Dying on the Vine (26 page)

And it had all panned out; for once in his life, every guess had been right. Dormiquilla—“tranquil sleep”—was made by the same company; had very much the same tongue-curling, acrid taste (with a bit more “bite”); was the same color (the labels were sharply different); and had the same ingredients, in the same proportions, except for the addition of
etanolo—
ethanol; pure alcohol—which accounted for twenty-five percent in volume.

So how hard would it have been for someone with murder in mind to purchase a bottle of each, empty the Giorniquilla bottle, and pour into it instead the alcohol-laden Dormiquilla version? Answer: not very. And once in Cesare’s apartment, switching it with Cesare’s current bottle could have been accomplished in an instant. Once that was done, death wouldn’t have been long in coming. Gideon himself had seen Cesare take long guzzles of the stuff twice inside ten minutes. Certainly, he’d downed a good six ounces in that time alone.

Assume he was going at it at anywhere near the same rate at home. Twenty-five percent of six was 1.5. And 1.5 ounces of pure, one-hundred percent alcohol was the equivalent of two one-ounce shots of eighty-proof whiskey; surely enough, when consumed in a short time in combination with the reckless ingestion of cocaine, to trigger a fatal cocaethylene explosion. Gideon was way out of his field here, so, to be certain, he had called his friend Dave Black, a clinical prof at Vanderbilt who was his go-to person in matters toxicological, and had been told that that much alcohol would create more than enough cocaethylene to do the trick, especially in someone whose constitution was already compromised by his drug habit. That had been good enough for Gideon.

“I don’t get it,” Rocco said. “Why get all tricky and futz around like that? Why not just shove the guy out of a window? He lived on the third floor—what you call the fourth floor. He’d have gone
splat
when he hit the piazza.”

“I assume it was because whoever it was figured it might raise suspicions, what with the suit and everything else.”

“And he didn’t think a doctored bottle of cough medicine would raise suspicions?”

“Well, it didn’t, did it?

“Well, no, not at the time, but—”

“And the reason it didn’t is because everything—the circumstances, his history—pointed to a simple cocaine overdose. I mean, it was practically
expected
, sooner or later. And since cocaine toxicity and cocaethylene toxicity kill you in exactly the same way—the heart has to strain so much to pump blood that it decompensates; it just gives up and stops working; heart failure, in other words—well, on account of all of that, there was absolutely no reason to suspect anything other than a plain cocaine overdose. No reason to test the cough medicine any more than a carton of milk he might have had in his refrigerator.”

Hearing something like a mutter from Rocco, he added: “Nobody did anything wrong here, Rocco. Not the doc, not the lab, not you. Anybody would have drawn the same conclusion: death by cocaine poisoning.”

Rocco was unmollified. “Anybody but you, of course,” he grumbled. “Nothing gets by the great Skeleton Detective, does it?”

“What can I say? What’s true is true.”

Rocco laughed, and his voice eased up. “You’re really something, you know?”

“If that’s a compliment, I accept it. What about your end of things? Anything interesting happening?”

“Nah. Well, yeah, a few things. For one, we turned up a two-page list of passwords that he had at the back of his freezer.”

“Passwords? For Web sites?”

“You got it.”

“So he
did
have a computer.”

“Exactly. And whoever took it didn’t know about it—more likely didn’t think about it. He’s got some kind of code for what they’re for, but the passwords are clear enough, and Tonino’s busy deciphering right now and putting in every single one. We got his e-mail address from Franco, so it’s easy enough.”

“And? Anything?”

“So far, no. Bank accounts, airlines, discount travel, that kind of thing. But he just got started, so we’ll see. I have hopes. Oh, and he’s been going over those account statements we got from Severo too—”

“You keep the guy kind of busy, don’t you?”

“Sure. Idle hands, you know? Besides, I’d have to do it if he didn’t. Anyway, one of the bills was from a private eye Pietro hired. Guess who Nola was screwing around with.”

“It’s somebody I know?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Rocco couldn’t see him, but Gideon shook his head anyway. “I can’t think of anybody.” He laughed. “Severo Quadrelli?”

“Now how the hell did you—?”

“It
was
Quadrelli? I was just kidding.”

“No, it was him, Don Juan Quadrelli. Pietro hired the PI to keep an eye on her while he did his hermit thing in the mountains. The guy took less than forty-eight hours to get the goods on them. Called Pietro on his cell phone on September second, one day after he got up there.”

“Huh. Are you going to inform the family?”

“Not unless there’s a reason to. I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same. We told the PI we’d keep his name out of it.”

“Sure. What purpose would it serve anyway?”

“That’s the way I see it. Oh, and we also heard from Pietro’s doc; there was a bill from him in the accounts. Now, this is interesting. Pietro had a heart condition.”

The ball had rolled Gideon’s way again, and he kicked it back, but he was processing what he’d just heard, and it wasn’t a very accurate kick this time. The players had to chase it farther than they would have had he not interfered, and he took some verbal abuse for it. “Now that
is
interesting,” he said. “A bad heart?”

“Yup. ‘
Patologia cardiaca coronarica
,’ it says.”

“Coronary heart disease. Hardening of the arteries.”

“Right. Pietro himself kept it quiet, no big deal, but it was serious, and it’s been serious for a while. That was why he started taking his sabbatical in early September a few years ago instead of at the end of the month. The doc wanted him away while all the craziness was going on. But, you know, Gid, this brings up a question. . . .”

“It sure does. Was it a heart attack that killed him? Did the call from the PI bring it on? September second; that would be about right for the time of death.”

“Yup, I’m thinking it went down like this: Here’s this old, sick guy with a bad heart. He gets a call from his PI telling him his wife is definitely cheating on him. He grabs his chest and falls down in a heap, and that’s it. Never moves again.”

“Could be.”

“So, pardon me repeating myself for the thousandth time, but . . . why shoot his corpse in the head and throw the body off a cliff a month later?”

TWENTY-FOUR

“WHY  . . . and who?” Marti asked when Gideon had finished telling them about the call and they were done expressing their astonishment at identifying Quadrelli as the lothario in question.

He’d returned to the table after hanging up and had found them finished with their meals and drinking coffee. His own food wasn’t out yet. Julie had correctly assumed that his “Back in a minute” was more hopeful than realistic and asked them to hold his burrito until he returned.

She cut in now. “Can we forget about the
who
and stick with the
why
for a minute? I think . . .” She paused to order her thoughts. “I just wonder if it all might not go back to the will, the joint will.”

“For which Severo was the executor,” Marti said pointedly, still digesting the news about Quadrelli.

“No, forget about Severo too. I’m not thinking about Severo; I’m thinking about Pietro and Nola. Look, the will said whoever dies first, everything goes to the other one, isn’t that right? Pietro says: If I die first, everything goes to my wife. Nola says: If I die first, everything goes to my husband.”

There were nods around the table.

“
But
,”
Julie continued, “Pietro also says: If she dies before I do, then I leave everything to Franco.”

“Right,” said John. “And
she
says: If
he
dies before I do, then I also leave everything to Franco.”

“Meaning, one way or another, in the end Franco winds up with it?” Gideon said, turning it into a question. He was trying to figure out where she was heading.

Yes, in the
end
!” Julie said excitedly. “But first it would
necessarily
have to go to one of the two—Pietro or Nola.”

All three of them were looking blankly at her.

“Don’t you see? Pietro dies first—Nola gets it. Nola dies first—Pietro gets it.”

“But they both died, so Franco gets it.” Marti said. “What difference does it make which one died first?”

Gideon’s order had arrived. The burrito turned out not to be beef, but tuna and bean, but he hardly noticed. He was beginning to get a glimmer of what Julie was driving at, and he liked it. She, however, was getting increasingly frustrated with her effort to explain.

“Julie,” he said to help her out, “why don’t you just try telling us exactly what it was that you think happened?”

“Okay. Good. Let’s assume that Pietro did die of that heart attack. But of course, nobody knows about it. Well, one of the brothers—make it Franco—shows up at the cabin to see him about something—”

“I thought Pietro didn’t want anybody coming up while he was there,” Marti said.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean nobody ever did. Maybe it was a question about the winery, or something Pietro needed to know, or maybe it was just to check up on him—that bad heart, you know? Or to see if he needed anything? All it would have taken was a couple of hours’ drive. Anyway, he finds Pietro dead, and—”

“When would this be?” John asked. “Early, just after he died, or near the end of the month?”

“I don’t know that it would make any difference, John. It works either way. Anyway, he does some fast thinking, and what he thinks is: I’ve had it. Pietro’s dead; Nola’s still alive. She gets everything.”

Marti shook her head in confusion. “But doesn’t she eventually have to leave it to him, to Franco?”

“Eventually, but not
now
. Now she has full control of it all. Who knows how much will be left by the time she dies, or how long it’ll be before she gets around to dying? Who knows whether or not she’ll try and get that will changed so she can leave it all to Cesare?”

Now she got nods. It was starting to make sense.

“So he decides that Nola has to die too. And it has to look as if she died first—predeceased him—that’s the key part. He knows when she’s going to show up to pick up Pietro, so he goes back up there early that day, and he . . . well, he kills her.”

Marti was looking befuddled. “Okay, but I’m still not quite getting the weird thing with Pietro. Why throw him off the cliff too? Why
shoot
him? Why make it seem—”

“Because the whole idea, if I’m right, was to make it look like Pietro killed her and then committed suicide himself. See?” She paused expectantly, encouragingly, waiting for some sign that she’d gotten through to them.

“Yes,” Marti said, “but I still don’t quite—”

“There was one absolutely sure way to make it look as if he definitely outlived her, Marti, and that was to make everybody think he killed her. So he . . . I don’t know . . . he hides Pietro’s body somewhere, and then when Nola shows up, he gets her out on that path somehow and pushes her off the cliff and then goes and gets Pietro’s body, takes it up to the cliff, puts a bullet in his head, so it looks like he shot himself, and throws him off the cliff too. And then—I’m kind of making this part up as I go along—then he goes down below and arranges the bodies so it’s clear that Pietro came down after she did—”

“And probably sticks the gun in his jacket,” said Gideon.

“Probably.”

“But why did he shoot Nola
then
?” Marti asked after a moment. “She was already dead, wasn’t she? If he was going to shoot her, wouldn’t it have made more sense to shoot her up above?”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet. I guess he just wanted to be positive she was dead.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Gideon said, “but now I’m thinking—and this seems more likely, given what you’ve been saying—that he needed for her to be shot with Pietro’s gun so that there was no question about what supposedly happened, but he didn’t have the nerve to do it up above, so he pushed her off and did it down below.”

That puzzled Marti even more. “What, it takes less nerve to push somebody off a cliff than to shoot them?”

“Sure,” John said. “Think about it. If you’re going to shoot somebody, especially with someone else’s gun—a seventy-year-old gun—you have to worry about what’ll happen if it jams, or if the charge is too weak, or if your hand shakes and you only wound them, or if they turn around just before you pull the trigger and you panic. But to push them off a cliff? A quick shove when they’re not looking—on the back, the shoulder—it doesn’t matter where—and over they go. It’s done. You can shoot them later.”

“I see,” Marti said. “Yes, that makes sense. But wasn’t he afraid that when the bodies were found, it’d be obvious that Pietro’d died a long time before her? I mean, changes in the corpse—well, you know more than I do about that, Gideon.”

“Yes, it would have been obvious for the first few months,” he agreed, “but not if the bodies were someplace where they wouldn’t be found for a year—which is probably why he pushed them off the cliff and into a difficult-to-find area in the first place, rather than just shooting them and leaving them where they were, up on the path. By that time, in that climate, the soft tissue would be gone. They’d both be nothing but beat-up, chewed-on skeletons—as they were. And I doubt very much that he’d think those bones would give away anything about who died first. Or when.”

“The bones and the jacket,” John pointed out. “The fact that Pietro’s body had been gnawed on
under
the jacket. That was also something he wouldn’t have thought of.”

“I wouldn’t have either,” Julie said. “But what
about
the jacket? What was the point of putting it on him at all? That, I can’t figure out.”

“My guess,” Gideon said, “is that it’s something he didn’t think about when he first found Pietro. It would have been summertime, Pietro wouldn’t have been wearing a leather jacket. But when it came to doing the final deed, the weather would have gotten colder, and he realized it would have raised questions for Pietro to be out on a forest trail in his shirtsleeves—Nola was wearing a leather jacket, remember—so he slipped it on him then. After the animals had been at him.”

They looked at each other, trying to figure out if they’d covered all the bases. It was John who said, “I like it, I like it,
except
 . . . how did he know the bodies would ever be found? Because if they weren’t . . . oh, wait, of course!
He
was the guy who called about them, who supposedly didn’t want to get involved, who just happened to have the exact coordinates on his GPS.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Gideon said.

Julie returned to her coffee. “So—you think I might be right? That that’s what happened?”

“I think you
are
right,” Gideon said. He’d finished his burrito now, and he too waved for a cup of coffee. “I have to say, nothing like that ever crossed my mind, but now that you’ve laid it out, it sure answers a lot of questions.”

“Sure didn’t cross mine,” John said. “Good job, kid!”

“Hey, she’s blushing!” Marti said delightedly.

“That’s the hot sauce,” Julie declared.

“Julie,” Gideon said, “you used Franco as your example. Do you think it was him?”

She thought about that. “He
seems
like the most likely one, because he had the most to lose, but I don’t know. They all had a lot to lose. Not just those stipends, but their jobs at the winery, and their free living arrangements. So . . . I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Same as you do. Could be any of them.”

“Franco,” said John.

“Franco,” said Marti.

“Do you think you ought to pass the idea to Rocco?” Julie asked Gideon. “Something for him to think about?”

“No, I think
you
ought to pass the idea to Rocco. You came up with it, you should get full credit.” He got out his phone. “He must be still in his office. Give him a call. The number’s in there.”

“Well, I think I just might do that,” Julie said, taking the phone and flipping it open. She was very visibly pleased.

“You’ll want to be outside to do it,” Gideon told her. He swallowed half the coffee and set the cup down. “Everybody’s finished, right? Let’s all go outside.”

“
Muchas gracias, amigos
,” the bigger of the two burly guys called to them as they left.

“And
gracias a tu, signores
,” John called smilingly back.

• • •

ROCCO
was unavailable, so Julie left a message.

“Well,” Marti said, “we might as well get back to the villa, pack, say our good-byes—”

“Nope,” said Gideon firmly. “We’ve been in Tuscany for more than a week, this is our final day out in the country, and I have never once visited an archaeological site. This is unacceptable. I’m going to spend at least one afternoon at an archaeological site. You are welcome to join me. Or not.”

“Are you kidding us?” Marti said, laughing. “We just came from Florence. The whole place is one big archaeological site. The Duomo, the Uffizi—”

“The Duomo was built in the fourteenth century, the Uffizi in the sixteenth. I’m talking about someplace
old
.”

“How old is old?” John asked.

“For Gideon?” Julie said. “Ten thousand years would be about right.”

“No, I was thinking of a place called Sovana. It’s not that far south of here. There’s an Etruscan necropolis there. Rock-carved tombs going back over two thousand years. We could see it and be back here by six or seven, and in Florence at what passes for dinnertime in Italy.”

John burst out laughing. “Tombs! Skeletons! Whoa, that’ll be something different, won’t it? Real change of pace.”

But both Marti and Julie indicated interest, and Marti poked John with an elbow. “Come on, sport. It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, maybe, but . . .”

Gideon put his hand on John’s shoulder. “Dinner will be on me, how’s that?”

“Well, now we’re getting someplace,” John said.

• • •

BY
five o’clock that afternoon, all of the
Vino e Cucina
attendees had cleared out of the villa, with the exception of Julie and Marti, and they were off somewhere with their husbands. So, for the first time in days, the Cubbiddus felt that they could sit on their own terrace and discuss private matters without being overheard. They were at the largest of the tables: Franco, Nico, Luca, Linda, and Quadrelli. All of them except Nico had a glass of 2008 Villa Antica Sangiovese Riserva in front of them. Nico was drinking Cinzano from a highball glass.

The subjects under discussion were the death of Cesare and its implications for the suit. Was it ended now? Or did signora Batelli have something else up her sleeve? They had more than that on their minds, though. It escaped none of them that, if suspicions of homicide arose, they would all be high on the suspect list, with Franco, who had the most at stake, at the very top. Franco himself understood it best of all. But no one talked about it. It was the suit they concentrated on.

“I myself spoke with signora Batelli again a few hours ago,” Quadrelli was saying solemnly, “and I am happy to report that I anticipate no continued threat from that quarter. I believe I can safely say that I set the lady straight on— Ah, gentlemen.”

Three uniformed
carabinieri
had come out onto the terrace from the main building:
Tenente
Gardella,
Maresciallo
Martignetti, and a lower-ranking
brigadiere
they hadn’t seen before.