L'Oro Verde (20 page)

“Everyday tasks can be a blessing,” the
nun said.

“Something came up this morning,
however, Sister. Father Domenic told me to make sure I showed you. He said you
would want to know,” said Mrs. Torrisi. “Let me just get your drinks and
cookies. No use being thirsty when there’s plenty to drink.”

The housekeeper brought out the pitcher
of juice, and Sister Angela helped her pour it into the matching glasses with
painted flowers. In the middle of the tray, a small vase held some pink hybrid
tea roses.

“Oh how beautiful!” exclaimed Sister
Angela. “That reminds me that Sister Daniela and I have to get busy with the
garden at the convent. Everything is drooping in the heat.”

“Now, let me see,” the hostess said.
“Where did I leave it? I know I put it somewhere obvious so I wouldn’t lose
it.” The woman checked the kitchen and then the dining room. “Oh yes, I
remember now,” she said, walking to the hall closet. She brought out a long
narrow object, wrapped in newsprint and began to open it.

Sister Angela caught her breath. “It’s
the cross, isn’t it?”

“The processional cross, yes,” Mrs.
Torrisi said. “I confess I forgot that I sent it out in April because the
enamel was chipping off. I mean, I thought I told Father Domenic, but in April,
Father Domenic was in Roma for a meeting. I’m not sure I ever told him because
Father Reynaldo at San Francesco loaned us a similar cross. The problem was
solved so quickly I guess I didn’t think about it again. Then a few weeks ago,
Father Reynaldo asked for the cross back because there was a burglary there.
San Francesco’s processional cross was one of the items returned.”

“Did he tell you or Father Domenic he
was taking it back?”

“Father Reynaldo says he left a note in
the sacristy. Maybe Father Giulliano read it and threw it away. I don’t know.
We haven’t asked him.”

“Just weeks ago. That would mean…”

“Yes, that it wasn’t used as a murder
weapon,” she said. “Father Domenic wanted me to show you the receipt for this
one. It gives the date here. The manufacturer could have kept it for all we
knew. I doubt I would have ever remembered that I sent it out. What a
surprise.”

“Yes indeed, Mrs. Torrisi. It sort of
changes the whole theory.”

“What do you mean, Sister?” asked the
novice.

“We assumed the weight of the cross
determined the sex and strength of the murderer.”

“You mean the assailant had to be a man
to do such damage with the light instrument.”

“Yes, Sister Daniela. Now we don’t have
a murder weapon.”

“Technically, you never had one,” said
Mrs. Torrisi.

“That’s true. We assumed it was the
processional cross. ‘We should never have presumed anything’ is what you
are saying, and you are correct of course.”

The two nuns sipped uneasily on their
drinks.

Suddenly, the elder nun looked up and
asked, “Mrs. Torrisi, have you ever thoroughly cleaned that basement?”

“You mean the one under the sacristy?”
She bit her lip. “No, I’m embarrassed to say. It’s too hot down there this time
of year. I was putting it off until fall.”

“Remember that pile of furniture in the
far corner, Sister Daniela? Did anyone ever look at it more closely?”

“I didn’t.”

“Neither did I,” said Mrs. Torrisi.

“Shouldn’t we check it—just to make
sure?”

“Since I didn’t do the clean-up, I’ll
join you now,” said the housekeeper.

“By the way, do you have some clean rubber
gloves?” the nun asked. “Bring them along—just in case.”

“Just in case,” the novice repeated.

Sister Angela made a note to have the
police check into the circumstances surrounding the cross. One of them could quickly
ask Father Reynaldo for the details and then find out what really happened to
his note. As for the murder weapon, there was a good chance the actual weapon
might not be in the sacristy basement. After all, many investigators had come and
gone since the murder. How could they all have missed that pile of furniture?
Sister Angela had a feeling they had not covered everything, and she was not
going to leave until they checked it out. None of it would matter, though, if
the murder weapon was never found.

The basement door was closed.

“This doesn’t look good,” Mrs. Torrisi
said. “Without some ventilation, it’s probably very hot down there.”

Indeed it was. But at least it was not
dark. Sun streamed in through the high panes, and dust specks danced in the
spotlight. Mrs. Torrisi went directly to the windows and opened them up,
driving the tiny particles into a frenzy.

“That’s better,” she said.

But the nun and novice were already at
work pulling articles off the pile. There were some old credence tables. One
had a missing leg and would not stand up.

“I wonder where the leg went,” Mrs.
Torrisi mused.

Then there were some flagpoles. Sister
Angela, having donned the gloves, swung each one over her head and then examined
its surface. Sister Daniela tried not to giggle, but the sight of Sister Angela
swinging the pole probably reminded her of the time the nun tried to teach her
students cricket. She had told the story often, saying that Sister Angela was better
at hitting the ball than most of her athletic students. It was funny nonetheless.

“Any one of these could be the weapon, I
suppose,” the elder nun finally said. “But I see nothing telling me that any of
them are. I hope we don’t have to take them all into the station. The chief
would be quite upset.”

“Look under the poles, Sister,” the
novice said.

A sphere-shaped incense burner rolled
down the pile and across the floor.

“At the candlestands? I can’t even lift
this one.”

“But behind the wooden candlesticks is a
set of metal ones—brass, I think,” Mrs. Torrisi said. “I remember those being
Father Augustus’s favorites.”

“These? Oh yes,” she said, tugging.

The pile started to tumble.

“Wait, I think the sea is parting for
me! It must be a sign.”

“Leave the ones that fall,” said Mrs.
Torrisi. “Father Domenic and I need to go through them anyway.”

The nun pulled out the first of a set.
The polished brass candlestand was a little more than a meter tall. It was
still shiny in most places, but some parts had been rubbed until dull. She grasped
the narrow shaft and lifted it over her head. “It’s heavier than the cross,”
she said. “But I have little trouble lifting it.”

“Are there any marks, Sister?” the
novice asked.

“No, it’s actually quite shiny. The
person who stored it must have been a busy bee wiping off the prints. That
doesn’t help,” she said, picking up the other and looking at it carefully. “Oh
my, was this like this before?” she asked.

“I don’t remember it being that way. I’m
sure Father Domenic would know. He must have used those at least once since he
got here. I wonder why they were at the back. Do you think the rest of the pile
could have bent it?”

“The damaged part was facing to the
side. And I don’t think the pile was heavy enough anyway.”

Sister Angela held up the second base in
front of the window. Under the tray, the artisan had curled three arms around, fusing
them to the long shaft. The tray itself was askew, and one of the arms,
slightly flattened.

“The embellishments can’t be brass, can
they?” the nun asked. “The metal must be softer.”

“That’s ruined now,” said Mrs. Torrisi.
“I suppose we must send it away to be fixed.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to take it to the
station,” Sister Angela said. “I presume there’s DNA or something on this. That
would make it evidence. Since you and Father Domenic didn’t even know it was
here, I don’t think you’ll miss it for a while longer.”

“What about the assailant? Do you still
think it was a man?” asked Sister Daniela.

“It could still be a man, but with the
added weight, our murderer could also be a woman,” she said. She walked to the
windows and dialed the station. “Alessandro? Can you please send someone to San
Benedetto Church right away? I think we have found something here in the
basement that looks like evidence, and we don’t want to compromise it. Yes.
We’ll wait for him. Have Lazaro use the stairway in the sacristy.”

*

DiMarco was excited by the find. He and
the nun sat in his office. She fanned herself with a folder from the top of his
desk.

“Nice work, Sister Angela,” he said. “My
men should have found it when they searched the basement earlier. But of
course, they were looking for the cross and didn’t find it there.”

Tortini delivered cold drinks from the
machine and sat on top of the bookcase along the wall. “I got a call just a few
minutes ago. They delivered the candlestand to Dr. Piombo and are on their way
back now.”

“Any message from the doctor?” DiMarco
asked.

“No. I think he’s expecting you to give
him a call. He wants you to tell him if you’re looking for anything specific. It
would be faster if he could home in on one or two clues. A larger DNA scan
might take a couple of weeks.”

“When are you talking to Carlo,
Inspector?” Sister Angela asked.

“Tomorrow morning at nine. He’s coming
in with a lawyer—Adriano, I think.”

“At least you’ll be able to get both at
the same time,” the nun said.

“I don’t like it. I don’t like it at
all. The minute I talk about Garibaldi, the counselor will come down hard. I don’t
know how to approach it without suggesting that the lawyers’ office might have
leaked information to the owner of Garibaldi Olive Oil.”

“Would you like me to be here?”

“I would appreciate that. Maybe you can
keep tempers from flaring,” he said. “Oh, and by the way. Can you call Mr. Garibaldi
one more time? I know he said he only told Carlo about Bernardo, but I have a
feeling…”

The nun took out her phone.

“Could you ask him again if he had ever
discussed the boy’s relationship to his employee, Nicola? Did he ever mention
the inheritance to her?”

“Is there something I should know?”

“No. Now that you have uncovered a
weapon that could have been used by a woman, it might be a good idea to start looking
into other possibilities.”

“But she was having an affair with the
boy. Why would she kill him?”

“Most murders are the result of domestic
disputes, Sister,” he said, swigging the rest of his drink. “In addition, she
and Garibaldi were seen sitting in his parked car at four this morning on Via
di Chiesa, about two blocks below San Benedetto Church.”

With that, the nun began to push the
buttons on her little red phone.

*

The group had been sitting around the
table for nearly an hour. Carlo answered questions about his whereabouts with
few interruptions from his counselor, Eduardo Adriano. DiMarco appeared to have
the interview in hand. He seemed to be trying to avoid direct confrontation
with the counselor. Sister Angela knew, however, that it was only a matter of
time before the inspector would get to Vittorio’s will and learn what Carlo
knew about his relationship to Bernardo.

She watched Adriano. He leaned back in
his chair, maintaining an unruffled demeanor. Only the strumming of his fingers
on the corner of a stack of papers revealed any agitation. But that minor
movement was a time bomb. Sister Angela knew he would counter the coming
questions because the leak of information tarnished his reputation. He would also
want to protect his client.

“Mr. Vitali, would you be kind enough to
tell us where you were the night of Bernardo’s murder?” DiMarco asked.

“I always work in the evening. I check
out every orchard, every tree until nightfall. Then I go to my office in the
mill and peruse our list of customers. I form marketing strategies and scrutinize
the situation months ahead to see which contracts are ending and the like. It
gives me a chance to start working with the customers early so we don’t lose
their business,” he said, looking confidently at each of the listeners. “And
then, at about ten, I retire.”

The inspector did not ask for more
details about the business. He probably did not understand it and feared he
would look stupid. The boy would run rings around him. That is the last thing
anyone wanted.

“On the evening of the fifth of July,
you didn’t retire, however, did you Carlo? You went into town. You had something
to drink and were angry. Did you speak with your father?”

“No. I went directly to my room through
a sliding door.”

“But you had had alcohol.”

“Yes, maybe one or two drinks. I have a
bottle in my desk at the mill,” he said looking directly at the inspector. “But
it usually makes me sleepy, not angry.”

“That isn’t always the case, Vitali, is
it? You remember the little accident in Milano just a few years ago, don’t you?
The woman who dented the wheel housing on your car complained to the police
that you were both verbally and physically abusive, slamming your fist down on
the hood of her car.”

“Now, now, Inspector,” Adriano said,
interrupting. “Is this necessary?”

“The woman complained that she smelled
alcohol on your breath, and sure enough, there was an open bottle under the
driver’s seat,” DiMarco said.

“The case was dropped, Inspector,”
Adriano said, examining his nails as he slowly slid his eyes to the questioner.
“Obviously, the lady didn’t know what she was talking about.”

The lawyer must have known the evidence
DiMarco mentioned would never be allowed in court. Sister Angela guessed
Adriano was trying to convey that to his client. “No evidence of alcohol was
ever presented,” he finally added.

“The woman provoked me,” Carlo said.
“She was trying to aggravate me so I would threaten her. She didn’t know how to
drive. It was obvious.”

Aware the inspector was stalling to make
Carlo uneasy, Sister Angela watched DiMarco stroll across the room and look up some
things in a notebook. Adriano gazed at the opposite wall, showing no emotion.

The chief suddenly entered the room and
found a seat near her. Sister Angela worried that his presence might make Alessandro
nervous, but the inspector did not reveal any agitation. The standoff
continued.

Finally DiMarco said, “How do you get
along with your father, Carlo?”

“Fine. We get along fine.”

“Did you always get along? I suppose you
were a typical teenager. Fathers can be particularly annoying around this time,
can’t they?”

“I suppose. But we are a close family,
especially since my mother died.”

“And he taught you the business?”

“Yes, slowly. I have been working in the
orchards for most of my life.”

“And you work very hard, from what I
hear. You love the business, don’t you, Carlo?”

“Yes.”

“And being the eldest son, you expect to
inherit that business.”

“And being the only one of the family
that took any interest in it—yes, I expect to inherit it.”

“So how did you feel when Enzo Garibaldi
told you that you probably wouldn’t inherit it?”

The response was quick. Adriano was out
of his chair in an instant. He pounded his fist on the table. “No one has
revealed the contents of that will to you, Inspector. It’s sealed,” he
bellowed. “I know you tried to get the court to open it but you failed,
DiMarco. What kind of questioning is this? This isn’t a court case!”

Carlo turned to him and gently pressed
the counselor’s arm. “Please, Eduardo, I can answer this. Don’t worry, I can tell
them.” He faced the inspector. “I was shocked, but at first, I didn’t
understand what he was suggesting.”

“Did you go to your father and ask what
he meant?”

“No. My father’s rather frail,” he said.
“There have been rumors about a connection with the Renis since I was a child, so
when my client approached me with such a statement, it didn’t astonish me as
much as you would think.”

“But Garibaldi is a close friend of the
family, isn’t he?”

“Actually, no. Maybe at one time when my
mother was younger, he was close to the family. But I wasn’t old enough to
remember his relationship with my parents. He wasn’t around much when my sister
and I were growing up. In fact, I really believe my father handed over much of
that part of the enterprise to me when I graduated from school because he didn’t
like dealing with Garibaldi’s business himself.”

“But he still goes to the processing
plant often, Carlo, doesn’t he?”

“Of course, from time to time. But I
don’t think he likes to go. He has to appear in public to keep the
L’Oro
Verde
olives name in front of the customers but seems to find it distasteful.
At least I believe he does. He never discusses his feelings with me.”

“What did you do after Garibaldi told
you about the will?”

“Let me see. I first went through the
town records. I looked up data on the Renis and discovered Bernardo had been
adopted. I asked the clerk about the birth records, and as

I suspected, if they had them, they were
sealed. The hospital didn’t help so I called my mother’s brother in Bologna,
who assured me the baby was dead and buried in the grave marked