Dying on the Vine

He waved a magnanimous hand. All would be well. “I take care of. You leave to me. You will like very much.”

“Thank you, Bruno. That sounds wonderful. Mera . . . meraviglioso.” She expressed no reservations or caveats about salt or fat. When dining out, she very sensibly allowed herself considerable leeway.

Bruno, pleased, turned to John. “Signore?” He tried a little levity. “Sorry, no more Chicken McNug’, ha- ha.”

“Ha-ha,” said John.

Gideon knew that John was longing to try Florence’s famous bistecca alla fiorentina, a reliably gigantic slab of prime porterhouse served ultra-rare and usually simply flavored; nothing more than salt, olive oil, or butter, and perhaps a little rosemary or lemon. But with Marti there, even though she would make no comment, it would dent his pleasure with a tinge of guilt. “I’ll have what they’re having,” he said, making his request clear by gesturing at Julie and Gideon.

As Bruno, pleased with his tableful of americana after all, hurried to the kitchen to place the orders, Gideon’s cell phone emitted its soft bip-bip, the least intrusive sound he could find on its ringtone menu. When he opened it, Rocco was at the other end. “Hey, Gid, I was thinking more about all this. You said you’re going to be spending some time with the Cubbiddus the next couple of days?”

“Right. We’ll be staying with them till Sunday.”

“Well, look, let’s keep all this stuff to ourselves for now, okay? I think it’d be better if they didn’t know about these questions that have come up. In fact, I think it’d be better if nobody knew.”

“If you mean our wives, I’m afraid you’re a little late.”

“Well, tell them to shut up about it too if they know what’s good for them.”

“Oh, right. We’ll do just that.”

“Slap ’em around a little if they don’t like it.”

“Yeah, right, excellent idea, I’ll make a note of that.” He closed the phone and slipped it into a pocket. “Rocco’s asked us not to mention any of this to the Cubbiddus.”

“He’s planning on reopening the case, then?” John asked.

“Thinking about it, I guess. He didn’t say.”

Bruno returned with the wine and poured a little for everyone. They clinked glasses and settled back.

“You know, I think I’m going to give Linda a quick call while we wait,” Julie said, clicking buttons on her own phone.

“But—” Gideon began.

“No, not to talk about Pietro and Nola, just to touch base and make sure we’re all still expected. What with the bodies having just been found, and this police determination of murder-suicide . . . Linda?” she chirped. “Hi, this is Julie. . . .”

Linda Rutledge was their connection to Villa Antica and to the Cubbiddu clan. Julie and Linda had met more than a decade earlier when they were both nineteen-year-old students enrolled in culinary arts programs. (Linda had been interested in wine and food even then; Julie had been going through a hotel-management phase before switching to a multidisciplinary degree program in wildlife studies, psychology, and national-park management.) To cut costs they’d shared a hotel room at a hospitality-industry exposition in Chicago and had become fast friends, a relationship that continued even after Julie married and Linda remained single. A couple of times a year, Linda had flown from her home in Tennessee to spend a few days with the Olivers, and every once in a while, Julie had returned the favor to go on some kind of brief jaunt with her old friend, who was by then the food and beverage director at a big Memphis hotel.

Then, a few years ago, Linda had met two of the Cubbiddu sons—Luca and Nico—at a winery conference in Basel. Luca and Linda had fallen head over heels in love, and six months later she was married and living happily with her husband in Tuscany, in one of the spacious “noble apartments” of Villa Antica. Since then, Julie had heard less from her, but a year ago, when she and Gideon were on an Italian vacation, they’d accepted her invitation to visit her there; it had been only a month or so before Pietro and Nola’s disappearance. Expecting to stay only overnight, they’d wound up canceling their other reservations and remaining for a week. They’d gotten to know and like Luca, and they’d met the others at the mandatory (by order of Pietro) daily family luncheons; noisy, spirited repasts of five or six courses, mostly simple, hearty Sardinian or Italian fare built around a main dish of spit-roasted rabbit, goat, or lamb that had been turning over a charcoal fire all morning. And always there were bottles of the same hearty, rustic wines that Pietro’s father and grandfather had made back on the farm, wines that Pietro had been drinking every day of his life since the age of five, and that were still closest to his heart.

They’d enjoyed themselves immensely, and this time around, being more or less in the neighborhood, they had pretty much invited themselves back. Linda and Luca’s response had been gratifyingly enthusiastic. It would be at the tail end of the annual Val d’Arno Wine Festival, put on by the valley’s winery consortium, the program committee of which was chaired this year by Linda in her role as Villa Antica’s public relations manager. So, it would be a busy time, but a lively one.

And the very next day, Villa Antica itself would be putting on its third annual Vino e Cucina program, a four-day course, conducted in English, that was primarily a cooking class, but was richly leavened with material on Italian wines and culture. The program would be led by Luca, who had founded it.

Although John and Marti had never met Linda, she had invited all four of them to attend the program free of charge. Julie and Marti had accepted but had insisted on paying the €500 fee (they were, after all, already being put up at the villa for the better part of a week), while John and Gideon had politely and unsurprisingly declined. They would find other things to do, and Thursday morning was already allocated: they would be at Borgo Ognissanti 48 in Florence.

When the antipasto plate came, they automatically adopted the gastronomic division of labor they’d become accustomed to when the four of them ate together: John, Julie, and Gideon tucked into the salami, prosciutto, and pate, while Marti no less happily went after the olives, the roasted peppers, and the marinated artichoke hearts and eggplant.

“Well, everything’s on, and they’re expecting us,” Julie said, slipping her iPhone into her bag. “Linda told me about finding Pietro and Nola, and about the police investigation and all. It was a little awkward pretending we didn’t know anything about it, but . . .” She shrugged. “Anyway, we’re supposed to meet Linda and Luca at the wine festival tomorrow afternoon. At three, if we can make it. It’s in the main square of Arezzo.”

Gideon nodded. “That’ll work. Seminar’ll finish up at one.”

“Oh, and she’s taking us up on our offer to help out at the festival—your offer, anyway,” she said to Gideon. “They want you to be a judge.”

“Do they now? For a wine tasting?” Gideon, who thought rather more of his wine expertise than was strictly warranted, was flattered.

“Um, not exactly. For the grape stomp.”

“Grape stomp,” Gideon repeated suspiciously. “And what is a grape stomp?”

“It’s a contest. Teams of people take off their shoes and socks and stomp around in barrels of grapes to see which team can squish them and produce the most juice. Being a judge is an honor,” she added but she couldn’t help laughing.

Gideon’s visage remained somber. “What do they need judges for? Wouldn’t it be easier just to measure the amount of juice?”

“Well, yes, and that’s what they do, but you’ve written books, you’ve been on television. You’re a celebrity.”

“Only one of my books has been published in Italy, and its sales were in the low three figures. And I’ve never been on Italian television, so how am I a celebrity?”

“Oh, don’t be such a grump. Linda said you’d add gravitas to the situation. You’d be a cultural ornament. You’ll do it, won’t you?”

“Great,” muttered Gideon. “A cultural ornament.”

“Oh, come on, Gideon, you will do it, won’t you?” Julie prompted. “All it takes is giving the awards to the winners.”

“Giving the awards to the winners, boy, I don’t know, that sounds pretty hard. I’m not sure I’m up to—