Dying on the Vine

Italian father. Through his teens, he had spent his summers in New York with his mother’s family, and unfortunately the American half had come to dominate. Not that the Italian half was anything to write home about; his father was from Sicily, after all. Lieutenant Gardella was overly casual, bordering on irreverent, in his attentions to the glorious history and traditions of the carabinieri, overly informal in dealing with his superiors, frequently on the edge of insubordination—but never quite actionably over the line—and infuriatingly cavalier in matters of rules and deportment. He spoke Italian with an American accent, and, so it was said, English with an Italian accent.

But he was also the finest investigative officer Conforti had under him, maybe the finest he’d ever had, and that made all the difference in the world. And the public—he knew how to get along with them. In his decade with the corps he had received a dozen commendations from citizens and not a single complaint. No, it was only here, within the hallowed ranks of what was, after all, an elite military organization going on two hundred years old, that his incurable Americanness proved so grating on the capitano’s nerves. At the same time, it had to be said, Gardella was hard not to like; always innocently cocksure and blithely unaware of his offences. Which naturally made him all the more infuriating.

“Here,” Conforti said gruffly, sliding a sheet of paper across the desk. “Something for your attention. This is a transcript of a 112 call that was made half an hour ago.”

Gardella took the transcription and read it with interest, pausing only to utter a snort of laughter at one point, no doubt at the reference to goats wearing clothing. Even that displeased Conforti—understandable it might be, but decorous it was not, considering the situation. Nevertheless, the captain contented himself with no more than a recriminatory rumble from deep in his throat, of which the lieutenant predictably took no notice.

“Casentino National Park,” Gardella mused. “You think it could be that winery couple, the . . .”

“The Cubbiddus, yes,” Conforti responded. “Those coordinates, they’re less than half a kilometer from Pietro Cubbiddu’s cabin. A remote and difficult area. I think we may have found them at last.” He proffered another sheet. “A map of the area with the coordinates shown.”

Gardella studied it, nodding. “You could be right.”

Conforti scowled. Well, there it was again. You could be right. Technically, there was nothing wrong with what Gardella had said; it was a statement of fact. But “You could be right?” Was this the way to address one’s superior? “I would like you to handle the investigation, Tenente,” Conforti said mildly.

“Me? Well, who headed up the task force when they first disappeared?”

“That was the late, unlamented Maresciallo Galli,” the captain said. “But even if he were still among us, I would be assigning the responsibility to you. That is, of course, if you wouldn’t mind.”

But sarcasm bounced off Gardella like raindrops off a mallard. “All right, no problem. I’ll see that it’s taken care of for you,” he said as if bestowing a favor. “I’ll give it to Martignetti. Tonino’s a good man.” He folded the sheets in two and (without being dismissed) rose to leave.

“No, I want you to lead the investigation personally,” Conforti said.

“Me, personally? Why?”

“Because this may well turn into a high-profile matter.” Was it possible to feel one’s blood pressure rising? Conforti was sure he could sense his arteries tightening. “Because there may be foul play involved. I want a commissioned officer in charge from the beginning, not a maresciallo. I have chosen you.”

“But I barely know the case. I hardly—”

“Nevertheless you will be the investigative officer.” He spoke through clenched teeth. His patience continued to fray.

“But—”

Conforti glared at him. Had the man ever, even once, accepted an order without a but, an argument, a question? A why? “Tenente!” he said sharply. “I have given you a direct command. I do not wish to be questioned further.”

“But—”

“I do not wish to be questioned at all. You will go to the site now. Take Martignetti with you. The crime-scene van is on its way. Representatives of the prosecutor’s office and the medico legale will meet you there. You will give an account to me when you return, even before making out your report. Is all this clear?”

“Well, sure it’s clear. I just—”

“Dismissed.”

“I only—”

“Dismissed.”

Gardella, totally unfazed by his captain’s growl, got up with an amiable shrug and made for the door. “You’re the boss. I’m on my way.” He pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway.

Conforti began to call sharply after him. “On leaving the presence of a superior officer, Tenente, it is customary . . .” Mid-sentence, he threw up his hands. His final muttered words were addressed to the walls.

“Ah, ma va all’inferno.”

Ah, the hell with it.

THREE

THE city of Florence, like the rest of Tuscany, was slogging its way through another humid, sweltering August, so the prospect of spending the afternoon in the mountains was a welcome one. Rocco Gardella had gratefully changed out of his uniform and now had on light, tan summer jeans, a short-sleeve blue sport shirt, and sockless sandals. Traveling east on SP556 with Rocco driving and the equally casually dressed Martignetti in the passenger seat, it didn’t take long before they were climbing out of the heat haze, through the tiny stone villages of Ponte Biforco and Montemezzano, and up onto the cool, forested, green flanks of Mount Falterona. He turned off the air-conditioning, opened the window at his side, and leaned his head out, lapping up the wind like a dog. This was terrific, and only forty minutes out of Florence. Why didn’t he get up here more often?

Rocco remembered a little about the Cubbiddus’ disappearance a year earlier, but not much more than what he’d seen in the newspapers. However, Martignetti had pulled the old case and had it on his lap. As they drove he browsed through it, reading the background aloud to Rocco.

Pietro and Nola Cubbiddu had migrated from Sardinia twenty-five years earlier. In the time since, starting with a half hectare of decrepit vineyard that had produced its last wines fifty years before, they had built one of the largest wineries of the Val d’Arno.

A year ago, Pietro had been spending a few quiet weeks at his vacation cabin in the Casentinese, and Nola was supposed to have come to pick him up in her car and drive him back home to the villa, but they’d never shown up there. The family had called the police that night. There had been an extensive search of the area over the next few days, which had produced the wife’s parked car not far from the cabin, but nothing else. The investigation that followed had led to dead ends. Today’s telephone call was the first thing that sounded as if it might be a real lead.

The last few kilometers to the location were on an unmarked road—a pair of ruts, really—that even Rocco’s GPS didn’t know about, and they had to concentrate to keep from wandering off it onto even vaguer pathways. Still, Rocco’s mind was working on the case. It was too early to arrive at any hypotheses, of course—it had yet to be determined whether these were or weren’t the Cubbiddus—but he couldn’t keep a couple of speculations from rattling around his brain. First, whoever they were, he thought that foul play probably was involved. One person falling accidentally to his death from a mountain path; that was possible. But two people? Unless they’d been caught in an avalanche, highly unlikely. Second, and this wasn’t so much a hypothesis as an archaic word that he couldn’t get out of his mind: faida it was in Italian, and though the deadly, senseless—but undeniably romantic—institution was a thing of the past on the mainland, it was still alive and well in the remote, mountainous interior of Sardinia, from which the Cubbiddus had come.