Dying on the Vine

exploding off the settee they shared. “I’m not saying anybody here killed him, God forbid. I’m just saying the motive was there. It was, Franco. He’s gonna find that out anyway, and I just figured we might as well tell him about it now.”

“What motive? Are you crazy? I don’t—”

“Humboldt-Schlager,” Nico said quietly, which shut Franco down in mid-sentence.

“Humboldt-Schlager,” Luca said musingly. “Yeah, the kid’s got a point, Franco.”

“I think,” Rocco said pleasantly, “it would be really nice if somebody told me what you’re talking about.”

Gideon and John shared a mildly amused glance. Rocco had said it in all innocence, just as if Gideon hadn’t told him all about the Humboldt-Schlager affair not even three hours earlier.

“Go ahead, kid,” Luca said to Nico. “You started this.”

“Okay. In a nutshell, Humboldt-Schlager—you know, the brewing company—wanted to buy the winery, and babbo was gonna sell it.”

Franco had his arms folded. “We don’t know that for a fact.”

“Yeah, we do,” Nico said. “Get real, Franco. Of course he was; it was written all over him. Am I right, Luca?”

“You’re right, Nico.”

Franco shrugged.

“And none of you wanted him to do it?” Rocco asked.

The three brothers looked at each other for a second before Franco replied. “We did not. We felt the terms were inimical to the interests of the family.”

Luca hooted with laughter. “Translation: they were gonna boot us out on our asses. The minute the contract was signed.”

“And Linda, how did you feel about it?”

“I felt the way Luca did.”

“I see,” Rocco said. “Okay, guys, telling me about it was the right thing to do. We’ll be following up with you on this.”

“May I point out that Nola was also murdered?” Franco said. “And Nola had nothing to do with it, so how is it relevant?”

But Rocco was tiring. He’d had enough. “I think we can wrap this up for now. Thank you all for your cooperation. Franco, I’m gonna want to confer with the maresciallo here for a minute. Okay if we just stay here?”

“Actually, I think the small conference room might be better suited, Lieutenant. You remember where it is?”

“Sure, fine, whatever,” Rocco said, annoyed. “Any chance of having some coffee sent over there for us? I’m flagging.”

“That might be problematic. I’m afraid Maria is tied up in the refectory kitchen with Luca’s—”

“I’ll take care of it, Franco, don’t sweat it,” Linda said, getting up, and then under her breath: “Sheesh.”

As people filed thoughtfully out, Luca caught Gideon and John. “Tonight the group is on its own for dinner. How about you and the girls join Linda and me for something special? I want to take you to the best restaurant in Tuscany.”

“You’re too late,” John said. “We already found it. I had pizza carnivora. Fantastico, tremendoso!”

Luca responded with a hearty, appreciative laugh. “I think maybe we’re talking about different places. Eight thirty okay? We’ll be driving to Arezzo.”

EIGHTEEN

IN the conference room, Rocco leaned back in one of the pearl-gray Aeron conference chairs with his feet up on another. He sat with his hands clasped behind his neck, a Marlboro between his lips. Across the table Martignetti jotted notes in his pad.

“You think there’s anything to this Cesare angle?” the lieutenant asked, blowing smoke toward the matte white panels of the fluorescent-lit ceiling. “You think he could have killed them both? On account of the will?”

“I’d say he’s our best bet right now. Better than the beer company angle.”

“You think he’d kill his own mother for a few thousand euros?”

“He’s a cokehead, Tenente,” Martignetti said, as if that was more than enough to explain things.

Which it was, in Rocco’s opinion. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said sleepily. “Look, you come right through the Santa Croce district to get to work. Why don’t you pick him up on your way in tomorrow morning and bring him in? I’m interested to meet the guy.”

At which point Linda swept in with a tray on which were two espresso cups, a glass pot of coffee holding an additional three or four cups of coffee, and a plate of almond-orange biscotti.

“Linda, God bless you!” Rocco said. “I was just gonna fall asleep. You saved my life.”

She set down the tray. “If Franco saw you with your feet up on one of his chairs like that, your life wouldn’t be worth much, Lieutenant.”

Rocco, leaving his feet on the chair, poured the coffee for himself and Martignetti. “But you won’t tell him, will you, sweetheart?” He drank the entire cupful and sighed with pleasure. “The heart begins to beat again,” he said. “The blood flows.”

“Nothing in comparison to how it’d flow if he knew you were smoking in his conference room. But no, I won’t tell.”

“You’re a wonderful woman, Linda,” he said, but he ground the butt out on the heavy paper doily on the tray. “Wait, before you go,” he said as she turned to leave. “Do you think there’s anything to that Humboldt-Schlager thing? Is that something we should be focusing on, in your opinion?”

“No. None of those guys killed Pietro, Lieutenant. They worshipped the man.”

“Sometimes, disappointed worshippers can turn—” Martignetti began.

“They loved him too, Maresciallo. I know you two have to investigate every lead that turns up, but believe me, there’s nothing in this world, no disappointment, no resentment, no argument—and there were plenty of those—that would have been capable of leading any of them to lay a hand on him. It would have been like laying a hand on God.”

“How about on Nola?” Rocco asked.

“Well, now, that’s a different question,” Linda said, smiling. “But as Franco said, Nola had nothing to do with the Humboldt thing, so—”

“She had no say in it at all? It wasn’t a joint decision?”

Now she laughed outright, a husky, pleasing chuckle. “That, Lieutenant, was not a term in common usage around here in Pietro’s time.” She paused, then added in an undertone: “Not so common now, either.”

“Franco runs a one-man operation too?” Rocco asked. “Like his old man?”

“Very much like his old man, although he’d hate to hear anybody say it. Is there anything else you need, Lieutenant? I have to get back to the course. I’m demonstrating this afternoon, and my torta di riso is coming out of the oven in five minutes.”

“Go in peace,” Rocco said, and raised his cup to her in heartfelt appreciation. “And thanks!”

On her way out, she very nearly collided with Severo Quadrelli, who was striding buoyantly down the hall. “Linda, Linda,” he greeted her. “Lovely girl.”

Linda looked at him curiously. “Hi, Severo.”

Martignetti, facing the open doorway of the conference room, called out to him. “Hallo? Signor Quadrelli? Could we see you again for a moment, please?” He spoke in Italian.

Quadrelli stopped and came to the doorway. “Yes, what is it?”

“We realized there are a few more things we need to ask you about. Come in, please. Sit down.”

“Will this take very long? I have quite a number of things—”

“Please,” Rocco said. “Sit.”

“Very well, very well.” The chairs were a bit narrow for him, but he waggled his bulk into one of them with a