Martusciello stepped closer to the row of buzzers by the front door, read the name “Maestro Jerry Vialdi,” and rang. He expected no response, the gesture was just his way of trying to get closer to the case.
But a woman’s melodious voice answered him:
“Who is it?”
The captain was surprised, especially because Vialdi was the only person listed as an occupant of the apartment.
“It’s Police Captain Vincenzo Martusciello.”
He walked to the door, took one look at the broken police seals, and knocked.
The woman who opened the door to him didn’t match the voice that had responded on the intercom: age impossible to judge, short, skinny, shoulders wrapped around her own sternum.
Martusciello looked through the door to find the owner of that voice, then the woman spoke.
“I know that I’ve committed a crime.”
Even the police seals fell back into place. It wasn’t just a matter of the timbre: hesitation mixed with apparent calm that was, however, belied by imprudent r sounds whisked Martusciello to a soft comfortable place. That woman spoke with the sound of asbestos kisses.
The captain extended his hand with the awkward gesture of someone incapable of judging distances effectively and therefore obliged to lean forward from the waist.
“I’m Vincenzo Martusciello. Why did you ignore the police seals?”
“I’m Marialuigia Moreno.” She smiled, and her green eyes darkened. “I wanted to water the plants.”
“And you’re willing to risk jail time to water the plants?”
“See for yourself.”
Marialuigia Moreno led Martusciello onto the upstairs terrace, which was hidden from the street.
The captain admired the array of wisteria, bougainvillea, and miniature white climbing roses, and patches of meadow in broad low planters dotted with wild daisies.
She waved her hand.
“Two days, and they’ve all withered.”
“You can’t buy seedlings, you need to buy seeds. They should be planted in large planters with good soil for flowering plants. They need lots of water.”
Martusciello walked over to the railing and leaned over: on the terrace below he made out the shapes of the plants that could be glimpsed from the street as well: palm trees, short powerful trunks exploding with excessive glee, saplings crowded into a cluster of vases from Vietri and the Benevento area.
The vegetation was all starting to wither, but it hardly struck Martusciello as much of a loss.
“What a difference, downstairs.”
“Well, at least that’s not my fault.” The woman laughed and made music. “I selected the plants on the upper terrace and I take care of them, that’s all. It’s not my job: I wrote the lyrics for Jerry’s songs, or at least I have been for the past several years. Modestly speaking, Tu, solo tu, sei tu is my work. You know it?”
“Everyone knows it! And with all my respect for your musical artistry, it’s uglier than that wrought-iron bench over there.”
“The previous album hadn’t sold the way Jerry expected, and so I brought that monstrosity into the world, and in fact it sold like hotcakes. Tu, solo tu, sei tu paid for the double-decker penthouse. Far too often my work has had no relationship to speak of with musical artistry.”
“Talk to me about the victim.”
“There were disagreements and arguments aplenty, but if you care about someone you wind up fighting with them, don’t you? And Jerry was so generous with the people who worked for him. He put my life back on track.”
“You have a very pretty voice.”
Marialuigia Moreno pressed her hand against the pit of her stomach, took a few deep breaths, and then began to sing, even improving the health of the daisies.
When she was done singing the number from Jerry Vialdi’s repertoire, she stood for a moment in silence.
“Yes, I know how to sing.”
“Yes, you do know how to sing. Why don’t you sing your own songs?”
“You need to have a soloist’s physique, and I don’t have it.”
Martusciello and the woman walked back inside, and the captain took a look around.
“Care for something to drink, Captain?”
“I’d better not, I don’t want to become an accomplice to your breaking and entering, even after the fact. Who hated Vialdi enough to murder him in that way?”
“I don’t know. Not everyone loved him, of course. I’d venture a guess: his more talented and less successful rivals, perhaps, but I doubt that any of them would go so far as to commit murder.”
“Did he frequent any questionable individuals, have any ties to organized crime?”
Marialuigia Moreno curled her legs beneath her on the sofa and turned into a cat.
“Jerry had some bad habits, but actual ties to organized crime, no, I doubt it.” She shut her mouth. “And if he had, I wouldn’t tell you about it.”
“That phrase could be taken as a confirmation.”
“I don’t know. Why would he have even told me about such a thing?”
“Because if you care about someone you wind up fighting with them and talking to them.”
“I was an employee of his, and what friendship there was was a product of working together. That’s all.”
Martusciello understood that she was done confiding in him.
“Shall we go, Signora?”
“Sure, I don’t have far to go, I live in a studio apartment in the other wing of the building. The one overlooking the tufa-stone, not the salt water.” She cocked her head to one side. “Are you going to arrest me?”
“Let’s not overdo things. You inspire trust in me. But, take it from me, forget about the plants.”
“Can’t I at least take a few of them away with me?”
“It wouldn’t be a very smart move.”
“Sure, for me or for them. They’d die in any case. Where I live there’s not much light and no outdoor spaces. Let’s go.”
Martusciello did his best to put the seals back the way they were and headed toward the stairs.
“One last question: why didn’t I see your name in the credits on Vialdi’s CDs?”
“Because my byline is Gatta Mignon, a nom de plume that he came up with for me. I won’t be using it again, and I won’t be writing any more songs either.”