,” Sandro said from behind the cash register. “What’s your excuse this time?” In the past half-hour, a steady stream of customers, regulars and tourists had been coming in.

“Come on, Sandro,” Beppe spread out his arms. The papers fell to the floor. “What’s time when you’re young and happy?”

Gogol nudged Nico with his lard crostino. “‘Oh, you who have a healthy intellect.’”

“I heard that.” Beppe picked up the papers and flung them down on the nearest table. “Well, dear Signor Gogol, my intellect is just fine. My class grades were posted on the school bulletin board. I passed. You can go see for yourself if you don’t believe me. I’m finished with school.”

A few regulars clapped. Last year, Beppe had been sent back.

“Congratulations, Beppe,” Nico said. “Well done.”

At the back of the bar, Jimmy was unloading the dishwasher. “You’re going to work at the news shop?”

“I’m going to be a reporter. Exciting things are going on here. Two murders in the area in less than a year. Who better than me, a native, to spin the story, eh?”

“God help us,” someone behind the pillar muttered.

“In fact, Signor Nico, you are a friend of the maresciallo and the murder—” He was stopped midsentence by Gustavo bursting through the open door.

“Is it true?” Gustavo asked Nico. “Ferri killed that wine critic?”

The news would probably be in tomorrow’s papers, but to Nico’s regret, their grapevine had caught the news first. He now found himself surrounded by the Bench Boys, retired men in their late seventies and eighties who spent their days sitting together in the piazza, expounding, arguing and usually getting along. They carried flip phones in their pockets so their wives could call them home for lunch or dinner.

Gogol grinned at Gustavo. “You wish to know the truth. ‘It is right you should be gratified of such a desire.’” Any excuse to quote the master poet, even only partially, was a good one.

“That’s worth ten cents, not a euro,” Gustavo said.

Gogol shrugged. “It’s free. Sometimes I need to adapt.”

“Please sit down, all of you,” Nico said.

Gustavo pulled a chair from the next table and sat down next to Nico. Ettore did the same. The other two pushed the table closer and leaned on it, their necks craned toward Nico to hear better.

“Aldo Ferri didn’t kill anyone,” Nico said, directing his words at Gustavo. “The prosecutor wanted to question him in person. That’s why he’s in Florence.”

Ettore grimaced. “Anyone who works for this government should be fed to the boars. They think their balls are made of gold and we’re cow shit.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Beppe waved at Sandro. “Quick, give me a pen and some paper.”

Sandro shook his head. “Your mother is the one who sells pens and notebooks. I sell food and drinks.”

“Nico, don’t say anything!” Beppe yelled as he ran out.

“It looks bad if they want to question him,” Gustavo said. “He did punch the man and threaten to kill him.”

“He didn’t mean it,” Ettore said.

The rotund man behind Gustavo said, “Maybe he carried out his threat.”

“How well do any of you know Aldo Ferri?” Nico asked the foursome.

“I know his wife, Cinzia,” Ettore said, as always running his hand over his bald head as if he hoped to find a full head of hair. In contrast Gustavo had a mane of pure white hair that stood high around his sharp angular face. “Always has a nice word for us, asks about our families.” The other two, whose names Nico didn’t know, nodded in agreement.

Gustavo pointed a bent finger at Ettore. He always seemed to have a rebuttal to anything his friend said. “The wife isn’t the husband. You have to keep things and people separate. Nico, you do the same. Ferri’s your landlord, your friend. You helped him in the piazza, calmed him down. We all saw that, so we understand if you defend him. Ferri works hard, makes a good wine. I don’t want to think he killed anyone.”

Ettore nodded. “He gave you a bottle when his wife found out it was your birthday. You didn’t share.”

Gustavo waved the words away. “Stop harping about that. I told you I would have, but my daughter took it for the party she didn’t give me.”

“Do you see him as a murderer?” Nico asked the four.

“Given enough reason,” Gustavo said, “all of us could kill, and Ferri thought he had a very good reason. A wife is sacred.”

“Not mine,” Ettore said with a laugh.

Gustavo looked at him sharply. The laugh stopped. “If you think that,” Gustavo said, “you are cow shit. She feeds you, makes the bed, and sends you out with clean clothes. That makes her sacred.”

Ettore lowered his head. The other two men nodded their agreement.

Gustavo turned to Nico. “Americans always think the best of people. With our history, Italians have good reason to be skeptical. I hope you are right, Signor Nico. From my heart, I hope Ferri is as honest as the wine he makes.”

“Me too,” Ettore said.

The four stood up. “Arrivederci, Nico. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

Beppe ran back into the café, pen and a notebook in hand. The Bench Boys walked past him on the way out. “Wait,” he called out. “What did he say?” He turned to Nico. “What did you say?”

“Aldo Ferri did not kill anyone. And you can quote me on that.” Nico got on his feet. “See you tomorrow, Gogol.”

Gogol gave his usual answer. “Tomorrow, if I live.”

“You will.” Nico said. “Ciao to all.” Stepping out on the sidewalk, he was met by a blast of sun halfway up in the sky. He took out his phone and sought the shade of one of the linden trees in the piazza. The flowers were in bloom and gave off a sweet, pleasant smell. He dialed Cinzia’s cell phone.

“Hi, Nico.” Her usually cheerful voice was flat. “I hope you’re calling with good news.”

“Not yet, I’m sorry. Hold on tight. We’ll find the real culprit.” He hoped he wasn’t making an empty promise.

“I’ve gnashed my teeth to bits, but I’m holding on as tight as I can.”

“Where are you?”

“At work with Arben. Aldo didn’t want me to stay in Florence. There’s still work to do here.”

“Is there anything I can do to help at the vineyard?”

“No, we’ve got everything under control.”

“Listen, Tarani thinks Mantelli was poisoned at the restaurant. I’ve read that how quickly methanol kills depends on the individual, which means it could have been administered anywhere from a full day before to right before. In case they start looking at it from that angle, is there someone to vouch for Aldo after the fight in the piazza Tuesday afternoon?”

Cinzia let out a long exhale. “Yes, God be praised! A very good alibi. He was here at the vineyard with me, Hua Chen and Arben until it was time for them to go to dinner.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Tell Perillo to push that angle with Tarani. I want my husband back where he belongs.”

“He’ll be back. Ciao, Cinzia.”

“I’m counting on you, Nico.”

“I won’t let you down.” May it be true. He clicked off.

Nico whistled for OneWag. Before paying a visit to Verdini, he wanted to visit Rita. Nelli’s warm presence had stayed with him through the night, making him feel guilty and confused. Maybe sorting those feelings out in Rita’s presence would help. She’d always been good at seeing these things clearly. He checked his watch. Luciana’s shop was open, and she was probably feeding cookies to OneWag. He would buy yellow roses this time.

Perillo looked up at the steep, winding steps that would take him to Ida Crivelli’s apartment. She lived in one of the towers of the medieval castle that had once helped keep the Sienese army at bay.

“I hope this is worth it,” Perillo grumbled, bending down to massage one knee. It had started to hurt during the winter. The severe June heat hadn’t helped so far.

“Want me to go up first to see if she’s home?” Daniele asked. As this was ostensibly an unofficial visit, they had forsaken their uniforms for jeans and short-sleeved shirts.

“Didn’t you call first?”

“I did, but we’re late.” The maresciallo had insisted on having a second breakfast at the café next to the station. Two espressos, a cream-filled cornetto and a cigarette outside the bar that, to an always punctual Daniele, had taken forever.

Perillo checked his cell phone. “Thirty minutes isn’t late. Let’s go.”

By Daniele’s watch it was close to forty-five minutes, but he said nothing and followed his boss up the first ramp. The stone steps were cracked, the center of each worn down to satin smoothness by three centuries of use.

After the second ramp, Perillo stopped to rest, his knee pulsing with pain. “If you want to climb stairs like this until old age, Dani, don’t take up cycling.”

Daniele resigned himself to being even later. The maresciallo wasn’t so young anymore. Almost fifty. “Vince said you were a great cyclist.”

Perillo took his weight off his bad knee and leaned against the wall, happy to rest. “I cycled for years up and down these hills. Chianti is known for its killer hills. Professionals come to train here. You think going up is going to kill you. As you climb, you think your lungs will burst, and then you arrive at the top and down you fly, arms wide, the wind drying the sweat on your face. It’s a glorious feeling.”

“Ehi,” a sharp voice called down. “Are you through reminiscing? I’ve got to go to work.”

Perillo looked. He could see a small, round face staring down at him. “Please accept my apology, Signora.”

“Well, hurry up. These stairs didn’t kill me; they won’t kill you either.”

“Of course not.” Perillo didn’t like admitting to weakness. “We’re coming.”

Perillo finally heaved himself up the last step and was met by a compact barrel of a woman in a flowered housedress and a blue apron that almost reached her ankles. Her sharp face was surrounded by a cap of yellow hair.

“Finally,” Ida said to him, standing by her door with a piercing look. “Don’t bother to introduce yourself. I know who you are. Your brigadiere too. He’s more handsome in uniform. Come in.” She moved aside to let them pass.

They walked into a large, hot kitchen, immaculately clean. A delicious smell filled the air.

“Keep going.”

“You’re baking something,” Daniele said, overcome by the aroma.

“A chocolate crostata for Signora Severson. She pays me extra. She didn’t wait long to take over the villa—two days. Good for her, I say.”

“Could I bother you for a glass of water?” Perillo asked, his chest still heaving.

Ida pointed to the wide stone sink, partially filled with flowering plants. “Help yourself. The glasses are next to the sink. The brigadiere can come with me. You’ll find us on the balcony.”

Perillo went to the sink with a smile, surprised that Ida’s lack of respect for a maresciallo of the carabinieri didn’t anger him. It was almost admirable.

Daniele followed her. They passed a small room with an armchair and a sewing machine; two small tables holding ceramic figurines and more flowering plants; and a bed piled high with crocheted pillows and covered in a flowered fabric that matched Ida’s house dress.

Beyond the small room, they walked onto a narrow balcony. “This is my joy,” Ida said, stepping on a stool so that she could look over the castle parapet.

“Dio mio!” Daniele exclaimed. He had never seen the Golden Valley from such a height. Many years ago, it had been full of wheat. Now, it was kilometers and kilometers of perfectly aligned rows of vines, each patch going in a different direction. A splotchy blanket of poppies covered the ground underneath.

Perillo joined them and looked out at the view. It faced west, meaning she could see the sunset. “Dio mio indeed. You are a lucky woman.”

“My grandfather was lucky. I could sell to some foreigner and retire, but it would break my heart.” She put her forearm on the parapet and turned to face Perillo. “Now, Signor Maresciallo, I have things to say about that man’s death. What took you so long?”

“Why didn’t you come to the station, then?”

“You asked Peppino to come, but you didn’t ask me, so I didn’t come. I’ve worked for Signor Mantelli for over three years, three times a week when he was in residence. I am a woman and I see things Peppino does not.”

“Can we sit down and talk? Brigadiere Donato needs to take notes.”

“No, I just finished baking. It’s too hot inside, and talking about a murder is best done in the open air. I don’t want evil in my home.”

“Then you should have come to the station.”

“Well, I didn’t, did I?”

Have patience, Perillo told himself.

Daniele took out a pen and small notebook from his pocket. He placed the notebook on the thick parapet. It was a perfect desk.

“Signor Mantelli didn’t like me because I notice things. He loved Peppino. Peppino is a good man, but he doesn’t know how to add one thing together with another and maybe yet one more thing to see the truth.”

A lot of things, Perillo thought, probably leading to nothing. “And what truth was that?”

Ida stepped off the stool and sat on it. She had to look up to see the maresciallo’s face. “The truth that Mantelli’s girlfriend killed him.”

Perillo leaned down. Now they were face to face. “Loredana Cardi?”

“Yes, Signorina Loredana. Who else? His girlfriend—one day, his wife, is what she had on her mind. A poor girl from a small town, she thought she’d climbed the mountain and reached the sky. I feel sorry for her.”

“Why do you—”

Ida stopped him with a raised hand. “No. This is my story; I’ll tell it my way. I know I’m only a maid and not considered worth listening to, but you are in my home and you will listen. If not, I tuck my story in my bra like it was money.” She furrowed her brow for a few seconds, then grinned and slapped her knee. “It did not come to my mind before. My story is money. The newspaper would be very generous if I told them what I knew.”

Perillo didn’t take her threat seriously. She seemed too proud a person, but he admired her gumption. “I could take you down to the station and make you tell your story there, but you’ve made a good point. We all have a right to be listened to, no matter who we are.” He was quoting his adoptive father, the carabiniere who had plucked him from the streets of Pozzuoli and offered him a home. “The story is yours. Go ahead.”

Ida nodded her approval. “Monday night, I had finished my work and was getting my purse from the closet in the entryway, when a great crash made me jump. I ran through the dining room to the living room. Signor Mantelli was sitting on the sofa, laughing. The signorina was standing in front of him, her pretty face looking like a rabid dog’s and Signor Mantelli’s precious Venetian vase, the one he wouldn’t let me clean because he was sure I would break it, was in pieces on the floor. A glass shard had cut her leg. Blood was trickling to the floor. I don’t think she was aware of it.

“‘You’re bleeding, Signorina Loredana,’ I said. ‘Come with me, let me clean you up.’ I felt it was my duty, woman to woman. She didn’t hear me, but he did. He stopped laughing and snarled, ‘Get out of here.’ I did as he ordered. It was none of my business, I told myself, but as I’m sure you know, curiosity has the fangs of a snake—once it bites, your body fills with poison.” Ida leaned a shoulder against the parapet and sighed.

Daniele took advantage of the pause in her story to shake out his writing hand and sneak another look at the view.

Perillo leaned against the doorjamb. His knee had stopped throbbing. He knew not to interrupt. She was getting there, he thought. Soon, he could thank her and take her information with him, then puzzle it together with the rest of what he knew.

“The windows of the living room were wide open. Signor Mantelli didn’t believe in air-conditioning. Let me tell you, I sweated liters cleaning that house.”

Daniele loosened his grip on his pen. Perillo thought of Cinzia peeking through Mantelli’s open window. Maybe the very same one. He was glad he lived on the second floor, facing the street and the park.

Ida lifted her shoulder off the wall. “Never mind. I stood underneath one window. They couldn’t see me. Being short has its advantages. ‘You can break everything in this house, but it won’t change anything,’ the signore said. ‘Our relationship is over. As of next week, I will no longer pay for your room at Il Glicine. I will no longer see you.’

“She started screaming. ‘You can’t do this. You made promises. I’m not shit you can just wipe away.’ Things like that. She was crying and screaming at the same time. It was hard to understand what she was saying. I heard the sound of a smack followed by silence. He must have slapped her. I’d had enough. I started to tiptoe away when she said, in a loud, calm voice, ‘If you leave me, I’ll kill you.’ I guess he thought that was very funny, because he just laughed hard. When he got tired of laughing, he said, ‘Well, my dear, you have a week in which to do it.’” Ida crossed herself. “That’s the truth, God’s truth.”

Perillo straightened up. “Thank you, Signora Ida.”

“Signorina, and proud of it. I’m not finished.”

Perillo sat back down.

“The Friday after Signor Mantelli’s death, Signora Severson had moved in, and so had the girlfriend.” Ida lifted both hands, showing Perillo her calloused palms. “A strange arrangement, but not for me to judge. Signora Severson has a kind heart, but she didn’t understand what she had brought home with her. I caught the signorina going through Signor Mantelli’s desk, looking for money, I’m sure. I stopped her. Not an hour later, I saw her going through his closet. This time I said nothing. My hours were done, and I wanted to go home.”

“Did you tell Signora Severson?”

“I’m going to tell her today. She should know who she has in her house. All right, I’m done with my story now. It’s the truth. Do with it what you want.”

“A very interesting story.”

“A true one,” Ida corrected.

“Yes. Thank you. Before I go, I need you to answer one question. You called Signor Mantelli last Monday and also on Tuesday. Can you tell me why?”

“It wasn’t me on Monday. The signore sent Peppino to Panzano to get two steaks from Dario Cecchini. Peppino’s phone had no charge, so he borrowed mine. I guess he called him from Dario’s to let him know, because he came home without the steaks.”

“And Tuesday?”

“I told him I needed to switch Wednesday for Thursday. I needed to see Dottor Berti for my sciatica. He said he didn’t care when I came in, as long as I got the work done without disturbing him.”

Perillo remembered something Peppino had told him. “Did Signor Mantelli lower your wages last year?”

Ida laughed. “He tried. I told him he could do the cleaning himself then.”

“He didn’t lower them?”

Ida shook her head.

“He could have found another housekeeper.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know two and two doesn’t always make six or even four.”

Perillo let out a sigh. “Is there something else you know that has bearing on this case?”

“No.” Her expression was sincere.

Daniele put his pen and notebook back in his pants and gave a last look at the valley below. A billowing cloud had just covered the sun, staining some vineyards with its shadow.

Perillo offered his hand. “Then thank you again.”

Ida popped up from her stool with a smile and shook it. “Maresciallo, Signorina Loredana is not well. Please treat her with gentle hands.”

“We will. I need to go back to the station now.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll accompany you to the door.” She pushed past him and walked toward the kitchen. Perillo followed, casting a longing glance at the crostata, now cool enough to eat. At the front door, as Daniele followed Perillo out, Ida tugged at his sleeve. “Come back anytime. The view is best at sunset.”

Daniele thanked her. The invitation warmed his heart.

“Tarani needs to know about Loredana,” Perillo said as soon as they reached downstairs. “I want you to check that Ida did go to the doctor on Tuesday, and tomorrow, you’re going to climb back up there and find out what she means by two and two doesn’t always make four.”

“I’ll be happy to,” Daniele said. He’d go at sunset.

OneWag started wriggling with excitement as soon as Nico entered the Verdini parking lot. Nico opened his door and the dog scrambled over him, barking in joy. Nico had to laugh as he watched OneWag shoot down the path to find Contessa. “I’ve got a smitten dog,” he would tell Nelli. She would laugh that throaty laugh of hers that managed to undo whatever knots he had in his stomach. “I like her a lot,” he’d confessed to Rita as he arranged the yellow roses beneath her picture. He’d stood there a good half hour. Slowly, the confusion and guilt he’d been feeling since last night evaporated. Was Rita giving him permission to live his new life? He knew he was the one who was afraid of being disloyal, of opening up and caring for a woman again. Afraid to suffer a second time. It was easier to put the burden of his emotions on Rita, as he had done when she was alive.

“Buongiorno,” a young voice called out halfway up Verdini’s path.

Nico got out of the car and waved at a slim young woman in a ruffled long white skirt and red top.

“Buongiorno. I’m here to see Signor Verdini.”

They walked toward each other. “I’m afraid he’s gone to Siena for the day.” As she reached Nico, she extended her hand. “I’m Ginevra.”

He smiled and shook her hand. “Nico Doyle.” Ginevra here with Luca gone was exactly what he had hoped to find.

“Luca told me you might be coming by. How can I help you?” She had a pretty round face behind glasses, with a girl-next-door quality that he instantly liked. She looked no more than thirty.

“I’d like a case of his red, 2015 if available, but I’d also like to taste his white wine.” That would give him a chance to sit by the shed, enjoy the view and fish for information.

“Of course.”

They walked down the path edged with geraniums. Her top was the same red as the flowers. “I’ve always loved geraniums,” she said. “I used to think they kept vipers at a distance, but Luca told me it’s not true. I was miffed.” She shook her head. “Very childish of me.”

“They’re still nice.”

“I prefer red roses now. Luca has lots of those in the back garden.”

Nico wondered if this was her usual welcoming chitchat, a way to put nervous wine buyers at ease. “How long have you worked for him?”

“Three years. I used to work for another vintner, but I prefer it here.” They had reached the shed. “When there’s no work, I just sit here and look out at the valley. It’s heavenly, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” He walked to the edge to see where OneWag had ended up down below. He covered his eyes with his hand and finally spotted the two dogs chasing each other along the fence of one large area of vines. “They’re not going to get electrocuted, are they?”

Ginevra joined him. “They’re fine. We only turn the electricity on at night. Please sit down while I open a bottle of Vermentino. And forgive the chairs. Luca’s getting new ones. At least, that’s what he’s been saying since I started working here.” She smiled as she slipped into the shed.

Nico sat in the same chair he’d sat in before. It had the best view. The sprinkling of poppies from a few days before had thickened. The sun, midway in the sky, had already made the air too hot, but up here, a slight breeze gave a little reprieve. “I found out about ColleVerde thanks to Michele Mantelli.”

“It’s so sad about his death,” Ginevra said from inside the shed. The door was halfway open. “He was a nice man. I can’t believe he was murdered.”

“You knew him?” He heard the air pop of the cork being released from the bottle.

“Yes.” Ginevra came out of the shed holding the bottle of Vermentino and a white wine glass. “He came here several times, looking for Luca. The last time I saw him was exactly two weeks ago. I’m sorry Luca wasn’t here. Signor Mantelli was upset not to find him.”

“He wasn’t upset the other times he came and Luca wasn’t here?”

“The other times he waited for him. I’d try to keep him happy by asking questions about his work, his life. He would sit where you’re sitting now and chat about how much he loved the wine-growing business, how he liked to help struggling vintners whenever he could. He heaped praise on Luca, saying his wines deserved every bit of praise he gave.” She poured two fingers’ worth of wine into the glass and offered it to him.

“Thanks.” Instead of taking the customary wine tasting sip, he drank it all down. “I like it. I know I should go on and say I taste the hint of cooked apples or honey-coated white peaches or some such”—he’d been reading Mantelli’s blog—“but ‘I like it’ is as far as I’ll go. I’ll take two bottles of this too.” He’d uncork them for his dinner with Nelli on Thursday.

Ginevra gave him a sideways smile. “‘I like it’ is just fine. Here, let me pour you some more.”

It wasn’t lunchtime yet, but why not? Maybe he could get her to keep talking. “Thank you.” She filled the glass. “Please join me, Ginevra. I don’t like to drink alone, and I’ll pay for the bottle.”

“In that case, I will. Thank you.” She got another glass from the shed, sat down next to him and poured herself three fingers’ worth. “Now, tell me about you.” She clinked her glass against his.

“I don’t need to talk about myself to be happy. I want to know about you and the vineyard.”

“I have nothing to say except I love this work. Luca is a wonderful boss. My last boss liked to put his hands all over me, that’s why I quit. Luca is a gentleman.”

“I’ve met Mantelli’s American wife, Diane Severson.” This time, Nico took only a small sip of his wine. “She knows Luca’s ex-wife. I think that’s how Mantelli found out about this vineyard.”

“I didn’t know that. Mirella was the one who hired me. When I came here, they were at the tail end of their marriage. She left about six months later. I liked her a lot, and that’s all I’ll say.”

“Diane is a nice woman. Has she ever come by?”

“Not that I know of. You’re full of questions, aren’t you? Is it because of the murder?”

“Doesn’t it make you curious?”

“No, it makes me sad. And it’s none of our business really.”

“You don’t want the murderer caught?”

She tilted her head to one side, her eyes studying his face. “I do, but I expect the carabinieri will catch whoever it is. I prefer to worry about the vineyard.” She stood up and polished off her glass. “If this heat keeps up, we’ll have to harvest early. Luca says climate change is going to change the wine business in a big way.” She stood up. “Let me get you your bottles.”

Nico stood up. It was clear Ginevra had gotten suspicious and wouldn’t be offering any more information, but he was satisfied. One thing she’d said seemed promising. He whistled for OneWag. Once home, he’d consult with Perillo.

Perillo’s office was uncomfortable, the oversized fan distributing only hot air. Perillo suggested the three of them convene again in the small park across the street from the station. Nico found him sitting on a bench under the shade of an oak tree.

“You should move your desk out here.” Nico sat on an adjacent bench next to Daniele. “It’s much more bearable.” OneWag, after his usual sniffing examination of Perillo’s boots, sat in front of Daniele and stared.

Perillo was clicking a number on his cell phone with his cigarette hand. “What do you want from the café? If you’re hungry, Vince says the best is the focaccia stuffed with mortadella and provolone. Dani’s getting an apricot juice. You?”

“Nothing thanks. My stomach is sloshing in wine.”

“Then you have to eat.” Perillo spoke into the phone. “The usual for me and my brigadiere, plus one La Marinella. We’re in the park. Don’t wait for the pope to die, okay? Ciao.” He clicked off. “The housekeeper Ida says she’s given us Mantelli’s killer. What did Verdini give you?”

“As I expected, he wasn’t there.” Nico pulled out his shirt to let some air hit his chest. “I spoke to his assistant, Ginevra. You first. Your news sounds more substantial.”

OneWag, his eyes still focused on Daniele, whimpered. Daniele bent over to scratch his head. “No toy this time. I’m sorry.” OneWag lifted a paw, which Daniele took. “Next time, I promise.”

Nico snapped his fingers at his dog, who took his paw back, got up and headed off to the farthest part of the park. “Pay no attention to him, Dani. He’s a ruffian. It’s my fault. I’ve spoiled him.”

“You need to spoil a woman, not a dog.” Perillo put out his cigarette against his shoe and slipped the butt in his portable ashtray.

Spoiling OneWag was easy, Nico thought. His needs were plain to see. “Who killed Mantelli, according to Ida?”

Perillo sat back on the bench and spread out his arms in hopes of losing some body heat. “The week before Mantelli died, Ida overheard Loredana threaten to kill him. Apparently, he’d just told her their relationship was over. He was going to pay for her B&B for one more week, then she was on her own.”

“Do you believe this woman?”

“I do,” Daniele said. “What reason would she have to lie?”

“Loredana might have treated her badly,” Nico answered. “Ida could be getting back at her.”

Daniele jumped to her defense. “She’s a nice woman.”

Perillo smiled. “She took to our Dani. I think he may have found a Tuscan mamma. And there’s no need for your Dani bloom now.”

A red-faced Dani lifted his shoulders with a helpless expression on his face. “I can’t help it.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Nico said.

“Some woman is going to fall in love with you for that blush, heed my words. My wife, for one, thinks it’s adorable. Ah, here comes Renzino.”

A chubby teenager with a shock of white-blond hair crossed the street with a penguin waddle. The tray in his hand held steady.

Perillo took one look at him and slapped his forehead. “Holy heaven, what have you done to your hair now? Two days ago, it was fire-engine red. Did you fall into a tub of bleach?”

Renzino laughed. “Naw, my girlfriend wants to go blond—” he jumped back at seeing a dog at his feet. Having caught an appetizing smell in the air, OneWag had returned. “Does he bite?”

“No,” Nico reassured him. It always surprised him how many Italians were afraid of even the sweetest-looking dogs. Tilde had explained that a lot of mothers didn’t let their children touch dogs, saying they were dirty or they’d bite. That fear seemed to stay with some of them as adults.

Perillo picked up his double espresso and drank it down. “So your girlfriend wants you to be blond too?”

“No. She just wanted to make sure she was going to like the color for herself.” Renzino lifted his wide shoulders. “It’s okay. I got tired of the red. Put the order on the station bill?”

“That’s right.”

Nico reached for his wallet. “Let me pay.”

“No, this one is on the carabinieri. We’re working.”

“Should I come back for the tray?” Renzino asked, keeping an eye on the dog.

OneWag was now sniffing the tray’s aroma from a polite distance. He’d learned that frightened humans often kicked.

“No, I’ll bring it back,” Dani said.

“Ciao, then.” He ran off.

“Someone should tell him that if he’s afraid of dogs, he shouldn’t run.” Nico turned his attention back to the murder. “Perillo, do you believe Ida?”

“She’s a proud person. Made a fuss about not being interviewed, so she could be trying to get attention, but I do believe she heard the fight. Now we have to find out if Loredana followed through on her threat. I know you wanted to talk to her, but at this point, it’s best if you leave her to me.”

“I agree.”

“I don’t think Ida has told us everything,” Perillo said.

“I checked about her call to Mantelli on Wednesday,” Daniele said, eager to defend her. “She did see her doctor that day.”

“I’m convinced she knows something about Mantelli that she’s not telling us,” Perillo said. “Daniele will further charm his way into her heart and find out what it is. It may have nothing to do with the murder, but as she said, curiosity’s like the fangs of a snake once it bites.” He left the rest unsaid and picked up the tissue wrapped sandwich. “Here, have your La Marinella. Buon appetito.”

Nico unwrapped it. “It’s enormous.” There was more than an inch of mortadella and cheese in between two layers of thick focaccia.

“It’ll absorb the wine.”

“It’ll absorb me.” Nico opened his mouth wide and took a bite. It was luscious. From the corner of his eye, he could see OneWag stealthily approaching again, snout and tail held high in the air.

“All the café’s sandwiches have women’s names. The owner named each sandwich after one of his five daughters,” Daniele said, after taking a short sip of his fruit juice. “My favorite is L’Arabella. That’s with mozzarella and pesto. I have it for lunch a lot.”

“The beyond of the beyond, according to Dino, is L’Isabella. Focaccia with layers of salami, prosciutto and mortadella, topped with arugula salad between the layers of meat.”

Nico swallowed. If he didn’t bring them back to the matter at hand, talk of food might go on until sunset. “Have you told Tarani yet?”

“I did as soon as we left Ida’s place, without mentioning the something we might not know. He has spoken to Aldo’s Chinese buyer and now agrees that Aldo couldn’t have slipped the poison into Mantelli’s whiskey at the restaurant.”

“In fact, the poison could have been administered before Mantelli went to the restaurant. Just before or even a few hours earlier.” Nico took another big bite.

Perillo nodded reluctantly. If that were the case, a lot of time and energy had been wasted. “Forensics reported the alcohol bottles they took from Mantelli’s villa had no trace of methanol. The one whiskey bottle was unopened, and all the glasses had been thoroughly cleaned. I guess giving him the poison at the villa would have been easier for Loredana.”

“Or anyone else.” Daniele still found it hard to accept Loredana as a killer. “Signora Severson was at the villa Tuesday morning.”

“But Mantelli wasn’t.”

“She could have spiked something, then asked or paid Peppino to get rid of it after Mantelli had a drink,” Daniele said. “With Mantelli dead, she gets the money from the sale of the villa.”

“I’m not dismissing the possibility,” Perillo said, “and we’ll call Peppino in again, but first I have to ask Loredana a few pointed questions.”

“Is Aldo going to be released now?” Nico asked.

“Not yet. Della Langhe still thinks everything points to him. His threat in the piazza, the bribes he paid Mantelli to keep him from ruining him—of course, for our prosecutor, it’s the vintners who offered bribes. Mantelli was only guilty of ceding to temptation. According to him, if Aldo didn’t do it at the restaurant, he did it earlier that day.”

“Aldo has an airtight alibi for earlier in the day. And it was Cinzia who paid Mantelli,” Nico protested. “Aldo knew nothing about it.”

“It doesn’t matter who paid. The fact is, they had to pay, or he’d put a big dent in their business. Did Ginevra offer anything of interest?”

Nico tore off a piece of his focaccia and gave it to OneWag. Delicious as it was, there was no way he could finish it. Some for his mutt, the rest he’d take home. “She made it clear that Mantelli had come over several times recently. When Verdini wasn’t there, he’d wait for him. Last Monday was different. He was upset Verdini wasn’t around. I think maybe Daniele is right. Mantelli could have gone to Il Falco to meet with Verdini. They exchanged phone calls on Sunday. Mantelli then went to visit him on Monday, didn’t find him and got upset.”

“You think Verdini would have shown up at the restaurant alone, but then gotten stuck doing Mantelli’s wife a favor?” Perillo said. “Or that her being there was part of the plan?”

Nico shook his head. “I don’t know what purpose that would serve. According to Yunas, there was no exchange of information. Mantelli shooed her away immediately. If Verdini was the man he was waiting for, her presence must have been a nasty surprise.”

Daniele moved closer on the bench. “Maybe Verdini owed Mantelli money. There was no May ColleVerde payment listed in Mantelli’s computer notes.”

“How much was he paying?” Perillo asked.

“Eight hundred euros a month. Ferriello Wines paid four hundred euros until two months ago.”

Perillo raised his hands in the air in surprise. “How do you remember that? I read the same notes and remember nothing.” There it was, the realization that haunted him. He was getting old. His memory had started playing hopscotch and missing the squares; he was muddling through this case, letting Nico, Daniele and Aldo down. “Don’t mind me. My two espressos haven’t kicked in yet.”

“I reread the notes this morning,” Daniele lied. Lies were a sin, but if they made someone happy, God would surely forgive him.

“What about the other vintners?” Nico asked. Something Ginevra had said made him want to know more about them.

“Only two. The last payment for the one in Sicily was April, same as Verdini. The one in Piedmont paid the first of June. They paid much less. Two hundred euros each.”

“Please email me their names,” Nico said. “I’d like to talk to them.”

“I have their phone numbers too.”

“Good, that’s even better.” Nico rewrapped his sandwich and stood up. “I’m going home to harvest some vegetables. I skip a day, and the zucchini turn into footballs. If Ivana needs any basil, let me know. I’ve got enough to make a kilo of pesto. I’m taking this sandwich with me.”

“Don’t feed it all to Rocco,” Perillo said. “He’ll get indigestion.”

“And I won’t? Let me know how it goes with Tarani and Loredana. I’m working at the restaurant tonight, but text me, and I’ll call you back when I can.”

Daniele stood up. “Arrivederci, Nico.”

“Ciao, Daniele. Perillo.”

Perillo waved and jiggled a cigarette out of his pack.

Nico shook his head. “One day we’ll get you to quit.”

Perillo laughed. “One day.”

“Maybe tomorrow. Come on, OneWag. Let’s go.”

The words “Let’s go” usually prompted OneWag to run ahead of his boss, eager for a new adventure. This time, he stayed behind and followed La Marinella.