Ricciardi and Maione were used to it: in their line of work, it was impossible to show up anywhere unexpected or by surprise.
In the best case, their arrival was preceded by word of mouth—whispers and eyes peering out from behind shutters and blinds, as the sound of their boots and shoes broke the silence of secluded alleys. In the worst case, hordes of shouting scugnizzi danced ahead of them like some irreverent fanfare.
Which is what happened this time, as a small flock of barefoot boys splashing through all the mud and puddles they found along the way, laughing and singing choruses in dialect, playfully darting to try to pull the brigadier’s pistol from its holster, as he tried to ward them off halfheartedly, like an ox persecuted by a cloud of bothersome flies.
At the far end of the road, just a few hundred yards from the Cennamo in-progress mansion, there was a fence with a gate thrown wide open. On the ground it was possible to see the tracks of countless cart wheels and, just as they were entering, a load of broccoli pulled by a mule came through the gate, with a peasant on foot following the cart. The man eyed them mistrustfully, neither speaking nor tipping his cap.
They found themselves in a large courtyard. The odor of the nearby stables was piercing, as was the smell of vegetables that were being stored in a building into which they saw the cartload of broccoli enter. A broad-shouldered woman with a determined look on her face came toward them, wiping her hands on her apron; from her blond hair and blue eyes, they immediately understood that she was kin to the Coppola brothers.
“Do you need something?”
The tone of voice wasn’t hostile, but brisk: this was a workplace, and there wasn’t time to waste. Maione said:
“Signo’, is this where Giuseppe Coppola works? We’re from the mobile squad, Brigadier Maione and Commissario Ricciardi. Can we speak to him?”
The woman seemed entirely unimpressed by the presence of policemen in her courtyard. She stared at them, mopping her brow with a handkerchief that she’d pulled out of a pocket in her skirt.
“My name is Caterina, I’m Giuseppe Coppola’s sister. What do you want with him?”
She wasn’t bad looking, the self-proclaimed sister of Giuseppe Coppola: her coloring was lovely, her eyes glittered in the sun like sheaves of ripe wheat; but her features were harshened by a strong-willed domineering personality, and she had a pair of deep creases at the corners of her mouth. Her powerful arms were accustomed to hard labor.
Maione set her straight on who was asking the questions:
“Signo’, if we need to speak with him, then it’s about something that doesn’t concern you, otherwise we would have come straight to you, don’t you think? Do me a favor: if he’s here, would you please go get him for us?”
The woman gave the brigadier a long stare: she looked as if she was about to give him a shove. Maione put on the sleepy expression he used whenever he was interested in discouraging conversation.
“I don’t know where my brother is. These past few days, no one seems to know where he’s been going. Let’s just hope that he snaps out of it soon, otherwise this whole place will go to hell in a handbasket. Why don’t you go take a look in the stables? I have some broccoli to get unloaded.”
She turned to the farmer that they’d seen enter the building and gave him an incomprehensible order in thick dialect. The man stopped short with a huge bundle of broccoli in his arms, as if frozen solid by her rough shout, and put the produce back on the cart, awaiting further orders, clearly frightened of the woman who was striding toward him.
The brigadier said:
“An energetic lady, eh? She’s worse than any man.”
Taking care to avoid the horse droppings that dotted the courtyard, where a dozen or so hens were busily pecking, they walked into the large farmhouse.
No matter what Caterina might say, the Coppola family company seemed to be humming along famously. On one side of the large shed were lined up a dozen or so carts, painted light blue, and there was still room for at least another dozen, which were no doubt out making deliveries just then. A number of men, each wearing a dark felt hat and a handkerchief knotted around his neck, were working busily around the carts, checking joints and axles and oiling hubs. At the opposite end of the room, the entrance to the stables could be seen, a high arch through which came the sound of neighing. Maione was reminded of Bambinella’s laughter.
Seeing them come in, the workmen, clearly worried, made a show of concentrating even harder on their tasks: there was no one in that city who didn’t have something to fear from the police. The two policemen headed for the horse stalls.
Inside they found a clean, tidy space, where three men and two women were hard at work, brushing and attending to the animals. Here too it was clear that only a small part of the fleet of horses were here, fewer than ten. Most of them were out working.
A man broke away from the group and walked toward them: it was Pietro, the younger Coppola brother, whom Ricciardi had already met at police headquarters.
“Commissa’, buongiorno. Do you remember me?”
Ricciardi nodded, and introduced him to Maione.
“We’ve come to Antignano to meet Signora Cennamo, Maria Rosaria’s mother. As long as we were here, we thought we’d drop by, just to see the place and maybe talk to your brother.”
Maione decided that, his dark hair aside, the boy could easily have been Caterina’s twin brother, except that he lacked his sister’s massive musculature, despite his broad shoulders. But he must be better natured, because Pietro smiled and lifted both hands, displaying a grooming brush and a rag.
“Forgive me, Brigadie’, I can’t shake hands: I was just grooming the sorrel mare that you see over there. Pretty, isn’t she?”
In fact the animal was magnificent: high and lithe, with mane and tail that seemed to be made of light brown silk, her eyes deep and expressive. Maione commented admiringly:
“She certainly is. She hardly seems to need the grooming. That’s certainly not how I imagined a carthorse.”
Pietro laughed again:
“Right you are. And in fact, it’s not easy to persuade her to haul a cart like the other horses . . . Tell me, Commissa’, what can I do for you?”
Ricciardi looked around: Peppe ’a Frusta was nowhere to be seen here, either.
“Where’s your brother? The lady in the front, who said that she’s your sister Caterina, told us to look in here, but he doesn’t seem to be here.”
The laughter vanished from the young man’s face.
“No, in fact he isn’t here. He’s inside. He hasn’t been out much for . . . for the past few days. Hold on, I’ll send for him.”
He gestured and a pretty brunette came over, young and not very tall.
“Allow me to introduce Ines, my fiancée. Ines, go in the house and call Peppe for me.”
The girl sketched out a brief curtsey and then moved off. Pietro sighed.
“You know, we were planning to get married in a couple of months, we were hoping to do it in June. We’ve been together for a long time. But with my brother in the shape he’s in . . . I just don’t think it would be right, and so we’ve put it off indefinitely. Ines has an older sister, her name is Ada, she’s been sweet on my brother for years, she’s a schoolteacher, here in Antignano, and we all hoped it would work out. But then he ran into Maria Rosaria again, and since then he hasn’t had eyes for anyone else.”
Maione wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“So tell me, Coppola, what’s the setup here?”
“Simple enough, Brigadie’. I take care of the horses and I’m in charge of supplies and deliveries. My sister Caterina supervises the produce, manages the farmers and orchardmen, and the loading and unloading of the carts. My other sister, the younger one, you haven’t met her yet, Nicoletta, works in our gardens and orchards and supervises the cultivation of vegetables and fruit. And my brother’s in charge of the money, he’s the oldest one, you understand, he created this company and he’s the boss. Which is why we’re having some trouble now: we’re doing the best we can, but if he doesn’t get a grip on himself, things are going to go south.”
He spoke in a worried tone. The company depended on Peppe; and both Caterina and Pietro hoped his morale would soon recover.
Ricciardi said:
“Tomorrow morning at seven there will be a funeral procession for Viper. We wanted to tell your brother.”
The young man squirmed.
“For the love of God, Commissa’, don’t tell him! He’s in such bad shape, he’ll do something reckless. He hasn’t slept in two days, he’s drinking, he won’t eat: and no one knows what he might do, if he finds himself face to face with other people who went to Maria Rosaria! And if . . .”
He broke off suddenly when he saw his brother coming, accompanied by Ines. He was unshaven and he walked unsteadily, his hair was filthy and sweaty, his shirt was rumpled. It was immediately obvious to Ricciardi and Maione that he’d been drinking, and heavily, even though it wasn’t even lunchtime yet.
“Commissario, greetings. Do you have any news? Any suspects?”
His slurred speech betrayed the grief that was filling his heart. And something else, too.
“Hello, Coppola. We’re investigating. What about you, has anything occurred to you?”
Peppe looked around him, glaring threateningly. Ines moved away hastily, heading back toward the fountain to groom the horses. Pietro on the other hand remained nearby; he sat on the ground and started to whittle a piece of wood, staring worriedly at his drunken brother. Maione decided that the young man must feel a love for Peppe that bordered on hero worship; seeing him in that condition must have been true agony for him.
“Commissa’, I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I have no doubts: the one who murdered Maria Rosaria must be that bastard, the one who sells saints and madonnas, Ventrone.”
Ricciardi asked:
“Why would you think that? And how did you find out about Ventrone?”
“Rosaria told me about him, and I knew from what people said about the cathouse that her only customer, aside from me, was him. A bloodless man, with clean hands and a tie; but with more money than he knew what to do with. As long as he was around, she was making too much. I told her not to worry, that the money to finish her mother’s house—you’ve seen it, right?—I’d give them to her. I work, you see that, Commissa’? The company is going great. She could have come here and been a queen, if she’d only said yes. A queen.”
The brother stood up and started toward them, but Peppe froze him in place with a glare.
Ricciardi asked:
“Well then, what reason would Ventrone have had to kill the girl?”
An immense surge of rage disfigured Coppola’s face into a terrible grimace.
“How can you ask me that, Commissa’? Because he would have lost her. She had made up her mind to marry me, I know it, I can feel it. She just needed a little time to tell the others. The same way I knew it, he must have known it too, and so he killed her. And you’ll see, I’ll kill him in turn, with these hands of mine.”
Pietro ran toward him, in tears:
“No, no, Peppi’, don’t even say such a thing! Don’t you care about me, about us? Don’t you care about the family’s shame, the end of the company you built yourself, doesn’t that matter? What do you think, that if you get blood on your hands and you wind up in prison or, even worse, you get killed yourself, Maria Rosaria is going to come back to life?”
Maione placed a hand on Peppe’s shoulder.
“Your brother is right, Coppola. You’ll ruin your own life and you’ll ruin the lives of those who care about you. Leave it to us, you’ll see that the commissario, here, will find the culprit. It’s just a question of time. Don’t get yourself into trouble.”
Peppe went on muttering disconnected phrases. A thread of drool dangled from his lips; tears streamed down his cheeks uncontrollably. The workmen had stopped brushing and grooming the horses and stood, horrified, watching the scene. Pietro, also in tears, had one arm around his brother’s shoulders.
The first one to come to her senses was Ines, Pietro’s fiancée; she clapped her hands in the workers’ direction and, in a tone of voice that reminded Maione of Caterina’s, ordered them back to work.
Ricciardi signaled to the brigadier and spoke to the young man:
“Coppola, we’re leaving now. Listen, for your brother’s own good, keep an eye on him: if something bad were to befall anyone, we’d have to consider him the prime suspect. Have I made myself clear?”
Shoving his brother toward the house, the younger brother replied:
“Don’t worry about it, Commissa’. I won’t leave my brother for a second. And tomorrow . . . a flower for her, from him.”
Sitting on a bench by the streetcar stop, Ricciardi and Maione took advantage of the wait to take stock of the investigation.
The brigadier, fanning himself with his cap, said:
“Certainly this is odd, very odd indeed. We’ve talked to a lot of people, and everyone who knew her, for one reason or another, could have killed her, and the same is true of those who didn’t know her. The most curious thing of all though is that everyone says they loved her: Coppola, Ventrone, Lily, and Madame. The only one who hated her was her mother, but she depended on her monetarily so I very much doubt she would have wrung the neck of the goose that laid the golden eggs. A lovely riddle, eh, Commissa’?”
Ricciardi looked into the middle distance, his hands in his lap.
“A complicated situation, yes. Nor does the scene of the crime help much, or the body itself, without any useful marks or wounds. And all four of them would have had the opportunity: one man had just left her, the other found her dead, and the two women were already inside the building. Still, the prime suspects remain Coppola and Ventrone.”
Maione grimaced.
“Yes, but for one reason or another, I have to tell you the truth, the one I don’t trust is Ventrone. Especially because of Coppola’s reaction: you saw him, he’s lost his mind. You don’t do something like that and then end your life. The merchant, on the other hand, might be hiding his guilt by showing off how he’s taking care of the funeral.”
The commissario half-snickered.
“You really can’t stand him, that Ventrone, eh? I, on the other hand, can’t see things clearly even out here in Vomero. Viper’s mother, for instance, strikes me as too determined: her hatred is excessive, if you take into account that she exploited her daughter’s profession. And even Coppola has these overblown reactions, at times. Did you see how his little brother tries to keep him under control? As if he might explode at any moment. There’s something that still doesn’t add up.”
Around the corner the streetcar swung, its steel wheels screeching, one of the new models with eight wheels and a green two-tone paint job. Maione laughed:
“Out here with all these plants, you’d never see the streetcar coming, it’s so green. Lucky it makes so much noise!”
Ricciardi shook himself and stepped up onto the running board.
The spectacle of sunset was just beginning.