HOW WAS YOUR BUSINESS meeting yesterday?” I asked Francesca. “Successful, I hope?”
It was the following morning and we were in the limo heading for the church where the funeral service was to be held. I had spent a quiet evening and eaten in the hotel dining room, surrounded by German tourists. A change in rooms was the only precaution I had taken, though I had considered changing hotels.
“Yes,” Francesca said. “The woman wanted three girls.”
I wanted to ask the obvious question but did not. Francesca smiled sweetly and asked, “How was your visit to San Pietro? By the way, don’t you think that’s a good name for a restaurant owned by a chef they call the hermit?”
“I didn’t learn much. Bernardo is convinced that none of the food he served that night could have been harmful.”
“How does he account for three people having hallucinations from it?” she wanted to know.
“You would make a good interrogator,” I told her. “A swift, direct query like that.”
“So how does he?”
“He can’t. I am looking forward to hearing what Captain Cataldo has to say today. He was going to run the tests over again and make absolutely sure that there was nothing harmful in Pellegrini’s stomach.”
I looked out of the window casually. “The rest of the day was more informative. I had another meeting with Brother Angelo.”
Her eyes widened. “He didn’t try to kill you again, did he?”
I told her the whole story. She listened with parted lips. “He said he wasn’t trying to kill you before? Just make it look as if you were the victim so that when Signor Pellegrini died, it would not look like murder?”
“Right.”
“So Signor Pellegrini was murdered?”
“If we believe Brother Angelo.”
“But how?”
“Like I told you—he didn’t get that far. He didn’t tell me how or who. This car stopped and a man was leaning out, staring at him. Brother Angelo—or whoever he is—seemed to be terrified and ran for the bus.”
“Did the car follow him?”
“I think so, but I couldn’t be sure.”
“You didn’t recognize the man in the car, I don’t suppose?”
“Never saw him before, but I think I’d know him if I saw him again.”
Francesca shook her head in despair. “I am not letting you go anywhere alone any more. You can’t even go to a cathedral or a police headquarters without getting into trouble.”
“There’s no point in risking your life too.”
“I’ll have a gun today.” She screwed up her eyes; it was supposed to give her a ferocious look. “Carlo is bringing me one.”
“At a funeral?”
“Why not?”
“I’m probably the one who should be carrying it.”
“You’re a foreigner. Better not.”
I was relieved to hear her say that. I hate guns and never carry one, even when a case gets dangerous—which is rare. I recalled my view of this assignment as having “no risks at all” when I had first talked to Desmond Lansdown. How wrong I was.
The ceremony was an elaborate one, and the big church in Bologna was nearly full. Elena, Pellegrini’s wife, sobbed throughout, and the monsignor conducting the service spoke eloquently of the deceased’s benevolence and many donations to charity. I saw many familiar faces—Tomasso, the silvery-haired friend and lawyer, supported Pellegrini’s wife, and on the other side, the lawyer’s wife, Clara, was dry-eyed but stone-faced. Giacomo and Bernardo were there, though on opposite sides of the aisle. I could see no sign of Ottavio or Captain Cataldo.
The coach that took Pellegrini’s body to the cemetery was the most magnificent vehicle I had ever seen. Massive and with enormous wheels, the outside was decorated with angels, saints, cherubs, and harps. The coffin was almost as elaborate, and the bearers, six of them, were resplendent in black tail-coated suits and towering shiny black hats.
Some gray clouds flitted across the sky, giving a clichéd grimness to the scene during the burial. Elena was still weeping and so were other women, evidently relatives.
Half an hour later, the scene in the banquet room at the Hotel Excelsior could not have been more different. True, there were no balloons and no jazz band but hardly any other feature was lacking from a festive affair. People seemed animated and even more talkative than usual. Drinks were being dispensed and the air was crackling with bonhomie and good humor.
“Italians really know how to celebrate an occasion, don’t they?” I commented.
Francesca nodded, surveying the chattering crowd eagerly pressing around the buffet tables. “The sad part is over—the service in the church and the burial. Now we remind ourselves that life goes on. It sounds heartless to some foreigners, I know, but we are saying ‘It is a shame he is dead but we celebrate the fact that we are still alive’.”
Before I could respond, she grabbed my arm. “Look, he’s here!”
It was the tyrannical master of the Palazzo Astoria, the scourge of the kitchen—Ottavio Battista. He looked scruffier than ever and his hair was even more unruly. He came within earshot and we could hear him saying. “What a place to have a reception! Worst food in town!”
Despite his appearance and his manners, he had a small crowd around him and Francesca looked on starry-eyed. One of his admirers asked him a question and he snapped, “I’m not sorry he’s dead—maybe I won’t have to pay back all that money I owed him.” His adoring fans were lapping it up and squealed in delight when he said, “Oh, God, here comes Bernardo! Let’s move on, he’s going to say something pious.”
I shook Francesca by the elbow, breaking the spell. “Shall we try the buffet?”
We surveyed the tables. Despite Ottavio’s criticism, the Excelsior was one of the best hotels in the region. Contrary to many other countries, hotel restaurants in Italy offer a very high standard of food and this looked as if it was maintaining the standard.
Francesca studied them dubiously. “None of them have flowers, do they?”
“Stop spreading propaganda about Bernardo’s food. It is innocent until it is proved guilty.”
“Italy still has the Napoleonic Code, didn’t you know? Guilty till proven innocent is the law here.”
“Anyway, I don’t see any flowers. The shrimp look good.”
They were butterflied and served with a spicy dipping sauce, strong on the red chilies. Crab on jicama wedges was even better, a fresh tomato sauce with plenty of lime juice in it making it lively on the tongue. We made our way over to the drinks table where white-uniformed bartenders were a chorus of flashing hands and bubbling liquids. Francesca had a Campari and soda, I had a gin and tonic. She spied a friend and went to chat. I was back at the buffet tables when a voice hailed me from behind.
It was Tomasso Rinaldo, the silvery-haired lawyer. “Have you recovered?” I asked.
He held out his glass. Its contents were clear and a few bubbles were rising.
“Mineral water,” he said. “Yes, I feel fine now but the doctor suggested I eat and drink carefully for a few days.”
“What do you think caused it?” I asked.
“H’m,” he pondered. “Well, I can’t say it was a poisonous plant or flower. I just don’t know. It didn’t affect me until several hours later.”
“Did you have hallucinations?”
“Yes and when I tried to sleep, I had the wildest dreams.”
“Sounds like a mild dose of—whatever it was.”
“Fortunately for me,” he agreed. “I have been asking around to see who else was affected. You had no problems?”
“None at all.”
“So far Elena Pellegrini seems to be the only other one,” he mused. “Strange, that. She apparently had the symptoms worse than I did. She was strongly hallucinated and disoriented.”
We both sampled the squares of focaccia, the Italian cornmeal bread, spread with mozzarella, prosciutto, and chopped olives, pronounced them excellent, and went back for more.
“I certainly hope it wasn’t a dangerous plant or flower that caused poor Silvio’s death,” said Tomasso Rinaldo. “Bernardo is fanatical about that stuff—it’s obvious he wouldn’t kill anyone with it.”
I sipped some gin and tonic and looked thoughtful. “Doesn’t seem very likely that anyone actually killed Pellegrini anyway, does it? Some kind of bizarre accident is a more probable answer, surely?”
He nibbled on another focaccia. “Certainly.”
“Although if someone did want to kill him, using a poisonous flower would be an easy way to do it and at the same time, push suspicion onto Bernardo.”
“I can’t think who it would be.” He finished his mineral water. “Oh, he has some business rivals and competitors but I can’t believe any of them would do anything like this. The man did have a knack for getting people angry at him, though. He has been wanting me to bring a lawsuit against a big landowner here for weeks.”
“Not enough motive for murder there though surely?”
“Not in my opinion.”
“What kind of action was it?”
“Ah.” He looked away then shrugged. “Can’t do any harm to tell you now. It was a breach of contract. Silvio wanted to buy some rice fields, and he believed that the owner had given him a verbal promise to sell.”
“That’s something I want to see, the rice fields,” I told him. “Hope I can do it while I am here.”
He brandished his glass. “Have to get some more of this, keep me healthy.”
He left me and I wandered, having a few desultory conversations. In one corner of the big room, I heard what sounded like singing and I strolled in that direction. Anita, the wife of Giacomo, was playing a guitar and accompanying herself as she sang what sounded like a very bawdy song. Guests were moving nearer so they could hear. Giacomo himself was in a small group and talking spiritedly. I edged closer to listen.
“It is a shame that Bolognese cuisine, the finest in Europe, has to have clowns like these,” he was saying. “One of them behaves like a spoiled child, all tantrums and nasty remarks. The other cooks with flowers and plants—food isn’t good enough for him!” That brought a laugh and he went on, his beard waggling as he talked. “The good name that our cooking has—our great reputation that has been amassed over the centuries—what is going to happen to these if egotistical prima donnas like these two continue to wreak havoc in this way?”
His booming voice was attracting more listeners, who came with full glasses and ready laughter. “Poison both of them, Giacomo!” shouted someone at the back, while another wit called out a suggestion that would require the assistance of a local noblewoman who claimed to be a descendant of Lucrezia Borgia.
Anita was playing louder now, seemingly in an attempt to drown out her husband, and her lyrics were getting more ribald. Francesca drifted back to me. She was dressed very demurely as befitted a funeral but spoiled that image at once. “Coarse bitch,” she said, commenting on Anita.
“Have you tried these salsiccie?” she asked me. Tiny sausages with a wide variety of flavorings are an important part of any antipasto selection. These contained fennel and garlic, a very toothsome combination.
I told her of Tomasso’s comments.
“No one would kill over a breach of contract, would they?”
“Hardly. Is the dashing captain here yet?”
She shook her head. “We’d have seen him.” She had a point.
“How about the master chef? Talked to him yet?”
She pouted. “He’s in a foul mood. Can’t say a nice thing about—or to—anybody.”
“Sounds like he’s normal.”
She raised a finger in a charming gesture—sometimes she had the mannerisms of a teenager. “I wanted to tell you, I just heard a strong rumor. It’s about Giacomo. They say he’s about to lose his third star in Michelin.”
I whistled. “Whew, that’s serious!”
She looked surprised. “Is it? Who cares about that as long as the food’s still good?”
“Lots of people. It could have damaging consequences for his career.”
As I said it, there was a stir in the room, a sudden shift in the timbre of the conversation. A majestic figure with a tall, plumed hat and swinging a black cloak had swept into the room.
Captain Cataldo had arrived.