L'Oro Verde (17 page)

“Why aren’t there as many towers now?”
one student asked.

“A number of them weren’t built very
well. The foundations weren’t secure. Most just fell down,” she said. “Now,
Sister Daniela assigned you a project. Maybe you can show her what you did.”

“I asked you all to draw freehand or do
a rub on something historical in the vicinity of or inside the tower,” the
novice said. “Let’s go around the room and see what you have.”

Most of the students had drawn pictures
of churches and other towers from the top floor. A few did rubs of engravings inside.
One sheet was being passed around the room as the others spoke.

“I see that some of you have done some
extra credit artwork. Can you pass that sheet up to me?” Sister Daniela asked,
obviously disappointed the assignment was not being taken seriously. “The quicker
we get through this, the sooner you can go home.” She took the folded sheet and
placed it on the desk in front of Sister Angela.

“I hope you put your name on this,”
Sister Angela said. “We wouldn’t want you to miss out on the extra credit.” She
slipped on her reading glasses and opened the sheet just as

Sister Daniela pointed to a new
volunteer. “Oh my,” Sister Angela said. “Who did this rub?”

The classroom went silent. The students
did not even look at each other.

“I need to see the person who did this
right now. You won’t get into trouble this time, but I need to be led to the location
from which this was traced.”

Finally a hand went up.

“Celia? I’m quite surprised. It isn’t
usual for you to be making jokes—at least for you to get caught at it. Please
step outside with me for a minute.”

The girl, the smallest in the class,
slowly rose from her seat and followed the nun into the hallway.

“Celia, these letters look very
familiar. Can you show me where you saw them?”

“In the tower. I don’t know how many
stairs up.”

“If we go back now, maybe we can find
this message. Meet me in the courtyard in five minutes. I’ll need my sneakers
for this.”

*

The two returned to the site. The sun
dipped lower in the sky, and the tower cast a long shadow over the roof of the church
next door.

“At least it’s still light out here,”
Celia said. “It may start to get spooky in here soon, though. I brought the flashlight
we used today just in case.”

“We’d better hurry,” Sister Angela said,
slipping into her sneakers. “I think they lock the door in another half hour. I
don’t look forward to spending the night in there, do you?”

They started up the first flight. A path
had been worn in the middle of the uneven stone steps, making it difficult for them
to walk side by side. On each landing, Celia flashed the light toward the
ceiling.

“How did you get so high to do the rub?”

“I was with Ricardo. He let me stand on
his shoulders.”

It did not take long. On the fifth
landing, Celia caught sight of the spot. Sister Angela studied the letters,
etched into the stone. The beam of light cast shadows on each, making them
easier to read.

“There it is, Sister Angela. Just like
the rub:
N.V. loves
B.R.
I didn’t get the heart outline around
it. I didn’t have enough paper.” Celia glanced around at the spreading gloom. “Can
we go back down now?”

“Yes, Celia. This
is
a bit eerie,
isn’t it? I’ll get Inspector DiMarco to come back out here with me tomorrow. He
can bring a camera.”

“Is something wrong, Sister? We didn’t
do it. It was already here.”

“I know, child, I know. But these
letters could be very important.”
Very important indeed
, the nun said to
herself.

She already knew Bernardo spent a lot of
time here. Had he decided to make a little history of his own?

Nicola Vitali left her office just as
the cleaning crew arrived. She was always the last to leave her department.
Work was solace. Her life seemed to be unraveling. There was her father—it fell
on her shoulders to put the old man to bed after each binge. He was always weak.
Each time there was another problem, he would turn to his wine. And now, there
were more crises—a lot of them. Would he be able to cope? She had been
surprised to see the nun at her father’s barbeque. What had the woman asked
Carlo during their little adventure? What was Sister Angela investigating
there?

Garibaldi stood on the landing as she
turned to lock the department door. He waited for her.

“Enzo, I thought you would have gone
home already.”

“No, no. There’s nowhere to go. Gina’s
on another trip. The apartment seems so empty. You know that. Do you want to
get something to eat maybe?”

“No thank you. I’m tired,” she said firmly.

“But a glass of wine would do you good.”

“I said, ‘No thank you,’ Enzo,” she
repeated. “I’m not interested.”

She passed him and slipped down the
stairs, glancing back when she got to the door. He remained on the landing, his
hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders slumping forward. He just stood there,
lifeless and alone.

At least it was still light outside. If
she hurried, she would be able to take her evening walk in the fields. Even though
the paths that circled the orchards were etched in her mind, she needed to look
out over the valley and hills. She wanted to watch dusk drop veils over the
landscape, see the first stars twinkle through the open windows of Montriano. She
longed to remember past evenings, when she was not alone—to feel him over her,
his hot breath on her breast and the smell of dried grass in his hair.

*

The call came just as Sister Angela went
to bed. The clock on the nightstand read ten-thirty. The ring was muffled. She
hurried to her vest, hanging from a peg on the wall, and fished it out of the
pocket.

“Hello?”

“Sister Angela, I’m glad you are still
up. Can you come with me to L’Oro Verde tomorrow? I have set up an interview with
Vittorio Vitali. I thought he might be more comfortable with the interrogation
if we met at the ranch.”

“Vittorio? Well yes. Where are you? It’s
so late.”

“Tortini and I are just finishing up
here at the station. He’s off tomorrow, but I would like to take you since you know
the grower so well.”

“What have you got?” she asked. “Is
tomorrow morning after eleven okay? It’s the last day of school, and I have a
small party set up for the class. They’ll get out by ten, though.”

“That’s fine. I’ll meet you here shortly
after eleven. I’ll fill you in on the ride down the hill.

*

The party went off without incident. The
students were eager to begin their vacations. She assigned them work, knowing
full well few books would be opened over the summer break. All morning, Sister
Angela had fretted about the interview and hurried to the station as soon as
she could get away.

The inspector grabbed his keys from the
desk, and they walked out the back door to the cars. The two cruisers, along
with the fire truck and ambulance, were the only ones parked inside the town
walls. Since the board passed a law almost fifteen years ago, all traffic was
restricted to emergency vehicles. Residents had to park in the lots below the
north wall.

The nun admired the black car with large
letters that read
Polizia di Montriano.
The blue letters tilted forward
as if pushing the small four-cylinder vehicle along. Perhaps it was not quite a
cruiser, but it looked sleek. The interior was immaculate. It was just like
Tortini to keep the vehicles in such good shape. DiMarco revved the engine
before heading toward the gate.

Once outside the town walls, he began to
talk. “Tortini and I visited Bologna yesterday.”

“And?”

“The interment date was the twenty-sixth
of February 1985.”

“Mrs. Reni told me that when Bernardo
was born, they didn’t bring him home until the end of April. The hospital kept
him for a few weeks because of his difficulties. No wonder he looked big in the
photo Mrs. Reni showed me at the family party. He was actually already a few
months old.” Sister Angela knew that was not all. “And did they give you the
name of the hospital?”

“Yes. It was Santa Teresa Hospital in
Bologna.”

“Was there a cadaver picked up from the
hospital by a funeral home?” she asked.

“Well, that’s where it gets complicated.
The hospital might have made a direct delivery to the cemetery, but there’s no
paperwork filed on that. No one recalls how the casket got there. The caretaker
only remembers that it didn’t arrive from a mortuary.”

“A casket just appeared?”

“It was sort of like that. Yes,” DiMarco
said. “I did get something out of the hospital, though. There was no record of
a Mariella Vitali delivering a baby that week.”

“How could that be?”

“I think she did, and the records have
been pulled or erased,” he said.

“On purpose?”

“Remember, we are talking about a
powerful family here.”

The official car turned in through the
open gates. DiMarco pulled up past the house and parked on the loop at the end
of the drive. The house looked peaceful. The sun, high in the sky, beat down on
the roof, and the windows and doors were wide open.

The woman that Sister Angela knew as
Antonella answered the door and led them to the room off the patio where the
nun had enjoyed the barbeque just a few days earlier. Vitali stood up when the
pair entered. He waved his son, Carlo, away.

“My boy has work to do in the orchards.
He shouldn’t be absent from the workers too long.”

“Mr. Vitali, you are aware that
yesterday I visited the gravesite of your son, Mansuieto, who died at birth in February
1985,” the inspector said.

Vitali sat back down. “No, I wasn’t
aware of it. What seems to be the problem?” he asked. His voice sounded confident,
but he did not look directly at either guest.

“The paperwork gives the name of the
hospital as Santa Teresa. Is that where the baby was born, Mr. Vitali?”

“Yes,” he said, uncrossing his legs and
sitting forward.

“Santa Teresa claims there was no baby
born to your wife in February of that year. How do you explain that?”

The man raised his shoulders in a mock
gesture. “How does one explain any mistake made by another? Their records are
faulty. That’s all there is to it. What do you want me to say? My wife delivered
a baby boy in February 1985. It was a stillbirth. The hospital kept the body
for a few days and then sent it on to the cemetery. I see nothing unusual,
Inspector.”

“And when the body arrived, it was
already in an expensive casket.”

“Yes. I picked one out and had it
delivered to the hospital. I’m sorry if I didn’t know the standard procedure. We
had never had that happen to us before.”

“There must have been a priest at the
hospital, Vittorio,” Sister Angela said. “Didn’t you and Mariella ask for one?
He would have told you what to do.”

“The hospital didn’t offer a priest
while I was there, Sister.”

“Who sold you the casket?” DiMarco asked.

“How could I remember such a detail?” he
asked. He raised his voice a notch. “Someone took me to a place, and I picked one
out.”

“Vittorio, the inspector isn’t here to
call you a liar,” Sister Angela said quietly. “He’s here because there are discrepancies
in the events surrounding Mansuieto’s death and the birth of Bernardo Reni.”

Vitali looked up at the nun. “Are you
saying you believe the cases are related?”

“Yes,” DiMarco said. “And we’ll need a
DNA sample from you. You can go to the station later this afternoon or in the
morning. One of my colleagues there can take a saliva swab and a blood sample.”

“It will show you nothing. You are
wasting your time as well as mine,” he said angrily. “I must call counsel
before I do anything.”

“Forgive me, but I think it would be
better if you cooperated with us,” DiMarco said. “There seems to me more than
one direction this investigation could proceed. Let’s say you and your wife discovered
that your new infant had some problems. Mr. and Mrs. Reni wanted a baby.
Preferring no one find out about the transaction, you and Mrs. Vitali told
everyone your baby was stillborn. Finding out that an infant boy was available,
Mrs. Reni suddenly appeared to be pregnant. She showed up around town in
maternity clothes. A few weeks later, she conveniently went to Roma and supposedly
delivered a child. Though disabled, the boy grew up in Montriano. You and your
wife watched him, but no one said anything. From here there are two possible
scenarios. Your son, Bernardo, got a job at Garibaldi’s. He met and befriended
Gisella Lupoi, and they became romantically attached. But Gisella was already
engaged to your other son, Carlo.”

“How dare you bring my son into this?
Who told you Carlo was engaged to this woman?”

“I’m sorry, Vittorio,” the nun
interrupted sheepishly. “I did. Your son took a phone call from the flower shop
while I was here on Sunday. They wondered if they should deliver directly to
Santa Maria or bring the flowers here.”

“And how did you know there was a
wedding at Santa Maria, Sister Angela?” he asked, calming down considerably.

“Gisella’s father said she was to be
married there this weekend,” the inspector said. “He told us she wouldn’t have had
an affair with the victim because she was already engaged, but he refused to
tell us about the groom. I presume this silence was your idea. Even Father
Rossi at Santa Maria isn’t revealing any details about the wedding.”

“So I killed Bernardo because he and my
son’s fiancée were having an affair?”

“Or,” the inspector continued. “You
killed him because he was becoming attached to your daughter. You found out she
was having an incestuous affair with her own brother. Telling her about his
relationship would reveal an ugly family secret and also create the possibility
that she would break down.”

“You have a flair for the dramatic,
Inspector. But I’m afraid you’ll have trouble proving any of this fairytale,”
he said, squirming.

*

Carlo did not go back to the orchards
but instead grabbed his keys and headed for his car. It was early, but the back
door to the nightclub at the edge of Petraggio would be open. One of his
friends owned the place, and he knew he was always welcome.

“Carlo,” said Dante, giving him a hug.
“Did you make a delivery yourself? We could always use more of your oil. You aren’t
usually here this late in the week.”

“No. I just need some company.”

“Please join me for a drink. I was just
cleaning up some dishes. I always have dishes to do. What can I get you? The usual
or something cooler?”

“A blue shark would be fine, thanks.”

“Wow, pretty strong for so early. I
don’t know if I have enough Curacao for that one. I’ll have to check in the
back. Is it your father again?”

“Isn’t it always? He talks about giving
me the business and then takes it away if I do anything on my own. He has me take
his friends on tour but doesn’t tell me what they have to do with the
business.”

“My parents are like that too,” Dante
said, taking a sip of his ice water. “Once a kid always a kid—that’s why I’m
here instead of in Milano. Shouldn’t you be talking to your girlfriend instead
of sitting here drinking it up?”

“She wouldn’t understand. She thinks I’m
in charge of everything, that I have my father under control. She doesn’t need
to know that I can’t even take care of her—not right now.”

*

“I may not be able to prove everything
yet, but I can confirm you are the father,” said DiMarco. “That’s the first
step.”

Vitali raised his hand in defeat. “I
concede that Bernardo was my son, but I strongly deny the rest of it. I was fond
of him. You don’t understand. He was my son. He would have received a
settlement upon my death. Giuseppe and his wife knew that. That was part of the
deal, you see. My attorney knew it too. Bernardo has been in the will since his
birth.”

Sister Angela sat upright. “Who else
besides your attorney knew about the will?”

“Only the Renis. My wife took the secret
to her grave. The document was sealed.”

“I realize your children might not have
known Bernardo was your son, but did either Carlo or Nicola know they had a brother
nearby?” the nun asked.

“It was a secret.”

“Could Mrs. Reni have told Bernardo the
identity of his biological father? Or her sister—could she have told Bernardo?”

“I don’t think any of the relatives were
aware of Bernardo’s parentage. I’m sure there would have been blackmail or some
other kind of contact had the secret been revealed. Bernardo himself never
tried to talk to me.” Vitali sank deeper into his chair, his strength visibly
fading.