FOUR

Thursday morning brought another hot, cloudless day. Because of the relentless sun, Nico had started watering the vegetable garden at night. After his usual breakfast with Gogol, Nico had rushed home and changed into gardening clothes to prepare another row at the far end of the garden for zucchini and eggplants. He hammered a wooden stake at each end and tied a rope from one to the other to form a straight line. The rest of the garden was doing well. The escarole was ready to pick, along with some broccoli and spinach. It was too soon for the tomatoes, although thanks to the heat, they were growing quickly. As Nico worked, OneWag watched from a corner bush covered in red roses. A sputtering noise made him turn toward the dirt road that led to the house. Two seconds later the dog ran toward the noise, barking a greeting.

Nico looked up.

The sputtering noise stopped, and Nelli appeared from behind a corner of the house with OneWag in her arms, nuzzling her face. “Ciao, Nico. I hope I’m not disturbing.”

Nico stood up quickly, embarrassed by his appearance: a torn T-shirt, plus shorts that were overdue for a wash and showed off wrinkled knees. “No. I was just—” He bent down to wipe the dirt from his knees. “Getting ready to plant some more vegetables.”

His embarrassment made Nelli smile. Maybe she did mean something to him after all. She hoped so. During the winter, she had invited him to dinner at her home. The evening had been awkward, but luckily, OneWag had made up for Nico’s . . . what was it? Embarrassment? Fear that she expected more than he could give? Well, she didn’t expect more. That was too demanding. She did hope for more, though. After that dinner, she had backed off, meeting him casually at the café to exchange daily news. She talked about running the art center, the exhibitions of local talent, her own paintings, her work at a neighboring vineyard, and in turn, Nico would talk about the restaurant, his dog, the crazy state of Italian politics. Sometimes he would mention his life back in America, rarely mentioning Rita, his late wife.

“You should show off your knees more. They’re cute.” All right, so she was flirting a bit. No harm in it.

Nico wiped his hands on his shorts and came out of the garden. He had first noticed Nelli last September at Jimmy and Sandro’s café and had been drawn in by her serene face, the long graying blond braid hanging down her back, her paint-splattered clothes. Later she had opened up to him, giving him information that had helped solve the murder case.

“I didn’t know you were such a good liar.”

Nelli put down OneWag, who stayed by her feet. “It got you out of the garden, didn’t it?”

He looked at her pale-blue teasing eyes and felt the usual flutter in his stomach. “It’s good to see you. You haven’t been at Bar All’Angolo lately.”

“You only go there in the morning. I usually go after lunch.” Seeing less of Nico had allowed her to make peace with only friendship between them. “How’s Gogol?”

“Still in his overcoat, still cologned to the maximum, but he seems happy.”

“Tourist season is starting. He’ll soon have an audience for his Dante quotes. I really owe him a visit. I’ve been busy painting for another exhibit.” Nelli was one of two people Gogol accepted as a good friend. Nico was the other. “Go back to your garden. We can talk while you work.”

“Sure.” He walked back and picked up a spade. Nelli watched from outside the wooden fence he had finally put up in the winter. “Anything specific on your mind?” He was being rude, but he was bad at small talk and worse at anything personal.

“I heard you were at the site where Mantelli died.”

“I was. Who told you that?”

“Zio Peppino. He works for Mantelli at his villa, mostly takes care of the garden. He’s not really my uncle, just a good friend of my father’s, but I grew up calling him Zio. He’s the one who called it in to the Greve station.”

“He saw it happen?”

“No. He saw Mantelli leave home around nine in the morning. He wasn’t walking a straight line. Maybe Mantelli was an alcoholic. Anyway, Zio Peppino didn’t see the smashed-up Jaguar until just after one. He was on his way to the Coop in Greve.”

“How did he know I was at the site of the accident?”

“You were involved in a murder case last year. It put you on the map for all of Gravigna’s wagging tongues. Someone saw you. Zio Peppino found out and knows we’re friends, so he told me.”

Nico continued digging up earth, following the rope’s straight line. He was picking up a comfortable rhythm. Either the ground was surprisingly soft, or he was getting stronger in his old age. Working made Nelli’s presence easier. Nico would be fifty-nine in October. Nelli looked like she was somewhere in her early forties. Almost two decades younger.

“The car was pretty far down,” he said. “The only way you could see it was if you stood at the edge of the road.”

“Zio Peppino only saw it because he needed to pee. Maybe if someone had seen the car earlier, Mantelli would still be alive.”

“I doubt it, Nelli.” Nico straightened up. The row was tilled. He’d wait to put the plants in tomorrow. His back was beginning to ache. Nico wiped his hands on his shorts again. “How about a coffee?”

Nelli put on a smile. She would love to sit with him on the balcony, which she could see from where she stood. To sit and share something, even just a glass of water, but it would only feed the dreams she was trying hard to set aside. Nico was still very much married to Rita. “Thank you, but I have to get back to the studio.”

To his surprise, Nico found himself disappointed. “Well, I guess I’d better get cleaned up. I’m due at the restaurant in an hour. You should come eat there one night. As my guest.”

Nelli’s smile was real this time. “Yes, I’d like that.” She raised her hand. “See you.”

“Yes, soon.”

OneWag followed Nelli to her Vespa and watched her sputter away. These two-legged animals made no sense.

Both Perillo and Daniele stood up when Diane Severson walked into the office. “Buongiorno,” they said in unison. Diane smiled in response.

Perillo studied her as she approached. She had a model’s height and thinness and wore wide slacks, the navy fabric covered in bold strokes of red, with a boat-necked white knit top. She took long, graceful steps toward his desk.

If she was a friend of Prosecutor Della Langhe’s wife, he needed to tread softly, as Daniele had reminded him earlier. To his surprise, Diane Severson had a plain, wide face, with a strong jaw and equally strong cheekbones. Full lips and big, light-brown eyes that didn’t look as if they had shed a tear. No makeup. Pale-blond straight hair cut at a sloping angle just above her shoulder. Long bangs covered half her high forehead. Her only jewelry was a thick silver coil on her left thumb. He’d thought Mantelli would have only married a beauty.

They shook hands. Hers was cool despite the heat.

She turned to Daniele, her hand still outstretched. “And you are?”

He stood to attention with instantly red cheeks. “Brigadiere Daniele Donato, Signora.”

“Diane, please.” She shook his hand and folded herself into the chair in front of Perillo’s desk. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, although the reason is not a pleasure. I’ve done as you asked and identified my husband. They only showed me his face. He’d be pleased to know he still looks good.” She sat very straight, her long hands folded in her lap. “Perhaps you expect me to be, if not happy, at least relieved that Michele is dead. I admit it will make my life simpler.” From the back end of the room, the large fan oscillated, making her hair sway to its rhythm.

“I can move that,” Perillo offered.

She smiled. “No need.”

“I have to thank you for letting Prosecutor Della Langhe and his wife know about your husband’s fatal accident.”

“I actually called Signora Della Langhe to explain why I couldn’t bring the fabric samples she wanted. Our appointment with her decorator was this morning in Florence. She’s redoing her living room. Why are you thanking me?”

“We will get the results of the autopsy much more quickly now. Perhaps even this afternoon.”

“I see. Can I see the photograph of my husband?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course. Daniele?”

Daniele handed over the five-by-six he had printed out last night. He had Photoshopped it to remove the blood that had flowed from the back of Mantelli’s head.

Diane placed the photo on her lap and looked down, as if she didn’t want them to see which feelings appeared in her eyes. “They did a good job of fixing his face. He wouldn’t have liked this photo.”

Daniele noticed the slash of red fabric on her slacks jutting out from behind the photo and closed his eyes. Yesterday, at the sight of the mangled body, he had lost his lunch. “I took it at the scene of the accident.”

Several minutes of silence passed before Diane looked up, her face expressionless. “I’m sorry. I was replaying the reel of our life together, both the good and bad.”

“I hope there was much good in it,” Perillo said, admiring her strength. He was used to tears, wails, anger.

“My son is the only good.” Diane placed the photo facedown on Perillo’s desk. “What pushed him off the road? Michele was an excellent driver.”

“It wasn’t another car. The only tracks are his. The swerves started twenty meters before he drove off the edge. It’s possible he still had too much alcohol in his system or—”

“What time did it happen?”

“The gardener saw him drive off at nine yesterday morning. He said your husband didn’t look steady on his feet.” Nico had called last night to relay Nelli’s information.

“Even if Peppino had seen him drive off at night,” Diane said, “Michele wouldn’t have been drunk. He was diagnosed with gout last year. No more drinking wine. Luckily, he could still do tastings—all they do is swirl the wine around in their mouths and spit it out. The only alcohol he could drink was one glass of whiskey a day. You can’t get drunk on that.”

Perillo raised his hands in the air. “A stroke. A heart attack.”

“His cardiologist—Michele was a hypochondriac and went to all the specialists—his cardiologist gave him a clean bill of health just last month. Michele sweetly sent me the report with a note saying, ‘Just in case you’re hoping I’ll drop dead.’”

Daniele sucked in his breath.

“I know, it sounds cruel,” Diane said to Daniele. “Michele was like a child, always trying to get attention. Since he had given up trying to get it by loving me, he tried cruelty. Was he alone?”

“Yes,” Perillo said. “May heaven be praised.”

“I agree. He has a young girlfriend. Had. She’s far too young to die.”

“We will have to give her the sad news. Do you know her name?”

Daniele, now seated at his desk behind the maresciallo, picked up his pen.

“She already knows. I called her after your phone call yesterday. Michele’s gardener had already told her.”

“Her name is?”

“Loredana Cardi. You can find her at Il Glicine, a B&B in Montefioralle. Poor thing, she was under the delusion he was going to marry her.” Diane leaned forward. “I mean it. I feel for her.” She had tried to warn Loredana that Michele made it a habit of picking up pretty young things—that he collected them as he collected wine. “What money she has is what Michele gave her. He loved to feel magnanimous by giving monetary gifts to his girlfriends. Sometimes even me. Thank God I have my own career.” But as it turned out, he couldn’t have given her much. “Michele is practically broke. My lawyer says it’s a common ploy when a man wants a divorce. He planned ahead and started using my money to woo her. When I found out what he was up to, I put my foot down and started a fight that unfortunately made all those dumb magazines.”

“They’re not all dumb,” Daniele said, feeling his mother had just been insulted.

Diane saw she had upset this nice young man. “You’re right. It’s just that I wished they’d left us some privacy, at least for my son’s sake.” She turned to Perillo. “Did you ask me to come here just so I could give Loredana’s name? That could have been done by phone.”

She was right. “I apologize, Signora Severson. You are correct. I should have just called. My curiosity to meet you got the better of me.”

Diane got up from her chair. Perillo and Daniele also stood. “Well, I hope I’ve met your expectations.”

Perillo smiled. What could he say? She’d surprised him. “You’ve surpassed them, Signora.”

“Italian gallantry,” Diane said, laughing, and walked out.

At Sotto Il Fico, lunch service had ended. The kitchen was clean, the dishwasher was on its fourth run and the tables had been cleared and wiped. Enzo had taken his mother home for her siesta. Alba had gone to her husband. Tilde and Nico sat at their usual corner table at the very edge of the terrace, enjoying a small glass of vinsanto and the cantuccini that Alba had made. It was a ritual they tried to repeat as often as possible, usually at the end of the work day, but tonight Nico had dinner guests. Today it was after lunch, just the two of them with the memory of Rita sitting between them.

“Why did Salvatore call you to the scene of the accident?” Tilde asked, dipping her cantuccino in the sweet wine.

“He wanted me to let Aldo know.”

“I heard about him punching Mantelli. Elvira clapped when one of the diners told her. Mantelli wasn’t a pleasant man. So full of himself. Not that I should be speaking ill of the dead. He really put down Aldo’s wines. That has something to do with Cinzia, doesn’t it? Alba said she recently saw Cinzia arguing with Mantelli in that fancy car of his.”

This news made Nico uncomfortable. Luciana had seen the two of them together earlier, and now Alba. Arguing this time. The florist had implied something different. “When was that?”

“Monday night. The white Jaguar caught Alba’s eye. She’d never seen one. Then she heard a woman’s voice and recognized Cinzia.” She bit into the wine-soaked cantuccio, filled with almonds. “These are delicious. We should package them for sale.”

Nico followed her example. “The best I’ve had so far.”

“Cantucci di Alba. Wonderful idea, but we’d have to find another kitchen to make them and with Stella in Florence, I can’t spare Alba or you.”

“I don’t see myself as a biscotti maker.”

“We call them cantuccini, Nico. Biscotti is equivalent to your biscuit.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the corrections.”

“You rarely need them. Rita did a good job teaching you Italian.”

“I’ll raise a glass to that.”

“And to her.”

They clinked glasses and drank.

Nico leaned back in his chair and watched the play of light on the distant vineyards. Thick pillows of clouds had appeared, dropping shifting splashes of shade on the vineyards. “How does Alba know Cinzia?”

“Everyone knows everyone in this town. It isn’t New York. There are only seven hundred of us, tourists excluded. We’re a big family, and mostly a happy one. Of course an argument in the piazza between well-known men gets noticed and quickly relayed. No one is saying anything nasty about Aldo. He’s very well-liked.”

“You know everything that was said?”

“Yes. Mantelli told Aldo his next blog post was going to ruin Ferriello Wines. That’s when Aldo rightfully punched him. Did Mantelli really think he could destroy a man’s livelihood? He wasn’t very well-liked here in Chianti. He went to all the restaurants, telling the owners what wines they should offer, what wines weren’t up to his standards. You saw that yourself here yesterday. Don’t tell her this, but for once I agree with Elvira.”

“She certainly didn’t take to him,” Nico said, breaking the last cantuccino in half and spilling crumbs all over the table. “I was curious and looked up Mantelli. He had quite a social media following and was considered an excellent wine critic. I found an article in ChiantiSette talking about a vineyard Mantelli praised in one of his blogs, ColleVerde. That’s the wine he wanted Enzo to buy. According to the article, ColleVerde sales went up almost 50 percent. That means he had real power.”

“Now that he’s dead, then, Aldo will have a good night’s sleep.”

“Yes, I think he will.” And Cinzia—would she sleep well too?

Nico had spotted the old stone farmhouse on one of his runs a few weeks after he had moved to Gravigna and fallen in love with the crumbling place. It hadn’t taken him too long to convince Aldo to rent the place to him at a price he could afford. The ground floor, where the animals had once slept, was now filled with Aldo’s old wine barrels. The second floor, which the Italians considered the first floor, was made up of a bedroom, a small bathroom, and a wide front room with a wood stove, a small corner kitchen and windows on each side. Best of all was the balcony overlooking Aldo’s olive grove. During the house’s empty years, the balcony’s ceiling beams had become a nesting and sleeping place for swallows. To Nico’s great satisfaction, after a great deal of fluttering back and forth, three swallows had accepted his intrusion. They had made him feel less lonely.

At eight in the evening, the sky was still light, but the heat had let up a little. All the windows and the balcony door were open to let the air circulate. The three of them could eat on the small table outside tonight, since Perillo’s wife wasn’t feeling well. Nico, in khakis, a short-sleeved polo and an I Love Tuscany apron Rita had bought him as a joke, checked the ingredients for dinner, which were neatly laid out in small bowls on the kitchen counter. Everything already measured, chopped and cut, made cooking Rita’s Summer Tuscan Risotto easier. It was his first time trying out her recipe. He’d taped the wrinkled piece of paper on the cabinet door where he could easily see it. Tilde had advised him on what shortcuts he could take. He’d substituted a jar of pureed tomatoes for skinned and chopped tomatoes. The broth slowly simmering on the back burner was not homemade. He’d substituted vegetable broth for chicken broth for Daniele’s sake. The rest—chopped onion, sliced zucchini, asparagus points and peas he’d bought fresh this morning at the Greve Coop, along with the carnaroli rice.

OneWag rushed to the door and barked. “It’s open,” Nico called out.

“Buonasera,” Daniele said at the door, holding a small package in his hand.

Nico smiled. He was very fond of Daniele, who was a gentle young man. “Punctual as always. Glad you’re here.” Daniele’s good looks, pale skin, blue eyes and blond hair reminded Nico of Midwestern farm boys and sometimes of the portraits he’d seen in the Uffizi. Tonight, wearing pressed jeans and a white shirt instead of his police uniform, Daniele looked even younger than his twenty years.

“Come in.”

Daniele stepped inside, happy to be joining Nico and the maresciallo for dinner. Eating alone wasn’t much fun, but he felt awkward knowing the maresciallo liked meat. He was always worried that being a vegetarian was an imposition. “Thank you for having me.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

OneWag jumped up at Daniele’s knees. A greeting, but also a chance to smell the package the young man was holding. A quick sniff revealed no food was involved. The dog sat back down.

“I’ve missed our get-togethers,” Nico said. The last time the three of them had been together was in March to try to cheer up Daniele after Rosalba, the woman he had fallen in love with during last year’s murder investigation, broke things off. All Nico and Perillo had managed to do that night was get Daniele drunk, a first for him. “How are things?”

Daniele shrugged, his cheeks reddening.

“It will get better, Daniele, I promise. What can I get you? I’ve got white and red.”

Daniele didn’t want to be ungracious, but he couldn’t drink on an empty stomach. “Just water for now, please.” OneWag nudged his leg. He looked down at the dog and dangled the package. “How did you know this was for you?” OneWag acknowledged the question with another nudge. “Can I give it to him, Nico?” He’d always wanted a puppy, but his mother thought dogs were dirty. “It’s a toy. I didn’t know what else to bring. I didn’t have time to make a tiramisù.” Daniele always liked to show off Venetian specialties. The first time he’d come to dinner, he made Nico and Perillo a sgroppino, a drink usually made with lemon sorbet, prosecco and vodka. Daniele’s version left out the vodka.

“A toy is perfect, thanks. Go ahead. No need to unwrap it.” Nico handed over the glass of water, no ice, the way the Italians liked it. “Just throw it. He loves to tear up paper.”

“Thank you.” Daniele flung the package to the far end of the room. OneWag flew after it.

Nico went back to the kitchen stove to add olive oil to the hot, wide skillet. The risotto would take another thirty minutes. “Where’s Perillo? Didn’t you come together?”

“I’m here!” Perillo announced, walking in, brandishing two bottles of wine.

“How’s your wife feeling?”

“She’s fine and hopes you will forgive her. I’ll explain later.”

His friend was playing games again. “I’m glad she’s fine, but why can’t you explain now?”

“You’re always in a hurry, aren’t you? The American way—run, run, run.”

“Well, it does get things done.”

“You have a point. So, what happened is this. As the three of us were about to leave, I received some interesting information. I told Ivana I now had official business that I needed to share with you. She asked to stay home. It’s a pact we made when we got married. I was to keep the unpleasant details of my work to myself.”

“Rita felt the same way. Makes unloading hard. I ended up talking too much to my beat partner.” Which was what had gotten him into trouble, but he couldn’t blame Rita for that. “Okay, go ahead.”

“We’ll talk about it on a full stomach.”

Nico tossed the chopped onions in the skillet and stirred them with a wooden spoon. There was no use in trying to pressure Perillo to spill the news before he was ready.

Perillo sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. “The wine, I bought from Cinzia. She looked upset and had quite a few questions about Mantelli’s accident. No surprise, of course. They were once lovers.” He placed the bottles on the table. “Shall I open one?”

“No, thank you. I’ve got the ColleVerde already open. Pour yourself some.”

Perillo examined the ColleVerde label. “You’re cheating on your landlord.”

“Mantelli was touting it to Enzo on Tuesday. I had a taste at Mantelli’s recommendation. It’s a strong wine. I was curious to hear what you thought. Try it.” He’d taken advantage of what Rita called the “cook’s privilege,” but had also opened up a white wine as his usual tribute to Rita. It was the only kind she ever drank. He’d enjoyed a glass while waiting for Daniele and Perillo to show up. “How do you know Cinzia and Mantelli were once lovers?”

“Maybe still were. Do you want some, Dani?” Perillo asked.

Daniele watched OneWag tear at the package, then toss the pink pelican toy in the air and leap up to catch it. The dog’s happiness lifted his own mood. After the medical examiner’s phone call, no more calm days.

“Dani?”

“No, thanks.” He lifted the forgotten water glass and took a sip. That poor pelican wasn’t going to last long.

“Come on, Perillo. Tell me,” Nico said. “How do you know? Your famous intuition?” He added the green vegetables and stirred.

Perillo sat down at the table, poured himself a glass and helped himself to an olive. “My eyes this time. I had Dani look up Cinzia’s Facebook photos.”

“Why did you do that?” Nico mixed the tomatoes in with the vegetables.

Perillo poured half a glass of ColleVerde and drank. A pause. “It’s good, nothing special. Aldo’s wines are far better.” Mantelli’s famous palate would have known that, which means he was pushing ColleVerde just to malign Aldo. He took a longer sip and watched Nico stir. “I have to thank you for offering me and Daniele the sight of a New York homicide detective wearing an I love Tuscany apron. You should post a photo of this on your Facebook page. Instagram too.”

“Don’t have either.” Nico looked down at his belly. He’d forgotten to take off the apron. “A gift from Rita. Her way of reminding me to help in the kitchen.”

“And did you?”

“I washed the dishes.” And when the cancer started eating at her strength, he had taken over all of it. “Why did you look up Cinzia’s photos?” he repeated.

“Curiosity. I saw her with Mantelli on Monday night.”

“So did Alba. She thought they were arguing.” He left out Luciana, wanting to shield Cinzia. “They obviously weren’t trying to hide. What did Cinzia’s photos tell you?”

Perillo drank down the rest of the wine. Arguing was not what he had seen. “That they knew each other some time ago. There’s a photo of the two of them at a party. It’s an old photo. Cinzia looks younger, and Mantelli’s hair isn’t all white yet.”

“That doesn’t make them lovers.”

“Maybe not.” It was best to change the subject. “Diane Severson came to the station this morning. An interesting woman. Not at all the type I thought would capture Mantelli’s attention.”

Daniele sat down next to his superior. Pieces of the pelican toy were now strewn across the floor. OneWag had gone to sleep with a leg in his mouth. “I think she’s attractive, graceful, and very intelligent.”

Perillo smiled. “Well said, Dani.” His brigadiere, always the gentleman, was defending Diane Severson’s lack of beauty. “What I found interesting was her ability not to show any emotion. As we talked, nothing came across on her face.” He would now have to find a way to get through that façade.

Nico tossed three fat fistfuls of rice in the skillet, added lots of broth, stirred, lowered the flame and sat down. The rice needed constant stirring, but he was too curious about these new developments. “It’s going to take another twenty minutes, so you might as well tell me about the phone call on an empty stomach.”

“It’s going to ruin your dinner.”

“May I take over?” Daniele stood. “Risotto is a Venetian staple.”

“Please do.” Nico poured himself a glass of ColleVerde’s red wine. “So?”

Perillo inhaled the risotto’s delicious smell, prompting his stomach to protest loudly. “Barbara, Della Langhe’s assistant, called me with the autopsy results. Mantelli was probably dead before the car went off the road.”

“A heart attack?”

Daniele, who knew what was coming, worked the spoon with more vigor.

“No.” Perillo reached into his jean’s pocket and extracted a piece of paper. He held the paper at arm’s length and squinted. “I had her repeat it to me. Mantelli had a cerebral hemorrhage, severe acidosis, and an accumulation of formate.”

“Which translates to what?”

“Methanol poisoning. That’s poisoning by ingesting wood alcohol, deadly and difficult to detect in hard liquor. Whiskey, for example, is the only alcohol Mantelli’s doctor allowed him to drink since he had gout. At least, according to his wife.”

Nico sat back in his chair and remembered reading about several tourist deaths in the Dominican Republic attributed to methanol poisoning. It had happened a few years ago. He’d never heard of it before. “Suicide, then.”

“Unlikely. Takes too long to kill you. Twelve to twenty-four hours.”

“But it gives you time to change your mind and get help.”

“Della Langhe has decreed it murder. That’s also the medical examiner’s opinion. I’m not going to argue with them. A search warrant of the villa has already been issued. His wife said he was broke, which might give someone with his self-importance a reason to do himself in, but she thinks he just stashed his cash somewhere where she can’t get to it. I sent two of my men to his villa to guard it while the forensic team gets there from Florence. I have also informed Signora Severson that her husband’s death is now considered a murder. I will be interrogating her tomorrow morning.”

Nico’s tension eased. Aldo wasn’t the only suspect. “You think he drank the methanol at home?”

“Who knows? I want his laptop, iPad, his notes, scribblings, anything that will give me information. His cell phone was with him in the Jaguar. It’s already in our possession. Unfortunately, I won’t be in charge of the case for long. Della Langhe is sending Capitano Carlo Tarani of the Nucleo Investigativo from Provincial Headquarters to take over.”

“Why?” Daniele stopped stirring. “We solved last year’s case without any interference.”

“Mantelli has national fame. Della Langhe is following the right procedure this time.” He was probably also eager to protect his wife’s friend from being harassed by a lowly maresciallo from the South, Perillo thought.

A disappointed Daniele tasted the rice. At least this dish was perfect. It was time to add butter, Parmigiano and a last go-round with the spoon.

Nico drank his glass down. He wasn’t happy with Perillo’s news, either the murder or Tarani. “Shouldn’t you be overseeing the search at Mantelli’s villa?”

“I’d just get in their way. Nico, accept reality. We have ourselves a murder case that is going to be taken out of our hands. At least we can already hand Capitano Tarani two people with excellent reasons to be rid of Mantelli.”

With a face reddened by the heat of the stove, Daniele announced, “The risotto is done.”

“This is bad,” Nico said. “Aldo had better have an airtight alibi.” If he didn’t, the capitano could make mincemeat out of him.

Perillo nodded. “I know. That’s why I wanted to wait to tell you.”

Nico took the heavy skillet from Daniele and poured the risotto in a bowl. “We’ll eat outside where it’s cooler. The table is already set up. Please, let’s not talk about this until after dessert. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Daniele and Perillo answered in unison.

After clearing the empty risotto and salad bowls, Nico took a bowl heaped with fragoline di bosco out on the terrace.

“Oh, I wait for these every year,” Daniele exclaimed. The tiny strawberries had just come into season.

“Good,” Nico said curtly.

“Thank you.” Daniele looked at his boss, hoping his enthusiasm wasn’t out of line. No reaction from the maresciallo. It was his second attempt at breaking the tension. After a few bites of the risotto, he had declared, bending the truth a little, that it was even better than his mother’s. While they ate, very little had been said. Nico was obviously worried about his landlord. The maresciallo wasn’t happy he had to solve another murder. Having Capitano Tarani on his back made it worse. Daniele knew the next few days would be hard for all three of them.

Nico waited until everyone’s plate was empty of strawberries to make coffee for Perillo. While they waited for the moka to stop gurgling, Nico lit his second cigarette of the day. Perillo eagerly lit his own. He’d been fighting withdrawal symptoms from the moment he’d walked in. Daniele pushed his chair closer to the railing to avoid the smoke and waited to see if the maresciallo had remembered.

Nico pushed an ashtray in front of Perillo to stop him from flicking ash over the balcony.

“Thanks. I don’t need it.” Perillo took a portable ashtray with a lid from his pocket. “A Christmas present from Daniele. Very thoughtful of him.”

Daniele smiled. As soon as the moka was silent, Daniele stood up. “Allow me.”

“I only have mugs, left cabinet,” Nico said, happy to stay seated. “You said methanol poisoning takes twelve to twenty-four hours to act?”

“At least twelve, but it can take more than twenty-four hours. The medical examiner said it depends on the individual.”

“That’s going to make it impossible to pinpoint when and where the poison was administered.”

“Hard, but not impossible because given Mantelli’s age—he was fifty-four with some health issues he didn’t advertise—Dottor Gianconi thinks the poison acted sooner rather than later.” Daniele came back, placed the barely filled mug in front of the maresciallo and sat back down.

“Thank you, Dani,” Perillo said. “Please, remind me to buy proper cups for our host.” He downed the very hot espresso in his usual single gulp. “Twelve to eighteen hours at the very most, in his opinion.”

“Are you going to call Aldo in first?”

“I’m going to make a list, as you advised last year. A list to clear my head. I will write down all the people I need to interview. Hoping the night brings good counsel, I’ll decide in the morning. I have to proceed with slippered feet, as Della Langhe wants to keep the poisoning from the media as long as we can.”

“Why?”

“His wife is a client and friend of Mantelli’s soon-to-be-ex-wife, Diane Severson. She has promised Della Langhe not to say a word. I wouldn’t be surprised if the real reason is that once the media knows, reporters won’t leave Signora Severson alone, which will prevent her from redecorating Della Langhe’s living room. I’ll keep you informed, although I worry that you are too good a friend of Aldo’s to remain objective.”

“You have a point. I find it impossible to think that Aldo could kill anyone, much less with wood alcohol.”

“A New York homicide detective with too much heart,” Perillo said.

Nico said nothing. Perillo was again referring to his forced retirement. How did he know? Nico’s captain had demanded secrecy to protect his own reputation. That secrecy was what allowed him to retire with a pension instead of doing jail time. “My good heart is something we should discuss another time,” Nico said.

“Agreed,” Perillo said. “Anytime you wish.”

Daniele, who had unveiled the “why” of Nico’s forced retirement, was lost in his own thoughts. Poisoning was considered a woman’s crime, but so far the only woman they knew who had motive was Mantelli’s wife. Daniele thought Diane Severson was too refined to use such a chancy poison. Mantelli might have felt the poison start working, gone to a doctor and been saved. If Signora Severson was about to kill someone, she would have used a revolver. A shot straight to the heart.

“There’s his girlfriend to consider,” Nico said. “A real beauty, and Mantelli, at least in my presence, treated her as an afterthought.”

“I’ll add her to my list of cats.”

“Why cats?” Daniele asked.

“A Neapolitan saying: Frije ‘e pisce e gurda ‘a jatta. Fry the fish, but watch the cat. I want you to watch the cat too, Nico. You’re in this with us if you can balance your friendship with Aldo with whatever facts come out.”

Nico nodded, though not sure he could find that balance. “How about some whiskey before I send you two home?”

“Great idea,” Perillo said with a broad smile on his face. “Hold the wood alcohol.”

Back in his office at the Greve station, Perillo called Vince. “Did forensics find anything?”

“There was no laptop or desktop computer. The kitchen was clean, no garbage. No trash in wastebaskets in any of the rooms. The gardener, who lives at the back of the villa, admitted he’d done the cleaning. He said he didn’t know what happened to Mantelli’s laptop. According to him, Mantelli didn’t like to come home to a dirty kitchen. The team took all the alcohol bottles to check for methanol. The whiskey bottle was unopened. They retrieved what he’d thrown out from the dumpster up the road. They had to take every sack of garbage,” Vince started laughing, “in case the gardener was lying about which sack was his. You should have heard the cursing.”

“Are you still at the villa?”

The gardener had made him and Dino a plate of rigatoni with sautéed onions, but Vince thought it best not to mention it to the maresciallo. “Yes. We didn’t know if you wanted us to seal the place.”

Perillo smiled. Vince would have rushed home if there wasn’t food involved. “No, you can go home after you’ve finished eating. Tell the gardener to be at the station tomorrow morning at nine. Buon appetito.” He clicked off.

Vince looked at his partner, who was sitting next to him at Mantelli’s kitchen table. “Damn it, Dino! How the devil did he know?”

Dino didn’t answer. He was too busy wiping his plate clean with a piece of bread.