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Gravigna, a small town in the Chianti Hills of Tuscany
A Monday in May, 5:05 a.m.
Nico’s cold feet searched under the bedcovers for Nelli’s warm ones, found them and dropped back into his dream. In the adjacent room a cell phone started to ring, heard only by OneWag, curled up on the sofa. The dog raised his head seeking the source of the persistent sound. The thing on the table. He allowed himself a low growl of protest. He’d been chasing rabbits. The ringing continued. OneWag jumped down, padded over to the bedroom door and pushed it open with a vigorous thrust of his snout.
The louder ringing finally woke Nelli. She lifted herself up on one elbow and nudged Nico’s back. “Wake up, your phone is ringing.”
Nico hugged his pillow. “Mmmm, no. Yours.”
“Wrong. Mine’s right here by the bedside table.” She glanced at the clock radio and started shaking Nico’s shoulder. “Get up, Nico. It’s five in the morning. It must be important.”
Nico mumbled, “It’s some joker having fun.”
“You’re impossible.” Nelli started to climb over him to get to the phone.
Nico pushed her back. “I’ll go. I’ll go.” He gave her a quick kiss on the nose and grunted out of bed. Yesterday’s mind-blowing meal was still sitting heavily in his stomach, and he took his time reaching the phone.
Seeing Nico, OneWag wagged his tail in greeting but was ignored. Miffed, he jumped back on the sofa and gave Nico his back. The ringing stopped just as Nico picked the phone off the table. He rubbed his eyes to read. Missed call. Great. Back to sleep. As he turned back, the ringing resumed. Perillo’s name gave Nico a jolt. He swiped. “What’s wrong?”
“I need your help.”
“Are you okay?”
“Just fine. For the past twenty minutes I’ve been standing with a dead woman at my feet and an alive English one who doesn’t speak Italian.”
“Do you want me to talk to her?”
“Please.”
In strongly accented English, Perillo said, “Signora Barron, my friend speak English.” Then Nico heard a strong female voice declare, “Thank God for small mercies,” followed by the sound of soft footsteps and Perillo’s phone changing hands.
“Sir, what has happened to my friend is an abomination. I will not say any more until we can speak in person.”
After the phone shifted hands again, Perillo asked, “What did she say?”
“She wants me to come over. Where are you?”
“A few kilometers south of Vignamaggio. Just past a very sharp curve you’ll see an uphill road flanked by cypress trees. The villa is on top of the hill. Villa Salviati.”
“Give me time to get dressed and I’ll be there.” Nico clicked off.
“Who was that?” Nelli called out. She was out of bed, tying her wool bathrobe around her waist.
“Perillo.” Nico walked to the bedroom and started dressing.
“What happened?”
Nico told her while he buttoned up a plaid collared shirt.
Nelli handed him his gray corduroy slacks. “Who died?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“How sad.” Nelli’s forehead creased. “A heart attack?”
Nico didn’t think the carabinieri would get called for a suspected heart attack but said nothing. There was no point in alarming Nelli. He reached for the dark blue sweater she had given him for Christmas. “I don’t know.”
Nelli crossed herself as she walked to the stove. OneWag jumped off the sofa and ran to greet her. She picked up the dog and kissed his head. “I’ll put the moka on.”
Nico ran the electric shaver over his cheeks and chin. For some reason, he felt he needed to make a good impression. The English lady had sounded very refined. He combed his still-full head of graying hair and brushed his teeth.
The moka was gurgling when he came into the living room/kitchen. “I don’t have time.”
“Two more minutes,” Nelli said, not wanting to see him go.
“I can’t, Nelli. Perillo needs help. Drink a double for me. Ciao, bella.” He meant to kiss her lips, but she moved her head and he ended up kissing OneWag. Nico took a moment to study her face. Her expression was soft, still full of sleep. “Are you upset I’m going?”
Nelli smiled. “The reason upsets me. Don’t worry. Rocco will keep me company.”
Nico kissed her lightly on the lips. She kissed him back. “Let me know.”
“I will.”
After Nico left, Nelli poured herself a double espresso, added some milk and took her cup back to bed. OneWag stretched himself out against her leg while she sent a little prayer to whoever was listening in the sky. Please let it be nothing more violent than a heart attack. These past five months with Nico not playing homicide detective for Perillo had been good. He was cheerful and loving, the sadness he seemed to carry almost gone.
Nelli leaned back on her pillow. And yet she had noticed a restlessness in him. Nico had told her he had not enjoyed his detective work in New York, but it was obvious he liked working with Perillo and Daniele. Here he was needed in a way that maybe he had not been in New York. He had more experience with murder than Perillo. It was clear he loved being helpful. It was how he had entrenched himself in his Italian life. He helped at Sotto Il Fico, coming up with new recipes for Tilde, but during the winter months, with Gravigna empty of tourists, the restaurant had only opened for weekend dinners. She had enjoyed more of his company, his love, the attention he gave her.
Nelli shrugged and finished her coffee. If it was murder, he would have less time for her. Maybe that would be good for both of them. She had a job she loved at the Querciabella vineyard, and she’d have more time for painting.
With the dark of night bleaching out of the sky, Nico easily spotted the long, climbing row of cypresses. At the very top of the hill a wide, handsome two-story building in pale yellow stone overlooked an expanse of straggling trees. A fancy place, Nico thought as he turned off the paved road and noticed the bronze plaque embossed with the names Salviati-Lamberti on one side of the tall cast-iron gate. Probably built back in the Renaissance. A place rich in history. Money too. Nico shifted gears and prayed his old Fiat 500 would make the climb.
Daniele Donato, Perillo’s right-hand man, met Nico at the double-doored entrance. “Buongiorno, Nico.”
“Ciao, Daniele. Are Vince and Dino here too?”
“Yes, checking all the rooms. I’ll show you the way. It’s a big place.” Daniele held out a pair of shoe covers and gloves.
“Thanks,” Nico said, slipping them on.
“I’m sorry the maresciallo had to wake you up,” Dani said.
“We’ll all catch up on sleep tonight.”
They walked through one sumptuous room after another, past tall windows adorned with brocaded curtains, walls with gilt-framed paintings and drawings. Daniele’s covered boots and Nico’s covered sneakers made different sounds as they strode across gleaming marble and soft carpets.
Perillo appeared from a side doorway just as Nico and Daniele entered a room lined floor to ceiling with books. “There you are.” He walked down the wide Persian carpet toward them and clasped Nico’s hand. “Thank you for coming.” Perillo turned to Daniele. “What news from the forensics team?”
“No one answered. I left a message.”
Perillo spread out his arms in surrender to the inevitable wait.
“It’s murder then?” Nico asked.
“Indeed. Strangled with a piece of curtain cord.”
“Who is it?”
“I suspect the owner of this place, but the Englishwoman wouldn’t even give me her name.”
“Probably too upset. No one else here?”
Perillo shook his head. “We got the call at four-fifteen. All the woman said was ‘Villa Salviati, morto, morto.’ She hung up before Dino could ask anything.”
“Do we know who the owner is?” Nico asked.
“I looked it up on the way,” Daniele said. He was Perillo’s computer whiz. Scouring the net was his favorite hobby. “It’s listed under Eleonora Salviati Lamberti, a widow. The house hasn’t been ransacked, but we’ll have to wait to find out if anything was stolen.”
“My knees are collapsing,” Perillo said. “Dani, please, find the kitchen in this mausoleum and see if you can get us some coffee.”
Daniele did a military turnaround and hurried back the way he had come.
“The woman has finally accepted a glass of brandy,” Perillo said. “That’s the only way I was able to convince her to leave the victim and wait in another room.”
“Let me see the body first.”
“This way.”
Nico followed Perillo through a double door at the far end of the library.
The room was cold and in semidarkness. A predawn light from two windows on one side barely reached beyond the curtains.
“She turned the light off when we walked out,” Perillo said.
Nico used his handkerchief to click the light switch, and a chandelier sparkled to life. In the center of the far wall was an ornate marble fireplace stacked with unlit logs. From there Nico’s eyes traveled over two worn velvet sofas and a few armchairs before landing on the grand piano in the far end of the room. Something dark was covering a section of the piano keys. Nico walked closer. The victim was slumped over the piano, her head resting on one arm, her face turned away toward the wall. The hand of her other arm rested on the keys. She looked as though she had fallen asleep while playing. Her feet were bare, her slippers tossed behind the piano seat.
As Nico got closer to the body he saw two cut ends of a gold cord protruding from under the woman’s thick black hair and running down the back of a yellow bathrobe.
“No one sits quietly while being strangled,” Perillo said. “She’s been posed.”
“The killer has left a message.”
“Not one I understand.”
“We’ll have to figure it out. Maybe the Englishwoman can help us. Where is she?”
“In a room she chose.” Perillo walked back out into the library and opened a door between two stacks of books. “Signora, my American friend,” he announced, and stepped aside to let Nico enter.
The only light in the room came from a small porcelain lamp on a side table. Its soft light revealed a light-blue wool lap on which rested a pair of thin, bare hands.
“Good morning,” Nico said, and introduced himself.
“Hardly, Mr. Doyle. Under different circumstances I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but today it is not. I am Laetitia Barron.”
Nico took a step closer. “I’m sorry to disturb you at such a sad time, but we need your help to understand what has happened here.”
“It’s self-evident what has happened. Last night Nora and I said good night a few minutes before or after ten o’clock and while I slept someone strangled her.”
Nico thought he heard a tremor of anger. “Finding her must have been a terrible shock, but Maresciallo Perillo needs your help.”
“First, he needs to let Nora’s daughters know their mother has been murdered. I don’t know Adriana’s or Clara’s telephone numbers. Nora’s address book will tell you.”
Nico translated for Perillo, who had stayed by the door.
“Grazie.” Perillo took off.
“Mrs. Barron, can you tell—”
“Miss Barron. I never married. Too many insist on calling me Mrs. Barron as though they find my spinsterhood embarrassing. Please do not make that mistake. It annoys me no end.” Her hands fluttered in the lamplight. “Do sit down. There’s a davenport behind you.”
