Best served cold, p.14
Best Served Cold, page 14
“Yes, Chiara.”
“Buon giorno, Riccardo. Are you at Santa Maria degli Angeli yet? You should be, according to the tour schedule we found on Biraldo.”
“The group just walked in.”
“Good. Cesare Gallo’s winery is not too far from there, and he’s going to be waiting for us. I’ll have a car come by to pick you up.”
It took Rick a moment to remember who she was talking about. Of course, the husband of the lovely Letizia, the guy who owns the chocolate company and the vineyard. “Why do I need to go along?”
“You were helpful in the two interviews last night, so I thought you should be along. But if you’d prefer—”
“No, no. It is my duty to help the police, and I’m sure Father Zeke would agree.” He pictured a police car rolling up to the church, perhaps with a siren. “But give me the address of the winery, and I’ll have Chris drive me there.”
She gave it to him and got off the line. Rick walked back into the church where the group was still standing in the back taking in the scene and Zeke was explaining that if anyone wished to go to confession, the booths on the other side of the columns were marked with the languages of the priests inside. “Zeke,” Rick said, “I just had a call from the inspector, and she wants me along to interview another suspect. It’s nearby; do you think Chris could drop me there?”
“Of course, Rick. I’m sorry you’ll miss spending some time in this wonderful atmosphere, but we have to get to the bottom of Biraldo’s murder. You did say that you’d visited it when you were a child, of course. Yes, by all means take the van.” Chris Carson was standing next to Jessica, watching her take pictures. “Chris, please take Rick to where he needs to go and drop him off. Rick, can you get back on your own or will you call me? Our next event is a wine talk before lunch in the town of Torgiano. We’ll need you for that.”
“I’m sure Inspector Berti will arrange to get me there.”
Chris blinked. “The policewoman?”
“Don’t worry, Chris,” said Rick, remembering how nervous the kid had been during the interview at the hotel. “She won’t want to talk to you again. Let’s go, so you can get back to see the church.”
They walked quickly outside and across the plaza to the parking lot. Once inside the van Rick sat in the front passenger seat and gave him the name and address. Chris typed it into the van’s GPS and a feminine voice in English ordered him to drive for a quarter mile and turn left. He obeyed. The land quickly turned rural once they crossed Highway 75, but it was mostly olive groves or crops Rick could not identify. Chris stayed silent, his eyes on the road.
“Have you thought of anything else about Biraldo since yesterday?”
Chris looked quickly at Rick, as if just realizing he had a passenger. “Me?”
“You and I are the only ones in the van. Yes, you.”
“I have been thinking about it.” He paused, and Rick said nothing, knowing from experience that sometimes it was better to be quiet and wait when the person talking is nervous. It took a few moments. “In the airport, when we were waiting for the plane from Atlanta to Rome, I heard something.” More hesitation, but his listener stayed patient. “Biraldo was talking with Leon Alameda. I could only hear bits of their conversation, but from the tone I got the impression that they were somehow conspiring.”
“Conspiring?”
“Yeah. They were talking about other people. I heard Mr. Alameda mention his wife, and several times I heard him say Peter.”
“Peter Rael.”
“I would assume it was Mr. Rael they were talking about. But as I say, I couldn’t hear well. They kept announcing flights over the public address, and of course I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.”
“Of course.”
The voice from the dashboard announced a turn a quarter mile ahead and an arrow appeared on the screen. Grapevines had begun to line the road outside the van, with tiny spring grapes starting to pop out on some of them. Chris slowed the van. The voice told them that their destination was just ahead, and a sign for Dolce Vita winery confirmed that she was correct. They turned in, trading the ample pavement for a narrow lane of gravel. Branches reached out like fingers to touch the side of the van before the lane widened and came to an open area where a police car was already parked. Chiara Berti stood beside it, talking on her cell phone. Chris made a wide looping turn and stopped while watching the inspector.
Rick pulled the door handle. “Thanks, Chris, I’ll see you at lunch.”
“Are you going to tell her what I said?”
“Don’t you want me to?”
“I don’t know. Sure, go ahead. It won’t matter.”
Rick’s boots crunched on the gravel when he descended from the van and closed the door. After Chris drove off, he stood in the middle of the lot and looked around. His first thought was that the winery was more of a tax write-off than a moneymaking endeavor. He was certain that Dolce Vita chocolates was a major operation, but unless he was missing something, Dolce Vita winery was not. At the edge of the vines stood a shed that was not much larger than the van. It had one small window, and a pipe protruding from the tin roof indicated that a stove or heater took up some, or perhaps most, of the space inside. An open Quonset hut steps from the shed held a small tractor, metal tools, and stacked wicker baskets. Near the shed sat a shiny new Land Rover, the sign of a gentleman farmer. All that was lacking was Cesare Gallo wearing a tattersall jacket with patched sleeves and sporting an ascot.
“He’s out checking his vines,” said Chiara while slipping her phone into her jacket pocket. She wore her usual dark pantsuit with a white blouse. “We’ll wait for him here, unless you want to walk through the dirt.” She looked at the cowboy boots. “I’d rather not.”
“You’re not a country gal, it would appear.”
“It would appear correct. The only dirt I might identify with is what the street sweepers pick up along Via Condotti.” She looked toward the fields. “I wonder if he’ll have nice boots like you, Riccardo.”
“These are my everyday boots. I have fancier ones for dressing up. Did you find out anything about Signor Gallo?”
“He’s clean on our records, if that’s what you mean. Studied business at the Bocconi in Milan and started at the family company soon after graduating. When his father died, he took over running it, apparently quite successfully. And here he comes.”
Cesare Gallo was in fact the image of the gentleman farmer, but Italian rather than English. He wore corduroy pants, a knit shirt, and a lightweight leather jacket. The boots were of dark suede, well scuffed and more practical than fashionable. He wore no hat, perhaps to show off a thick shock of black hair. Aviator sunglasses completed the outfit. He emerged from a row of vines and walked confidently to the two visitors, extending a hand to Chiara as he checked her out.
“You must be Inspector Berti. And this is?”
“Riccardo Montoya,” Rick said, taking his turn with the handshake.
“Signor Montoya is assisting in the investigation. Thank you for giving us some of your time, Signor Gallo. This should not take long.”
“My time is yours. I’m afraid I have nowhere for us to sit and talk.” He tilted his head toward the tiny shed. “It has only one chair and is rather stuffy anyway.”
“Out here is fine,” Chiara answered. “You tend to your grapes by yourself?”
Gallo smiled. “I have a man who works part-time; he does the pruning and checks on the vines. During harvest, like all the other vineyards, I hire people. It is not a large operation, and I sell all my grapes to others in the valley. I don’t make the wine myself.”
“Have you had the vineyard long?”
“No, Signor Montoya, only a few years. It’s really more of a hobby than anything. I love coming down here a few days a week and walking the rows of vines, watching their progress from tiny buds to clumps of grapes. Even in the winter, when they are scrawny and leafless, it helps clear my head.” He pulled at the sleeve of his jacket. “And I don’t have to wear a suit and tie. By the way, I like your boots. Are they from Rome? I noticed a bit of a Roman accent.”
“From America.”
Gallo nodded, thought for a moment, and turned to Chiara. “How can I help you, Inspector?”
“How long did you know Biraldo?”
“We grew up together, going to the same schools. He was always the one getting in trouble and trying to pull his other friends into it with him. A few times my parents told me I shouldn’t hang out with him, but I didn’t pay much attention to them. We had a bit of a competition in the liceo over girls, since he considered himself irresistible. I wouldn’t say that Ettore was my closest friend, but we were close enough that he felt he could ask favors of me when we became adults.”
“You lent him money.”
Gallo folded his arms over his chest and looked her in the eye. “Letizia told me that she’d mentioned that to you. I think she may have overdramatized the facts of the loan; it wasn’t really that large an amount. He was going to America, and he wanted some start-up money to import Italian art. Ettore was an old friend, so I couldn’t turn him down flat, but I knew him well enough not to lend him too much. When he went so long without paying back anything, I was annoyed with him, but I may have been more annoyed at myself for lending it to him in the first place.”
Berti stared back. “Tell us your movements in the late afternoon and evening of the day before yesterday.”
“Letizia told me you’d asked her the same thing. I worked late at the office.”
“Alone?”
“Alone. It’s not much of an alibi, is it? But I had no reason to murder Ettore, certainly not for not paying back a small loan. To state the obvious, now that he’s dead, I’ll never get that money back.”
Rick waited for Chiara’s inevitable next question, wondering how delicate she would be in asking it. She stayed true to form.
“You were aware of your wife’s relationship with Biraldo, Signor Gallo?”
Apparently Gallo was expecting the question as well. “Letizia feels the need for an occasional indiscretion, so I have come to expect it. She claims that I am only interested in the business and don’t give her enough attention.” He shrugged. “She may be right. Usually her flings do not end in murder, though. Perhaps this will cure her.”
* * *
Every street that ran along the Arno River was called a lungarno rather than a via. To make things more confusing for that rare tourist who ventured more than a block from the Leaning Tower, different sections of the lungarno had different names. The stretch where Betta was to meet the art dealer was the Lungarno Pacinotti, named for a nineteenth-century physicist and native son. Leave it to Pisa, Galileo’s hometown, to name its streets after scientists. She was puzzled by Signor Galilei’s insistence on meeting at a deserted section of wall along the river. She’d heard intrigue in the voice of the man when they’d talked, but it might have been the connection. From her experience, most gallery owners enjoyed dealing with the art fraud squad—could the guy have something to hide? Probably not; more likely, he was a fan of spy novels.
The rendezvous point was a short stroll from Elio’s museum, which was also right on the river. She started walking on the buildings side of the street, but soon crossed over to the sidewalk that ran along the water. The Arno at this point was about as wide as it was when it flowed through Florence, but unlike the Tuscan capital, here there was no Ponte Vecchio and almost no tourists. Two double sculls zipped along the surface, their young oarsmen reminding her that Pisa was a university town. In the distance on the other side of the river was Santa Maria della Spina, one of the more curious oddities of the city, though not as well-known as the most curious, the Leaning Tower. The church was a miniature bundle of spires, a Gothic doll’s house that for some reason had been placed next to the river.
Across the river from the church, as he had promised, stood Massimo Galilei, staring at the water below. At least she assumed it was Galilei, since the age and appearance fit the part. He wore a suit that was a bit heavy for the spring temperatures and looked, even from a distance, to be a touch threadbare. In profile an aquiline nose dominated a face that included bushy white eyebrows, their color matching tufts of white hair that spilled over the ears. She guessed he was mostly bald under a jaunty black beret. The total image, bolstered by the headwear, was that of an aging orchestra conductor. Or an aging art gallery owner. As she got closer, he continued to stare down at the Arno, seemingly oblivious to the click of her heels on the pavement. She took the cue and stopped next to him, leaning on the wall with her elbows. Perhaps there was something interesting floating below.
“Signor Galilei?”
“You’re late.”
Betta checked her watch. “Actually, I’m a few minutes early.”
“Oh. Perhaps you’re right.” He kept his eyes on the water. “I wasn’t expecting a woman.”
“Didn’t your granddaughter tell you I was a woman?”
“I suppose she did. But still.”
“Well, I’m here. What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“I don’t like being involved in this kind of thing. I’m a reputable businessman.”
“Of that I have no doubt, Signor Galilei.” She wanted to add that he appeared to be enjoying it. All he lacked was a cloak and a dagger. “This is a sordid business that goes against every value that we, as lovers of art, hold dear.”
For the first time, he looked at Betta. “Yes. Yes, those are my sentiments exactly.”
“And you felt it was your civic duty to call me.”
“Precisely.”
She decided to shake him up and try for a cut to the chase. “Have you got the pastel?”
“Certainly not.”
“But you know where it is.”
Galilei shook his head, then looked left and right, though it was obvious no one was anywhere near them. For further effect he lowered his voice. “I had a call from someone who said he was in possession of the Garden of Eden pastel, and he wanted me to buy it or find him a buyer.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. What did you tell him? Or her?”
“It was a man. He had a deep, gruff voice. I almost hung up, thinking it was some crank, but then I thought it was my duty to find out if it was real. I owed it to the art world, and to Oresti.”
“Oresti?”
“Father Oresti.”
“Of course, the priest. You know him?”
“Saint Ursula’s is my parish church. I live nearby.”
“I see. But you didn’t tell Father Oresti.”
“I would have, but then you showed up at the gallery. So I called you.”
“You did the right thing.” They both watched a rather large tree trunk float by. “I’m glad you weren’t tempted to buy the work yourself.”
“And I’m certainly glad he came to me first. What if he had approached some unscrupulous art dealer rather than me? I shudder to think of what would have happened.”
“How much do you think the pastel is worth?”
“I’m sure I could have sold it for at least fifty thousand euros. I have a client in Switzerland who loves the work of that artist, and he would have snapped it up, no questions asked.”
“Thank goodness you’re an honest man, Signor Galilei. How did you leave it with the man who called you?”
“I said I would think about it and call him back.”
“Well, we’d better call him now, before he goes to an unscrupulous dealer.”
His eyes, which had been in a conspiratorial squint, now widened. “Really? Now?”
“Of course. Tell him you have a wealthy buyer, but she and her husband want to see the pastel before deciding. That’s the way these sales work.”
“That’s smart. Take a real cop along in case there’s some violence.”
Betta let the slight pass, saying nothing. Galilei pulled a small fold-up phone from his pocket, a model she hadn’t seen in years. He extracted from another pocket a wrinkled paper with the number he’d written down, and hit the buttons. The conversation was short, with Betta hearing only a muffled voice on the other end. Galilei scribbled something on the paper, using the top of the wall as a writing surface.
“He wasn’t happy with two of you, but I convinced him.” He handed her the paper with the address. “And he absolutely forbade me to come along.”
Betta heard the disappointment in his voice. “You can wait outside until we arrest him,” she said. “We don’t want any witnesses to anything that might happen in there.”
Galilei gulped. “I understand.”
* * *
Torgiano was almost a company town, that company being the various enterprises of the Lungarotti family, beginning with wine from vineyards that started at the edge of the village. The company wine museum and olive oil museum brought in tourists, as did the restaurant inside a four-star hotel that looked out over the fields. On a clear day like today, the view could extend all the way to Assisi, a tiny swath of white brushed on a green hill in the distance. It was in front of this hotel, in the space reserved for arriving guests, that the police car was parked, earning the silent reproach of the bellhop. Rick and Inspector Berti leaned against the side of the car.
“Signor Gallo has a point about motive,” said Berti. “Why would he murder someone who owes him money?”
“But that’s not his only motive.”
She nodded. “True, but he seemed blasé about his wife’s playing around, and the way he said it, I can almost believe him.”
“I’m not sure of that, Chiara. He’s a smooth talker, and my sense was that he had his answer ready, and it had been well rehearsed. He had to be bothered by Letizia’s behavior.”
“So he lured Biraldo up to the castle and, in a fit of rage, did him in? He doesn’t fit the profile, in my mind. Of course he could have hired someone.” She noticed Rick’s puzzlement. “No, he also doesn’t fit the profile for someone staging a hit like that. And how would he have gotten Biraldo up there, either by himself or by his assassin? The scene of the crime doesn’t make sense for Gallo.”
