Best served cold, p.11
Best Served Cold, page 11
“When did you last see Biraldo?”
Rucola seemed startled by her question, even though it was the most obvious one to begin things. “It was yesterday. Late afternoon. He was here.”
“Why did he come here? An old friend stopping to say hello?” The way she said it indicated that she was taking seriously her role of bad cop, but it didn’t appear to faze Rucola.
“I was expecting him to want to see me, since I owe him some money. I was starting a new line of pieces and had talked him into backing the idea. So far it hasn’t panned out, so I haven’t been able to pay him back.”
Chiara glanced at Rick, who took the cue to play good cop. “From the drawings on the table, it appears that you are an artist.” He picked up one of the sheets, which had a sketch of a fountain similar to the one on the wall. “This is quite good.” Was he overdoing it?
“Those are sketches for garden statuary I create in my studio down the street.”
“Part of the new line that Biraldo was investing in?”
“Yes, exactly. They will be larger than the ones I usually make; I think they’ll sell better.”
The bad cop spoke. “But so far they haven’t, and Biraldo was not happy when he came here to see you yesterday. Was there an argument?”
Rucola rubbed his hands together and stared at the floor. “Not really. He wasn’t happy that I couldn’t pay him. He said he needed it badly. But we didn’t really argue.”
Chiara jabbed a finger at the floor. “That’s not what the woman downstairs remembers. She said it sounded like two people were going at each other tooth and nail. Or did you have a fight with someone else here yesterday afternoon?”
“She’s an old busybody.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Signor Rucola.”
“He shouted at me. But I am a calm person.”
“Most artists have an even temperament,” Rick said. “How did you leave it? I’m sure you are as anxious to pay him the money as he was to get it.”
The man was relieved to be able to address Rick rather than the inspector. “He knows I’m good for the repayment, with interest. He’ll have it as soon as I sell a few of these pieces. There’s a shop here in town that’s interested, and it’s in a good location. Lots of tourists.”
Rick took from his answers that he either didn’t kill Biraldo or was very good a pretending that the guy was still alive. How long would it take for Chiara to bring up the murder?
“What did you do for the rest of the evening, after Biraldo left?”
His reaction to her question was puzzlement. “I kept on working, made my dinner, and worked some more.” He held up his hands and shrugged. “Look, I assume you are looking for him because of some issue other than what I owe him. It’s a lot of money for me, but certainly not enough to get the police involved. I didn’t meet him later, and I have no idea where he went after he left here.”
“He was murdered last night,” said Chiara. “Can anyone vouch for you being here?”
Rucola looked at Rick as if needing a confirmation of what he’d just heard. When Rick kept silent, the man pushed a hand through his unkempt hair and worked himself up to an answer. It took a full minute. His voice was lower, and he spoke slowly while looking from one face to the other. “Ettore was an unsavory character, but he didn’t deserve to die. And I didn’t kill him. I live alone and can’t afford to eat out very often. Unlike Ettore. So you have only my word that I was here all evening.”
“If you didn’t do it, who do you think would have had a motive to murder Biraldo?” Rick asked.
A trace of a smile crossed Rucola’s face. “A girl’s outraged father or brother? Someone he cheated in business? A cuckolded husband? Take your pick. The small sum of money I owed him was likely the most minor of motives.”
“Names?” The question was barked out by Chiara.
“I don’t know the names of his female conquests, but on the business side, you should talk to Arnoldo Fillipo. He’s a sculptor but does individual pieces that he sells in his own gallery.” He waved a finger at the papers on the table. “Not like my work that gets sold to Eastern European tourists.” The smile widened. “Arnoldo is a brilliant artist—just ask him and he’ll tell you.”
Chiara stood up. “We will do that. Don’t leave town.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rick easily found his way back to the hotel. He had always been a map person, and the layout of Assisi was already firmly set after he had studied it in the hotel. When he was a kid and his father came home to announce where they were to be sent next, he always brought with him a map of the new city. Father and son would go over the country map in the atlas, and then Rick would huddle with his new city map. By the time the family arrived in their new diplomatic posting, Rick had done his research and was familiar with all the landmarks. It was a running joke among his school friends that Montoya was like a compass: he always knew where north was.
More difficult than finding the hotel was separating himself from Inspector Berti. Chiara had suggested getting a coffee, or perhaps an after-dinner drink, to talk about the two interviews and what to do next. Rick begged off, claiming fatigue after the long drive from Rome and all the day’s excitement. But he did feel the need for a caffé. He picked up his key at the front desk and walked to the bar, where a bored attendant stood behind the counter.
“Hi, Rick.” The voice was that of Lillian Rael. She sat by herself, a glass of red wine on the table next to her, and a magazine on her lap. She was dressed as she had been before dinner, when she was also nursing a glass of wine. “Come sit.”
Rick ordered his coffee, gave the barman his room number, and walked to the table. “How are you, Lillian?”
“Couldn’t be better.” She pronounced the words slowly and deliberately before fortifying herself with a drink of wine. “We missed you at dinner.”
“How was it?”
“I always thought Italian food was spaghetti with tomato sauce. Not tonight. First they served rice with mushrooms, then steaks. I didn’t know Italians ate steaks. It was quite good, but a bit on the rare side for me.”
Rick’s coffee arrived at the table and he stirred in sugar. “What else has surprised you about Italy so far?” It was something that he always found interesting: people’s impressions when arriving for the first time in a country other than their own.
“How old everything is. Of course I knew about that, but it is different when you actually see something that was built before Columbus discovered America. We consider New Mexico to be old by American standards, but there’s no comparison.”
“That is a common reaction I’ve heard from people visiting Italy for the first time. You get a completely different sense of history when you experience a more ancient culture. It puts things in perspective.”
“Do you miss being home in New Mexico, Rick?”
He downed his espresso in one gulp and thought about how to answer. It was a question he got often from visiting Americans, especially proud New Mexicans. There was the long answer, explaining that, as a foreign service brat, “home” was a relative concept, usually defined as where the pictures were presently hung. And if “home” wasn’t where they were living at that moment, then whose home would be home? Was it the Rome of his mother or the New Mexico of his father? It had been that way during most of his youth, and even when he went off to college, when UNM became his home. He ran all that through his mind and decided to go with the short answer, which accepted her premise that he considered New Mexico his home. “Some things I miss. Friends, obviously, but with the internet it’s easy to keep in touch with them. There are New Mexican dishes I can’t get here in Italy, like chiles rellenos. I miss those sometimes.” She nodded, and the slowness of the nod made him wonder how much of what he said was getting through. “I will say it’s been a pleasure seeing Zeke again, and meeting such a nice group of New Mexicans reminds me what a great place my home state is.”
Lillian took another drink from her wineglass and carefully set it back down. “There’s more to this group than meets the eye, Rick.” A sly smile turned up the sides of her mouth.
The comment took him by surprise. “Everyone seems to get along well. What am I not seeing?”
“I really shouldn’t say anything.”
Rick held up his hand as if swearing an oath. “I can give you a reverse Miranda and assure you that nothing you say will be held against you.”
She laughed. “Just so it doesn’t get back to anyone in the group.” Rick waited while she took another sip of wine. “First of all, Father Zeke is a darling. We all love him to death. But after that, there are some personalities that just naturally don’t get along, though thankfully nothing has burst into the open yet. Adelaide, with her little niece in tow, acts like the tour was her idea, and is always telling us how tight she is with the archbishop. Yet she’s to blame for having that terrible Biraldo along, and look what’s happened to him now. It’s a disgrace. And her little Jessica? I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her. Always snapping pictures like she’s some famous photographer. It’s starting to get on everyone’s nerves. I’m not being a gossip, am I Rick?”
“No, certainly not. You’re just giving your honest opinion.”
“Good. I need someone to talk to. Peter doesn’t like me going on about people, and there is something about you that makes me feel that I can trust you.” She blinked her eyes, which was more from the wine than flirtation. “Has anyone told you that before?”
He had indeed heard it before, and was still undecided if it was a curse or a blessing. “What about Father Zeke? I’m sure you can go to him if you have any concerns.”
“Oh, no concerns. I’m just giving you my take on people.”
Rick considered excusing himself and going to his room, claiming fatigue as he’d done with Chiara Berti, but he was fascinated by the gossipy Mrs. Rael. In addition, he could not help wondering what she was going to say about Vicki Alameda. Probably saving her for last. “Chris Carson seems like a nice kid,” he said as neutrally as possible.
“I suppose. But how did he manage to get this job? A free trip to Italy, and all he has to do is drive a bus and carry a few suitcases? The bellhops did most of the work when we got here to the hotel.”
“It would have cost quite a bit to hire a local driver.”
“With what we’re paying, I’m sure it could have been covered. All Chris does is make goo-goo eyes at Jessica, even sometimes when he’s driving.”
Rick could not avoid immediately pondering what would be a good translation of “goo-goo eyes” into Italian. It was the curse of the professional interpreter. Fortunately, the term had not surfaced yet in any of the conferences where he did much of his interpreting, but he would try to remember later to think of just the right Italian phrase. If some American economist ever used it in a scholarly paper, he would be ready. He put the thought in the back of his mind and returned his full attention to Lillian. She was just hitting her stride and needed only a nudge to get her to the finish line. “You appear to be enjoying the company of Leon and Vicki Alameda. Did you know each other before the trip?”
“My husband, Peter, knew Leon from the chamber of commerce and some activities in the church. But I’d never met either of them, certainly not Mrs. Alameda.” The “Mrs.” was carefully enunciated. “She did not seem to me to be the kind of person to go on a religious tour organized by the archdiocese. Not that the rest of us are that pious, but still…”
Rick was relieved that Lillian did not appear to know about his past relationship with Mrs. Alameda, and he wasn’t about to tell her. “She is a bit younger than her husband.”
Lillian snorted. “A bit? The classic case of a gold digger going after an older man. And Leon Alameda doesn’t seem to have a clue about what kind of woman she really is.”
“What kind is she?”
Lillian looked left and right, more for dramatic effect than to confirm that they were alone. “Well, you should have seen the way she carried on with Biraldo the night we spent in Rome. The group went out for dinner at a restaurant near our hotel, and you would have thought Leon Alameda wasn’t at the table. She was shameless.”
“She does appear to be a very outgoing woman.”
“That’s one way to describe her. Not that her husband, Leon, is an angel himself, mind you.” She looked at her almost empty wineglass, and Rick feared that she was about to order a refill. She didn’t. “He’s a bit of a blowhard and a bully, even trying to provoke my husband with some scurrilous insinuations.”
Was Lillian upset that someone else had been allowed to engage in gossip? “What did he say?”
“I don’t even want to repeat it, but it had to do with Peter’s faith. Imagine, a devout Catholic all his life and strong supporter of the archdiocese, and Leon Alameda comes along and questions my husband’s commitment to the church. The Raels were one of the first Spanish families to settle in the territory. They brought the church into New Mexico.”
Lillian Rael was in high dudgeon and breathing hard. It appeared that her previous observations on the members of the group had been innocent gossip compared to whatever Alameda had said about her husband. She drained her glass and brought it down on the table with a bang, getting the attention of the waiter. It startled her as well, and she blinked and stiffened. “I’d better be getting up to the room. Peter was already dozing off, so I’ll have to sneak in quietly. It was so nice chatting with you Rick, and remember, this was all just between us.”
Rick got to his feet. “Of course, Lillian. See you tomorrow.” She walked unsteadily out of the room, and Rick sat back down before pulling out his cell phone to check the time. He noticed a text message and realized that he had not turned his ringer back on after silencing it for the interview with Letizia Gallo. He hit the button to read it.
Call me if you’re still up.
It was from Betta and had come in twenty minutes earlier. His finger hesitated over her number before finally hitting it. After three rings she answered.
“Ciao, Rick. Are you working on a translation? When you didn’t reply, I assumed you were asleep.”
Was there something in her voice, or was it the connection? “Ciao, Betta. Actually, I’m in Assisi; I drove up this morning. Piero was kind enough to let me use his car.”
“A last-minute job?”
“No, no. An old college friend is leading a religious tour group that’s going to be in Assisi for a few days, so I wanted to come up to see him. Piero suggested I stay in Perugia with my aunt Filomena, the one who owns my apartment. You remember hearing about her?”
“I do, but I’m trying to get my head around a college friend of yours leading a religious tour group. From what you’ve told me about your days at the university, I would not have expected that.”
Rick recalled that his uncle had said the same thing. “He’s actually a priest.”
“This is a joke, right?”
“It gets even stranger.” Rick went on to describe the events of the day, and how at Piero’s request he had been drawn into the investigation. He carefully avoided any mention of Inspector Chiara Berti, using the collective noun the police when he described how he was cooperating with the local authorities. “The murderer has got to be someone involved with Biraldo locally, since he was into some shady activities. It’s difficult for me to believe that someone involved in a religious pilgrimage could be a suspect.”
“But you’re not ruling them out.”
“Of course not. We both know from experience that nobody should be ruled out unless they have an ironclad alibi. And what have you been up to in Pisa? I assume you are still there and not calling from Rome.”
Her sigh was audible. “Yes, I’m here. This case is the classic story of a precious work of art stolen out of a church that didn’t have proper security. It’s a small color pastel of the Garden of Eden, and the congregants have been praying to it for centuries. It also brings in the occasional tourist that puts coins in to light it up. The museum of the diocese had tried for years to put it in its collection, which has excellent security, but the priest always resisted.”
Rick had always been fascinated by Betta’s work with the art fraud squad, but he knew that too many of these cases ended without the recovery of the stolen art. When that happened, Betta remained depressed for days, despite his reassurances that it was not her fault. Her love of art had gotten her into the job, but it also made the loss of any precious work almost personal. As a result, her next comment was a bit of a surprise.
“It’s an ugly little work, in my opinion, but it has some value. There’s no accounting for taste.”
“Sufficient value to send their crack investigator to track it down.”
“I don’t think that’s what happened. Normally we would not have sent anyone, but I think Carlo wanted to send me up here so I could fall on my face. There’s not much of a chance of recovering the pastel.”
The mention of Carlo Melozzo got Rick’s attention. Betta had told him several stories about the man, and none of them flattering. Melozzo was infamous both for his vicious office politics and his reputation as a womanizer. “Now that you’ve spent a day there, do you still think it’s a lost cause?”
She took a few seconds to answer. “I’m not sure. But one thing that is certain, I’m going to take advantage of the time to see a bit of Pisa. The last time I was here was with a school trip from the liceo, and all I remember is taking staged photographs of us holding up the tower. Carlo doesn’t want me back any time soon, so why not? Once you get a couple blocks away from the tower, the tourists disappear and there’s a lot to see.”
“I wish I were there to see it with you.”
“Me too.”
“So you had dinner alone?”
“No. I looked up an old college friend who works in a museum here, and we had dinner.”
“Is she involved in the case as well?”
“He, actually. His name is Elio Piombo.”
