The Last Enemy (12 page)

Cenni needn’t have worried about any awkwardness between them, at least not on her part. She was perfectly composed when she entered the library, extending her hand in greeting as though theirs were a business meeting between equals. As her father had done before her, she ignored Piero.

“Dottore, what a shame to meet again under such tragic circumstances. What can we do to help?” she offered, taking her seat across from him while at the same time reaching for the cigarette box on the count’s desk. After taking a cigarette from the box, she hesitated a moment, waiting for one of them to light it. What surprised Cenni was her complete lack of embarrassment when neither of them did. She looked directly at him and reached for the lighter.
“Posso,”
she said rhetorically, before lighting her own cigarette.

He found her apparent self-possession irritating as well as false. Whether Artemisia Casati had liked or disliked her cousin—and on the surface, at least, she was not grieving—Rita Minelli had met a violent and premature death, and the Casati family were deeply involved until proven otherwise. Cenni concluded that father and daughter resembled each other in more than just physical appearance; they had both adopted an attitude of noblesse oblige. They would fulfill their civic duty to help the police, even where they found such duty inconvenient and distasteful and the police vulgarly intrusive. Cenni didn’t believe this pose for a second.

His first question was direct and open-ended. He asked if she knew of any reason why someone would want to kill her cousin. Her response was equally direct and needlessly personal.

“I should think that’s self-evident, Dottore.” She paused, wrinkling her brow. “It is
Dottore
, isn’t it? I’m never quite sure how one should address the police,” she said before continuing. “A man capable of raping a woman in a cemetery, or anywhere else for that matter, would hardly stick at murder. I’m surprised that you’re spending so much time with us instead of looking for her killer. Rapists don’t usually stop at one, as I’m sure you must know. Easter week attracts an unusual number of visitors to Assisi. If this were my case, I would start there, as I doubt that any of our local citizens are capable of such vulgarity.”

That’s all I need, he thought. A detective manqué! But he continued undeterred by the implied criticism. “Why do you assume that your cousin was raped? I never mentioned rape.”

“É vero,”
she acknowledged blowing a stream of smoke his way. “But Dottor Russo did. He told my father this morning that to all appearances Rita had been raped. You haven’t given us any reason to think otherwise.”

He had no desire to spar with her and responded bluntly:

“Nor will I! Until the postmortem is concluded and we know otherwise, we’ll assume she was
not
raped. So again, signora, do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill your cousin?”

“No, certainly not,” she replied but the air of ironic detachment that she had shown in her previous responses was less evident. “Rita could be quite irritating at times, and she was certainly a busybody, but that’s hardly reason for anyone to kill her—anyone sane, that is. I don’t know who her friends were, or if she had any, although I did see her more than once walking with a man in the Piazza del Comune, one of those hermit types that flock to Assisi. You know the ones I mean: sandals in the dead of winter, no socks, scruffy beards, holes in their clothing—and just as often in their heads. Perhaps my mother knows his name.” She had made her position clear. No member of the Casati family was involved in her cousin’s death; focus on the crazy hermit!

He then asked Artemesia to describe her activities on the day of the murder—specifically, if she’d spoken to or had seen her cousin that day. She responded that she had left the house a little after 10:00 to get a manicure and had returned at 11:00 when she went to her room to work on an article that she was writing for
Arte.
Some time after—she didn’t know the exact time—Rita had come into her room to make a suggestion about the forthcoming publication of the paperback version of
A Woman’s Art
.

“You might ask Lucia the exact time,” she said, a slight edge to her voice. “I saw her lurking outside in the hall. That’s standard Lucia, always listening at keyholes.”

She paused, grinding her cigarette into the ashtray—waiting, he was certain, for him to question her further concerning Rita’s visit to her bedroom. She’s nervous, he decided. She had changed her position in the last minute, crossing her legs, one of which he noticed with some interest had an ace bandage wrapped around the ankle. She’s remembered Lucia’s presence in the hallway yesterday when she and Rita had words and is ready with a plausible story, but she’s too clever to introduce the subject herself. I’ll let her stew a little longer, he thought, and waited for her to continue. She lighted another cigarette, this time directing the smoke in Piero’s direction.

“At one o’clock I joined my parents and Paola for lunch. When we’d finished—about one-forty-five—my father and I retired to his library to discuss some aspects of an article I’m writing. I was with him until two-thirty, when I went upstairs to my room, where I continued working. At six-fifteen, I shut down my computer and started to get ready for the evening. At exactly seven-fifteen I left the house alone, by the front door, and walked to the Piazza del Comune.”

When he asked Artemisia how she knew it was exactly 7:15, she replied that she had been a bit anxious that she might be late, as her parents had already left for the Piazza. She had looked at the clock in the downstairs hallway before leaving the house. “The clock keeps excellent time. It was exactly seven-fifteen.”

When he probed further, she added that other than Rita’s earlier visit to her room, which had lasted no more than ten or fifteen minutes, she’d not seen her cousin again that day and had no idea when she’d left the house or where she’d gone. She also told him that she’d not seen any other members of the family after returning to her room at 2:30. She might have heard her parents moving about in their room some time after 6:00 but couldn’t say for sure. When she’d left the house, the door to their room was open but the room was empty. She hadn’t seen her niece after lunch. As Paola’s room was the closest to the back stairway, Paola could have come in or gone out at any time without anyone seeing her. She acknowledged the same of herself, finishing with a flourish of self-righteousness, “We don’t live in one another’s pockets!”

“That’s obvious! Your cousin was noticeably missing for more than twelve hours, yet no one in the family reported it to the police,” he responded sharply, not trying to blunt his outrage. “The lack of concern about Signora Minelli’s whereabouts arises,
apparently
, from the notion that she had decided, and at the last hour, to become a processionist. Yet neither of your parents can recall who provided this information, although they’re both under the impression that it may have been you.” A small lie, he thought, as he waited for her reaction.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t me,” she responded indignantly. “I don’t monitor anyone’s comings and goings, certainly not hers. Believe me, Dottore, my cousin was not capable of carrying one of those crosses. She was far too small and lacked stamina. She could barely get up the hill from our house to the Piazza without huffing and puffing,” she added with contempt. “Talk to the boyfriend. He’ll probably know.”

She was more relaxed now, giving full vent to her prickliness. Cenni thought it a good time to bring up her quarrel with Rita.

“Let’s go back for a minute to your cousin’s visit to your room yesterday. You said earlier that she’d visited your room to give you a suggestion about the coming publication of your book in paperback. What suggestion was that?” he asked.

She took a long drag on her cigarette, exhaling slowly. Buying time, he thought.

“The dust jacket for the clothbound copy of my book is a reproduction of the Uffizi
Judith
. Rita didn’t like any of the Gentileschi
Judiths
, but she hated the Uffizi
Judith
. As I remember, you had a problem with it yourself,” she said, before taking another drag on her cigarette. “Rita thought the image too bloody awful, said it was off-putting. She suggested I use a picture of the Spada
Madonna
for the paperback edition. You may remember the Spada, Dottore. It was also on display at the Galleria Nazionale. The child is particularly charming and natural, especially when viewed against other paintings of the same genre and period, but it’s hardly equal to the
Judith
. I rejected her suggestion. We may have had a few words about it. I don’t remember exactly what was said.”

“Bada ai fatti tuoi!”
Cenni replied coolly, then waited for her to respond.

She laughed in genuine delight. “Leave it to Lucia to remember the exact words. That one—she’s definitely wasted cleaning houses. Such a nose for intrigue! You should hire her!” It was the first time since entering the room that she’d let down her guard. She had a deep, spontaneous laugh, the kind that overheard in a crowded room makes one regret what he’s missing. Had he judged her too quickly? he wondered.

“
É vero
, Dottore, I probably did tell Rita to mind her own business. She really was a meddler, you know! From what she’d told me, she had come into my room a few days earlier—uninvited!— to find out which brand of lipstick I use. Lately, she’s been copying me in just about everything. She saw the proofs for the book, which were lying open on the top of my desk, and decided that I should change the cover. Rita had no respect for privacy, other than her own, of course. She kept the door to her own room locked. Under the circumstances,
Bada ai fatti
tuoi!
was less than she deserved to hear.”

Cenni acknowledged to himself that it was a reasonable story and one that would be difficult to disprove. She had added enough detail—but not too much—to make it plausible. But from what the maid had told Elena, she had omitted one detail of significance.

“I understand that your cousin was holding one of the manuscripts from your father’s library. What had that manuscript to do with your book?” he asked, observing her closely, looking for any flicker of surprise. He saw none and concluded that she had expected his question or might even be telling the truth.

“Lucia is incorrigible. Rita has never had access to the library. As I’m sure my father has already informed you, the library is kept locked at all times except when he’s using it. Even I don’t have the combination. She’s mistaken! Rita was holding the clothbound copy of my book. I gave her an autographed copy in the summer, shortly after she’d arrived in Assisi. If you look in her room, you’ll probably find it there.”

“The size and shape of your book are very different from any of the manuscripts in your father’s office. It’s hard to imagine that Lucia could mistake one for the other,” he responded, hoping to goad her further.

Instead she turned his comment on its side. “May I take it then, Dottore, that you’ve read my book? Have you changed your mind about the
Judith
? It’s a wonderful painting. I hope I’ve convinced you of that at least,” she responded, her cold anger banked under an equally cold smile.

For the moment Cenni was content. There’s always Lucia, he thought.

17

Lucia Stampoli was in her late twenties, an inch or two above five feet if one subtracted the stiletto heels, and painfully thin but with Barbie doll curves. She was dressed conservatively, in navy blue wool pants, white shirt, and a navy jacket, but that, he supposed, was a requirement of the job. Her hair, makeup, and jewelry were not conservative and neither were her lips, her most distinctive feature. They were unnaturally full—silicone, he decided—and painted an intense red. Cenni disliked the recent phenomenon that had captured the Italian imagination of filling every fillable erogenous zone with silicone, but what he disliked even more was that he reacted this way. Just last week, Elena had accused him of showing his age when he had complained about noisy teenagers. He had laughed but later had to acknowledge to himself that she might have a point.

After Lucia had settled herself—which had taken some time as she first had to line up her cigarettes, lighter, package of tissues, and
telefonino
on the desktop, cross her legs left to right, and arrange the bracelets on both arms so that they appeared to advantage—she indicated her readiness to begin with a mournful nod. She’s decided on a show of grief, but she’s actually enjoying herself, Cenni thought, observing the telltale signs of excitement in her flushed skin and glittering eyes. As he had with Concetta, he asked her to tell him about her job. Her response was a pleasant surprise after Concetta’s meandering. It was short and factual, with only the occasional digression.

She had started working for the Casati family ten years earlier, immediately after finishing secondary school. The countess paid her eight euros an hour—“Only five euros less than the teachers at the Academy,” she added proudly, “and she also gives me paid time off, which is a lot better than any of my friends who work in stores get,” she added defensively. Cenni imagined that some of her friends gave her a hard time for being in service.

Her workday started at 10:00 and ended at 7:00, with an hour off for lunch, usually 2:30 to 3:30, after she’d finished clearing the family’s luncheon dishes. She did basic cleaning and waited at table Monday to Saturday. She had Sunday off and a halfday on Saturday, when she finished at 2:00. “The countess said she’d pay me for the extra time today,” she added, looking at the desk clock. She then described her daily routine. She changed the bed linens twice a week, on Monday and Friday, and did at least one load of wash every day. She’d normally hang the laundry out to dry on the back line in the kitchen garden, unless it was raining or particularly cold. “The countess prefers the smell of clothes that are dried outdoors,” she explained. “Oh, and I dust every other day,” she concluded, making a face. “Except the library. I dust in there on Tuesday and Saturday.”