L'Oro Verde (16 page)

The priest’s presence only made her
inquiry more difficult. If she made a wrong move, she would be back in front of
the secretary general and the bishop. Sister Angela hoped her polite demeanor
worked.

Carlo came up to her after she finished
her meal and refilled her wine glass. “My father tells me you want a tour. Would
you mind if I tore you away from your new friends now? You can bring the glass
with you.”

“Oh please. I certainly want to get the
tour in before it’s too late.”

“Come along then. I’m glad you brought
your walking shoes. We are going to hit the orchards first.”

Sister Angela followed Carlo farther
down the road and across a cleared field. They stopped at an outcropping of
rocks. Silvery-green sprays dotted the side of the gently sloping hill.

“This is an orchard of moraiolo olives.
They are famous in Tuscany. On this tree here, you can see the black and dark purple
drupe. Each weighs about two grams when ripe and contains eighteen to
twenty-four percent oil.”

Over the tops of the trees, Sister
Angela could see the patchwork of grapevines across the valley. Beyond that, Petraggio
stretched out along the base of more hills. The bell tower of Santa Maria
Church emerged above the roofs of the sprawling city. They walked down the hill
and traversed another field.

This is the leccino olive. The trees are
hardier than the others—and bigger. That’s why we plant leccinos on this side of
the hill. It’s more exposed to the weather,” he said, plucking the fruit and
rolling it between his fingers. “While the size of the purple drupe grows to
two and a half grams, it yields somewhat less than the moraiolo. There’s a
fruity taste to the oil when we use these. If they aren’t used to produce oil,
they can also be processed as table olives. You have probably had olives from
this orchard. Spaggio’s Restaurant in Petraggio serves only our olives.”

“And you process those drupes elsewhere
too?”

“No, we do that here. I’m sure you
already know the drupe doesn’t taste like an olive until it’s processed.”

“Most certainly, every child in the
valley must have tried to check that out on his own,” she said. “I certainly
did.”

“Yes. They have to be marinated in brine
or vinegar first. Only then do they have that flavor,” he said, walking with
his back to the pathway to make sure the nun could keep up. “And finally, I
want to show you our most prized trees. The rows are planted over here in a gap
in the hill. The heavy storms aren’t so bad in the crevice.”

The two crossed a small glade. As the
ankle-deep layer of grass that carpeted the field caressed her feet, the nun suddenly
stopped and spun around to view the hills to the west and beyond. Over the tops
of the trees, the sea shimmered.

“How perfectly romantic,” she whispered,
gazing at the breathtaking view. The familiar scene brought back memories of
summer days with an old boyfriend. She would sit by his side on warm evenings
and gaze at the sun setting over the hazy water. After several long seconds
passed in silence, she turned back to Carlo. “These trees look smaller.”

“Yes, but they are the very best
quality. These trees produce quite a few olives in spite of their size. The
frantoio olive is fruitier than the others, and the oil smells sweeter. This
area is perfect for growing olives because it’s dry but not too hot. It’s too
rocky for other crops but perfect for olive trees. The sun is shining directly
on them most of the year.”

“When is the fruit ripe?”

“We usually harvest in late
fall—October, November, and sometimes even in December.”

“Do you pick them by hand?”

“It would be preferable to pick them
that way. The goal is to protect the fruit. But as you can see, there are too
many trees. It wouldn’t be cost effective. We use a process called
beating
.
Earlier this century, my family used canes to shake the limbs. The olives would
fall onto a special cloth laid out beneath the tree. But now we have machines
that do the same thing. We drag the tree with mechanical arms, shaking the olives
off into a net that’s poised above the ground. Let’s go to the lab now, and
I’ll show you what happens to the drupe,” he said, stuffing his hands into his
pockets and starting to walk back up the hill. After a few steps, he turned to
watch her follow him. “I hope this isn’t too boring, Sister Angela.”

“Oh no. I hope
you
don’t find it
so.”

“I’m captivated by it. I’m so lucky that
I am my father’s son. The business is already here for me to take over.”

Sister Angela could hear it in his
voice. Carlo was ready to take over the reins of L’Oro Verde from his father.
The boy definitely knew the olives he grew. What more would she find out about
the family who grew the olives and wanted to stand up to the big processing
plant in Petraggio? Sister Angela did not know it yet, but here in this rocky
soil on the side of a hill Tuscany, the heart of olive country in northern Italy,
she was about to discover the frame into which all the puzzle pieces fit. Would
she see the whole picture through the leafy branches of the olive trees?

Carlo walked up the hill, stopping every
ten yards or so to wait for the nun to catch up. He seemed so mature and calm. Surely
this nice young man could not have attacked Bernardo so viciously? Sister
Angela felt the heat and wondered how Carlo and his men put up with it day
after day. Soon, they arrived at a building. Carlo held open the door for
Sister Angela, who was happy to get out of the sun. The inside of the
cinderblock structure was about the size of two large rooms.

“This first sink-like vat is the
cleaner. The olives can’t have leaves or dirt on them when they go to the
press. To clean them, they are turned over and over in cold water. These huge
granite stones then crush the drupe, pits and all, until a paste is formed. The
paste is sent to the press over here, and a centrifugal force separates the
paste into olive residue, water, and the oil. We can then decant the oil
further or bottle it and sell it.”

“But I thought Garibaldi’s did all
that.”

“If the price is right, we send some of
the olives directly to Garibaldi. Of course, he wants to do all of it, but my father
has always resisted. We do much of it here, primarily producing extra virgin.
By law, it must have an acidity of less than one percent, and I’m not sure
Garibaldi’s processing is fine enough to produce the best tasting extra virgin.
It can have different flavors, you know, depending on the type of olive,” he
added, looking directly at her. “That’s the tour. Do you have any questions? If
not, we can head back to the house.”

“I wanted to speak with your father. Do
you think the party has broken up sufficiently so I can talk with him alone?”

“I don’t believe that would be a good
idea. My father usually parties too hard. The help will have to put him to bed before
he makes a fool of himself.”

“Then maybe you can tell me something
before we join the other guests,” she said, trying to hide her surprise. “An old
friend of mine, who was also your mother’s friend, went to place flowers on her
grave in the cemetery in Bologna. He was surprised to see another grave
there—one for a young Mansuieto Vitali. Who was Mansuieto?” She hated it when she
lied. Before she did it, the nun told herself that it was only a story and knew
God was smart enough to see it for what it was. Tonight she would have to do
extra penance in the chapel. Her failings were human, though. Sister Angela believed
God would forgive her.

The young man stared at her. “Oh, you
mean my older brother. He was named for my grandfather. Didn’t you know about
him?” He leaned against the sinks and crossed hisarms.

“No. I didn’t know your mother lost a
child.”

“Well, I wasn’t around, but she lost a
baby at birth.”

“In a hospital?”

“No. I think she had it here. She went
into labor and gave birth before anyone could help her. Actually, I’m not sure
where I got that impression, though. Why?”

Sister Angela noted something in his
voice—something she wanted to explore further but did not dare.
He must know
more than he’s revealed
. “My friend said he had seen her in the spring
of 1985,” she continued. “He didn’t think she was with child then.”

“No. I believe she had it earlier that
year. But what would I know? I wasn’t here yet, and we don’t celebrate his birthday.
I really think we should return to the party, don’t you? Without my father
there, I’m the host.”

The two walked back to the house. Sister
Angela noticed that only a few people remained on the patio. Father Sergio still
sat in the same chair, absently talking to the only guest left at his table. He
did not acknowledge the nun’s return. Sister Angela was thankful for that.

“May I get myself a glass of water in
the house?” she asked Carlo.

“Yes. Let me show you the way.”

He led her through the family room. The
furniture looked comfortable, but the colors and textures were exquisite. They
rounded the corner to the long dining room. The wooden table and chairs were
rough-hewn, in the style often considered Spanish. A matching hutch and buffet stood
against opposite walls.

Sister Angela let her eyes follow the
line of photographs on the buffet. “Oh, is this you?” she asked about a picture
of two boys, the younger holding hands with a toddler.

“Yes, that’s me with my younger cousin,
Giorgio. Nicola is the baby.”

“I couldn’t begin to guess who all these
babies are,” the nun said.

“We don’t have any of my older brother,
Sister. I presume that’s what you were going to ask.”

“But I thought you said he died at
birth,” she said, honestly surprised by his assumption. When he did not answer,
she picked up another photo. “And look at this large one,” she said.

“That’s my sister’s second birthday
party.”

“Look back here. Isn’t that Mrs. Reni?
The one with the little boy?”

“No. You must be mistaken. I’m sure
that’s my Aunt Katarina, my mother’s sister. That would make the boy me again.”

A phone in a nearby room rang. A woman,
presumably part of the staff, picked it up.

“Carlo, it’s about the flowers for next
Saturday. The man wants to know if they should be delivered directly to Santa
Maria’s or come here first.”

“I’ll get it in the other room,
Antonella. Excuse me, Sister. Antonella can show you to the kitchen for the
water.”

“Oh my, the bus should be arriving in a
few minutes. I don’t really need the water, anyway. Carlo, thank you so much for
the tour and please thank your father for inviting me.” The nun rushed out and
headed for the driveway.

The pieces of the mystery just might be
coming together. She could not wait to get back to her room and work on the
puzzle.

*

And then what did you say?” Sister
Daniela asked.

She and Sister Angela sat on a bench at
the entrance to one of the towers. The students were on a field trip. They would
climb the stairs of Polini Tower as far as they could, and through the barred
window, look down on the roofs of the village. She could hear them at the top,
giggling with pleasure.

Lino, a star science pupil, planned to
release a helium balloon from the top of the tower. Neither sister could figure
out how he would do it, the bars fit too close together. They both knew,
however, that he would succeed. The students were quite resourceful.

Sister Angela could remember Bernardo
delighting in his visit to the tower, the only one open for exploration. It was
the second tallest in town, slightly shorter than the tower of the original
town hall built in the fourteenth century. But toward the end of the thirteen
hundreds when another town hall was built, an even taller tower was erected
making it third tallest. Bernardo had memorized everything she told his class
about the towers. He liked them so much that he climbed to the top of Polini
every afternoon before going home from school.

They picked a good day for the trip. The
sky was only slightly hazy. From the top, the students would be able to see all
the way to the Mediterranean. The Tuscan hills, slowly turning to gold in the
heat, rolled up and then down. Directly below them, the patchwork of crops made
a quilt of the valley.

“I told him I thought both of our
suspicions were true. Bernardo was the eldest son of Mariella and Vittorio
Vitali. The inspector and Officer Tortini have only to figure out if the
Vitalis and the Renis met within two months of the baby’s birth.”

“Do we know anything about the Vitali
baby? Where or exactly when he was born?” Sister Daniela asked.

“The baby boy supposedly died at birth.
DiMarco has to find out from the cemetery whether the body is actually interred
there. He should be able to start with the records held by the cemetery and
work backwards to find out the place of birth. At least I hope so. Carlo said
his brother was born sometime early in the year. I think that’s when Bernardo’s
birthday was too.”

“I don’t see why he just doesn’t have
the body exhumed.”

“Oh my, Sister Daniela, I hope it
doesn’t come to that. I really think the bishop might have my veil if we dig up
a real body. I’m almost positive the casket is empty but am not ready to bet my
vows on it.”

“So that’s one suspicion. What’s the
other?”

Sister Angela sighed. “That Carlo is to
be married next Saturday at Santa Maria’s.”

He’s a bit young, but what’s so
troublesome about that?”

“The bride is Gisella Lupoi. I suppose
it’s a secret because Vittorio is against the marriage. She didn’t mention it
when the inspector questioned her.”

“That name strikes a bell. Isn’t that
Bernardo’s girlfriend?”

“I certainly thought so, but now I’m not
so sure.”

“So is the inspector going to follow up
on the leads?” the novice asked.

“Maybe. He’s rather worried about
pulling these particular people into the station.”

“Why? He has good reason to question
them. This
is
a murder case.”

“And these are powerful people, Sister.
After all, knowing who Bernardo’s real parents are and that an heir to a family
fortune is marrying a girl at a church next week doesn’t tell us who the
murderer is, does it? These events might not even be tied to the murder. The embarrassment
could cost the inspector his job.”

“So he wasn’t happy with what you found
out.”

“I think he needs the information, but I
don’t believe he’s going to do anything about it yet. He has to do a lot of homework
before he can make a move.” Suddenly, the two nuns heard a cheer and looked up to
see a large red balloon sail skyward. Later, Lino would explain that the bars
on the window were loose. He was able to pull the grate in and squeeze the
balloon, only partially filled, through the opening. Then, holding up the
portable helium canister, he filled it the rest of the way.

“I hope you put the grate back in
place,” Sister Angela said as students lined up for the walk back to the classroom.

“Oh yes. I couldn’t pull it all the way
in so I just pushed it back out,” said Lino.

The two nuns gathered up their class and
herded them back to school for a late afternoon discussion about the trip. The
investigation proved a refreshing break for the nun, but she loved teaching and
did not want to neglect her students—especially so close to the end of the
term. Her discoveries over the weekend were important, but she had invested so much
of the year watching these young people grow up. Being away now at the end of
the year was not good for her or her class.

*

“My goodness, I’m tired. I didn’t even
walk up those stairs with you. I guess it was the wonderful sun,” Sister Angela
said after her students took their seats. “Now, let’s talk about what happened
today. I’m sure you all remember that most of the towers were built in the
thirteenth century. Pretend your family has just built Polini Tower. Can any of
you tell me why?”

“They are there to hang ropes from so we
can erect our stall,” shouted one student, waving his arms. “My family sells shoes
to the pilgrims because theirs are worn out.”

“To defend the city,” said another. “We
can pour hot oil down on raiders and watch them sizzle.”

“It might be interesting to test you on
that. I’d like to see how you get all that hot oil up there and then how far
you could throw it since it’s nearly two blocks from the town wall,” Sister
Daniela said. “Too bad school is nearly out. Maybe we can do that next year.”

“Then I’ll throw garbage and fruit at
all my neighbors,” he said. “I would love to do that next year.”

The class laughed, and a number of paper
missiles soared overhead.

“In light of these conjectures, maybe we
should go over the timeline one more time,” Sister Angela said, masterfully taking
control once again.

“The first theory is a good one,” Sister
Daniela said. “This town, on the trade routes from Roma to France and England,
was a popular stop for both traders and pilgrims in the thirteenth century.
Montriano could have sold many different items to the visitors, but its
principle product was saffron from crocuses that bloom down in the valley in
early autumn. The flavoring and dye made the town very rich. In fact, Montriano
became so rich that the beautiful houses built by the wealthy merchants didn’t
seem to be enough for them. The town passed a rule that a house could only be
three stories high, seventeen meters wide, and twenty-four meters deep. Their
shops would take up the first floor, and they would live on the second and
third. While the residents could design the houses and use all types of fancy
brickwork, there was little else to distinguish them from their neighbors.”

“Obviously, our hilltop perch isn’t very
big,” Sister Angela added. “While taking up little space, a tower could be used
as advertising for the owner. So now the residents spent their money to build
towers, the taller or more illustrious, the better. The only restriction was
that it couldn’t be taller than that of city hall. As for residents throwing
things at their neighbors, that theory might be true. But the fierce feuding went
on more in the early fourteenth century when the economy began to slow. By the
middle of that same century, of course, the great plague killed three-quarters
of the population of Montriano. After that, our city would never again achieve
the wealth it had the century before.”