L'Oro Verde (4 page)

“Didn’t you think he might still be
alive?”

“No,” he said, wiping his forehead on
his sleeve. “I guess I didn’t think at all. I walked back to the rectory and
used the phone.”

“Why didn’t you use the phone in the sacristy?”

“It doesn’t work. The parish had trouble
paying the bill, I think. It hasn’t worked since I arrived. Most people carry a
wireless anyway. There’s no need to pay for a phone no one uses.”

The nun glanced at the priest’s feet.
“Did you wear those shoes, Father?”

The priest hesitated.

“Those are that expensive Italian brand,
aren’t they? What with the cassock you wear now, I had forgotten how well you
dressed when you first arrived. Perhaps those shoes would have paid for a more
convenient phone this morning.”

“Durability often makes up for cost,
Sister.”

“You should probably find another pair
until the lab tests these shoes. Alessandro, do you have an evidence bag? And
when the police came?”

“Pardon?” asked Father Domenic, sliding
out of his shoes.

“Where were you when the police
arrived?”

“I met them outside the rectory and let
them in through the gate.”

The nun looked up. “And where were you
last night?”

Again the priest fell silent, scowling.
He must have been angered by this less than tactful approach by a subordinate.

“Father?” DiMarco said.

“I was in the rectory from dinner on.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Torrisi, left some time after eight. I fell asleep on the
couch, woke up around midnight, and went upstairs to bed.”

“Did something awaken you at midnight,
Father Domenic?” Sister Angela asked.

“Not that I remember,”

“No dog barking or conjugal quarrels in
the neighborhood?”

“I assure you, Sister Angela, I was
awakened by nothing in particular.”

“Thank you, Father. You have been very
cooperative.”

*

Enzo emerged from his office on the first
floor of Garibaldi’s Olive Oil Incorporated, closing the door and locking it.
It was late, nearly eight o’clock. He was both tired and hungry. Sauntering
through the front lobby, he noticed the receptionist had already left and
turned out the lights. Suddenly he heard footsteps and paused. Someone was coming
down the stairs.

“Ah yes, Ms. Vitali. You worked late, I
see.”

“I’ve been very busy trying to make the
reports as thorough as possible for you this month.”

He looked her over. The sun through the
glass doors spotlighted her directly. Though the shadows were growing, it was still
light outside. Her slim figure was highlighted by her long legs. Straight black
hair accentuated her pale skin. She had not tinted it with red streaks as was
the style. Instead, she let it pick up any color the lights offered.

“I’m impressed,” he said. “I’m sorry to
work you so hard. You aren’t having trouble with the load, are you?”

“I can handle it.”

“Splendid. I’m glad you are on our team.
He deftly turned the key to the front door and held it open for her. “You know
it’s late. Perhaps you would like to join me for dinner.”

“I would enjoy that. I have an idea
about how to make the flow on the shop floor more efficient.”

“I would love to hear it,” he said,
putting his free hand around her waist and guiding her toward his car.

*

The nun looked at her watch. She had to
get back. “I feel like Cinderella, Alessandro, but I must return to class. I would
like to be there when you inform the parents. Can you wait a few minutes while
I find someone to teach my next class?”

“Yes, Sister Angela. Meet me at the
station in about half an hour. We can go together.”

DiMarco almost looked relieved she would
accompany him. She knew he did not like facing the family alone.

The nun wished she felt less angst too,
though it was not about talking to Bernardo’s parents or about having to face her
mother superior. Sister Angela had a feeling this case was going to rock not
only Montriano, but shake up many of the surrounding towns. The murder might
even affect the very infrastructure of the quiet hill villages—something that
had

not happened since a simple fruit helped
build an economic boom that has lasted for centuries.

In spite of the splashes of shade from
the lush greenery, the small courtyard inside the gates was sunny. Inhaling the
scent of bell peppers and garlic wafting from the open windows,

Sister Angela suddenly had the urge to
run the other way. She did not remember having been to the Bernardo’s house before.
Fumbling through her pocket for her rosary beads, she froze as the inspector
rapped on the door.

Inside, the shutters were open wide,
inviting cool morning breezes before the sun was too high. But the room just
beyond the front door was still dark. Sister Angela turned to look at the
picture on the wall. It was the painting of the nativity surrounded by an intricate
gilt frame. A crucifix hung in the opposite corner. The rest of the walls
remained bare, but the dun color did not reflect the sunlight. Perhaps it was
the shadows the two messengers carried inside with them—the pain they were
about to inflict on the unsuspecting inhabitants.

Giuseppe Reni let them in. After calling
his wife into the room, he stood frozen, apprehensive. Wiping her hands on an
apron tied around her waist, Valeria Reni emerged from the kitchen. She seemed
younger than her years. Her face was kindly, motherly, as if she could wrap her
arms around a whole host of children at once. She wore a broad smile, ready to
greet her unexpected guests. But the minute she saw Sister Angela and DiMarco,
her smile faded.

The inspector nodded. He had dropped the
usual greeting of
buongiorno,
something the hosts almost certainly did
not miss. “I’m afraid I have brought bad news for you both. Your

Son…” DiMarco said.

He did not need to finish. Mrs. Reni let
out a low moan. The two supported her on either side, and Sister Angela guided
her to the sofa.

“What happened?” Reni asked.

“Father Domenic discovered his body this
morning at the church.”

“I told you he wasn’t ready to move out,”
Mrs. Reni wailed, turning to face Sister Angela. “He was still just a boy. He
had no business being on his own. Giuseppe knew that. I told him.”

“What was he doing here in Montriano,
Inspector?” Reni said. “He lives with his aunt in Petraggio. Has anyone informed
my wife’s sister, Carmela? As Valeria must have told you, he lived with her and
her husband, Emilio, in Petraggio. We felt—
I
felt he needed to take care
of himself—to become a man. I assure you, those were my intentions. He seemed very
happy with the Gianninis and was very proud of his new job. It made him feel
important. Heaven knows, Inspector, we all need to feel that way once in a
while. I had no idea he would be in danger, or I would never have convinced my
wife it was the best course,” he said, his voice trailing off. Reni sighed
before turning to the inspector once again. “You are talking about San
Benedetto, aren’t you? Why was he here? Why didn’t he come to us?”

“Yes. The incident happened sometime
last night.”

Mrs. Reni buried her head in Sister
Angela’s ample bosom. The nun recoiled. What if she smelled it? Sister Angela
had been around death, and the odor clung to her skin like oil. She would take
a shower this evening, but the cloying aroma would still be there. It would
take several showers to scrub it off. Would Mrs. Reni smell it too? Would she
get a whiff of Bernardo? Would the woman know the nun had been around him, his
blood, his viscera?

Sister Angela had not noticed it before.
Of course, she had been around death—prayed over bodies, both prepared and
unprepared—but she had not been aware of death’s odor until she read about it.
A detective in one of the novels she devoured talked about death, “clinging to
his body in search of a host.” It sounded ridiculous at the time, but the
author was correct about the odor, permeating the pores, the hair, and the
clothes. The nun wondered how DiMarco handled it. Did his wife notice it when
he went home, or did he grow so accustomed to it that it no longer haunted him?
Sister Angela doubted that. It tickled her nostrils, drawing her mind away from
the glorious passage of the soul into God’s loving arms.

“Father Domenic will be here later this
afternoon,” Sister Angela assured them. “He’s still in shock too, I think.” She
paused, waiting for more questions, but no one said a thing. “Can I fix
anything for you? Tea?”

*

Father Domenic finally returned to the
rectory after eleven. Mrs. Torrisi brought him some coffee, but he did not touch
it.

“You haven’t had any breakfast. Don’t
you think you should have some cheese or something?”

“You heard what happened.”

“I heard it was a boy from town. Who was
it?”

“Bernardo Reni.”

The housekeeper whimpered. He fell
silent, presumably to let her compose herself. “You need to stay nourished at
such a time,” she finally said.

“I’ll be in my room,” he said, getting
up.

“Yes, Father.”

Mrs. Torrisi watched him ascend the
stairs before remembering the dishes on the table. She needed to clear them away
but could not. The thought of poor Bernardo made her chest ache. Sitting in the
priest’s chair, she spooned sugar into his coffee and took a sip.

*

Father Domenic slid past the bed to his
bureau and clasped the crucifix. Tears rolling down his cheeks, he dropped onto
the kneeler that sat like a sentry in the corner of the room and beseeched the
Lord to show him he had chosen the right path. He tried to clear the weight in
his lungs, to make way for his Christ, even beating his chest with the pointed
end of the wooden crucifix, but the relic broke in two.

“Why don’t you ever answer me, Father?”
he cried out. “What am I to do?”

The silence pounded in his ears. After a
couple of hours, he attempted another tactic.

“If you help me with this, I promise
I’ll fulfill my duties. I vow to banish the fantasies that sneak up on me in
the middle of mass, that overtake every sinew of my body. They seize my brain,
giving your words nuance with that of the devil, words that cheapen my sermons
with lies.”

He did not wait for a response but
dragged himself up only to fling himself across his bed. Falling into a
restless slumber, he soon broke his promise to remain celibate, dreaming of a
liaison with another, touching smooth skin, and pressing against warm yielding
flesh.

*

“Inspector, will you please fetch Mrs.
Reni a glass of water?” She waited until the woman seemed to relax. “I believe
we might want to talk about Bernardo. I’m interested in learning more about
him. Do you think you are up to it now?”

“We don’t want to keep you, Sister,”
Mrs. Reni said, sitting up to sip some water. “We know you have work to attend
to.”

“I have all the time in the world. Maybe
the inspector has other things he must do, but I can wait here until you feel better.
The inspector can come back at a more convenient time.”

DiMarco had inched toward the door.
Understanding this was not his favorite part of the investigation, Sister Angela
sensed his discomfort. Tonight, he would go home to his son. He had three
children, but only one son, the youngest. It was going to be difficult. The boy
was not yet in school, but DiMarco worried about his future already.

Sister Angela knew his wife, Francesca,
too. She was beautiful. Her hair, still dark, was thick and shiny. The nun
remembered their wedding. San Benedetto had been decorated with bright pink
blossoms. The bride wore a stunning gown, and the guests let out a collective
sigh when Alessandro lifted his bride’s veil. Her dark hair fell in ringlets
from under the gauzy cloth. And her eyes—some called them black—were concealed
beneath long dark lashes. Sister Angela knew how the inspector felt about her
and was not surprised when Francesca gave birth to their first daughter just
nine months later.

Both girls had their mother’s features. Sister
Angela was sure DiMarco would have his hands full when they discovered boys.
But tonight, the nun suspected he would watch his son, wondering how difficult
it would be to protect him.

Sister Angela could see the concern when
she looked into his eyes. DiMarco preferred the cold hard facts. Of course,
everyone felt that way. The best part of the job was unscrambling the puzzle. Unfortunately,
people and relationships always got in the way. Sister Angela was good at that
part—dealing with people. No, it was not just her habit that made people trust
her enough to talk. It was the way the nun listened and understood.

Sister Angela noticed relief in the
inspector’s face when she mentioned he might have to leave. Nodding, he
clumsily let himself out the door.

*

DiMarco was not the only one feeling
awkward that day. Earlier, Sister Angela had had to report to Mother Margherita
about the crime and explain what she thought could be done to help the Reni
family. She arrived at school just as the warning bell rang. The students
congregated in front of their second period classrooms. She quickly turned and
walked to the offices in the main building.

A Dominican priest founded the school in
1903, but the building was erected in the seventeenth century. From the street,
it looked like a large house, textured plaster with arched windows and
doorways. By the early sixties, the school was bursting at the seams. There was
simply not enough room for all the students. Fortunately, there were fourteenth
century cloisters behind it that had not been used for decades. Sister
Margherita, a teacher then, convinced the diocese to renovate them for
classroom space. The outdoor corridors and large courtyard added distinction to
the school, and Sister Margherita was soon promoted to headmistress for her efforts.

When Sister Angela entered the office of
the headmistress, Mother Margherita stood behind her desk, staring at her
watch.

“I trusted you would return on time,
Sister Angela. You needn’t have demonstrated it directly.”

“I realize that but thought you might
want to know. There are complications, Mother.”

Releasing a lungful of air in a long
sigh, the mother superior sank back. There were always complications with Sister
Angela. Was it her charge that made things more intricate? The nun certainly
seemed to attract obstacles, and at her best, to make sticky situations out of
black and white ones.

Sister Angela described the crime scene,
and as soon as Mother Margherita heard Bernardo’s name, she agreed. She too had
wanted to take the boy under her wing—such an innocent, that one. The Lord had
certainly made life difficult for him. She wondered at the time how far he
would go in life. Unfortunately, she was right to worry. “And the Lord taketh the
best so he can sit them closest to him,” she said quietly.

“Will you ask Sister Daniela to fill in
for me?” asked Sister Angela.

“I never asked her not to. Sister
Daniela should be in the classroom already.”

“Then Sister Marcella didn’t tell Sister
Daniela I would show up?”

Mother Margherita looked up. Sister
Angela bit her lip, a sign she understood her indiscretion. That was one of the
nun’s weaknesses, talking ill of others. In this case, Sister

Angela was right. The mother superior
should have expected it.

“I took care of Sister Marcella. I told
her I would take charge of the novice myself. I asked her to teach your later
classes,” she said in a firm voice. “Not because I didn’t trust you to return
on time, but just because there might be complications.”

She did not look up again. That was all.
The mother superior was dismissing her, ending the discussion. She was much too
busy with the three hundred students in her charge for more banter on the
subject.

*

Sister Angela left much more relieved
than when she arrived. She had just enough time to write up a few notes describing
the crime scene before meeting the inspector at the station.
A laptop would
be much quicker,
she thought, wondering if the police were willing to
spring for one.
Probably not.
This was not the time to broach the
subject. She had already asked for enough favors and would save it for her prayers
another day.

*

Although she had not yet asked for any
details about the murder, Mrs. Reni had calmed down considerably.

“Tell me about him, Mrs. Reni,” the nun
urged. “I know you sensed he wasn’t ready to be on his own. What about him made
you feel that way?”

The woman got up and toddled into
another room. When she returned, she carried a large album. Reni left the house,
but his wife probably had not noticed.

“These are our pictures. The album’s
thick. Giuseppe took lots of pictures. We are very proud of our son.” She
opened the book to the first page. “Here he is on my lap,” she said. “He was so
beautiful. We couldn’t believe our luck.”

Sister Angela looked at the happy scene.
Luck?
She repeated to herself.
That’s an odd way to phrase it.
“Is
that Giuseppe next to you? He was quite young there. Who took the picture?” the
nun asked.

“My brother, Paolo. You remember Paolo,
Sister. His son, Giorgio, was always in trouble in your class. You called Paolo
and his wife in to see you all the time. He was at my party for the occasion.”