Dying on the Vine

“That’s the hot sauce,” Julie declared.

“Julie,” Gideon said, “you used Franco as your example. Do you think it was him?”

She thought about that. “He seems like the most likely one, because he had the most to lose, but I don’t know. They all had a lot to lose. Not just those stipends, but their jobs at the winery, and their free living arrangements. So . . . I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Same as you do. Could be any of them.”

“Franco,” said John.

“Franco,” said Marti.

“Do you think you ought to pass the idea to Rocco?” Julie asked Gideon. “Something for him to think about?”

“No, I think you ought to pass the idea to Rocco. You came up with it, you should get full credit.” He got out his phone. “He must be still in his office. Give him a call. The number’s in there.”

“Well, I think I just might do that,” Julie said, taking the phone and flipping it open. She was very visibly pleased.

“You’ll want to be outside to do it,” Gideon told her. He swallowed half the coffee and set the cup down. “Everybody’s finished, right? Let’s all go outside.”

“Muchas gracias, amigos,” the bigger of the two burly guys called to them as they left.

“And gracias a tu, signores,” John called smilingly back.

• • •

ROCCO was unavailable, so Julie left a message.

“Well,” Marti said, “we might as well get back to the villa, pack, say our good-byes—”

“Nope,” said Gideon firmly. “We’ve been in Tuscany for more than a week, this is our final day out in the country, and I have never once visited an archaeological site. This is unacceptable. I’m going to spend at least one afternoon at an archaeological site. You are welcome to join me. Or not.”

“Are you kidding us?” Marti said, laughing. “We just came from Florence. The whole place is one big archaeological site. The Duomo, the Uffizi—”

“The Duomo was built in the fourteenth century, the Uffizi in the sixteenth. I’m talking about someplace old.”

“How old is old?” John asked.

“For Gideon?” Julie said. “Ten thousand years would be about right.”

“No, I was thinking of a place called Sovana. It’s not that far south of here. There’s an Etruscan necropolis there. Rock-carved tombs going back over two thousand years. We could see it and be back here by six or seven, and in Florence at what passes for dinnertime in Italy.”

John burst out laughing. “Tombs! Skeletons! Whoa, that’ll be something different, won’t it? Real change of pace.”

But both Marti and Julie indicated interest, and Marti poked John with an elbow. “Come on, sport. It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, maybe, but . . .”

Gideon put his hand on John’s shoulder. “Dinner will be on me, how’s that?”

“Well, now we’re getting someplace,” John said.

• • •

BY five o’clock that afternoon, all of the Vino e Cucina attendees had cleared out of the villa, with the exception of Julie and Marti, and they were off somewhere with their husbands. So, for the first time in days, the Cubbiddus felt that they could sit on their own terrace and discuss private matters without being overheard. They were at the largest of the tables: Franco, Nico, Luca, Linda, and Quadrelli. All of them except Nico had a glass of 2008 Villa Antica Sangiovese Riserva in front of them. Nico was drinking Cinzano from a highball glass.

The subjects under discussion were the death of Cesare and its implications for the suit. Was it ended now? Or did signora Batelli have something else up her sleeve? They had more than that on their minds, though. It escaped none of them that, if suspicions of homicide arose, they would all be high on the suspect list, with Franco, who had the most at stake, at the very top. Franco himself understood it best of all. But no one talked about it. It was the suit they concentrated on.

“I myself spoke with signora Batelli again a few hours ago,” Quadrelli was saying solemnly, “and I am happy to report that I anticipate no continued threat from that quarter. I believe I can safely say that I set the lady straight on— Ah, gentlemen.”

Three uniformed carabinieri had come out onto the terrace from the main building: Tenente Gardella, Maresciallo Martignetti, and a lower-ranking brigadiere they hadn’t seen before.

“Gentlemen,” said Franco with air of austere resignation, “how may we help you?”

The newcomers didn’t reply. There was something about them—a reserve, a formality—that sent a ripple of uneasiness around the table.

After a moment’s stony silence, the tenente pointed. “Him.”

The brigadiere stepped smartly forward, reaching for his handcuffs.

TWENTY-FIVE

“AREN’T those Carabinieri cars?” Marti asked as they got out of their own rental car in the Villa Antica’s main parking lot. She was looking at a midnight-blue Fiat hatchback and an Alfa Romeo compact parked in the far corner, each decorated with a slashing red stripe from front to back.

“Ya think?” John said. “Could be. Hey, maybe that’s what that big ‘Carabinieri’ on the sides means.”

Marti bared her teeth at him. “How amusing. I couldn’t see that from where I was sitting.”

“Did you know they were coming here?” Julie asked Gideon. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“Not a clue,” Gideon said.

The question was answered before they reached the entrance. The door swung open, and five men emerged, walking quickly. Three of them were stone-faced carabinieri: Rocco, Martignetti, and a brigadier. Directly in front of them and being more or less frog-marched by the brigadier was a shambling man with his head down, his feet stubbornly dragging, and his wrists cuffed behind him. The fourth man, trailing behind and babbling at Rocco, who wasn’t paying attention, was Severo Quadrelli.

The group strode by them without word or glance. And, even if there had been a glance, they wouldn’t have noticed. They were staring at the man in handcuffs, and once he’d gone by, they looked at each other.

“Well, that’s a surprise,” Marti said.

“Yeah, it is,” John agreed. “I figured if it was any of them, it had to be Franco. Or maybe Quadrelli.”

“I’m just glad it wasn’t Luca,” Julie said.

Gideon was as surprised as any of them, although the pieces were already beginning to fall into place. “What do you know about that?” he said softly.

Nico.

• • •

NICO was stowed in the caged-in back seat of the hatchback with Martignetti beside him. The brigadier took the driver’s seat, and Quadrelli stuffed himself, with some effort, into the front passenger seat. Rocco, who was apparently going to drive the compact back to Florence on his own, had a few words with Martignetti through the window, saw them off, and walked back to where the Laus and Olivers had stood watching.

“Surprised?” he said.

“A little,” John said. “What exactly is he being arrested for?”

“Cesare’s murder.”

“But not Pietro’s and Nola’s?” asked Gideon.

“Hey, I’m not, you know, Superman. I can’t do everything at once.”