L'Oro Verde (6 page)

“Yes, well it’s rather dusty down there.
I’m not sure it’ll be easy to find. I’m going over there right now,” he said, pushing
away from the table and reaching for his coat. “Mrs. Torrisi, I’ll be in the
sacristy if anyone calls. Follow me, Novice Daniela. We’ll see what we can find.”

*

At the bottom of the stairs, the front
of the basement looked clean. Father Domenic went ahead and turned on the lights.
Ironing boards and washing machines sat beside an old furnace. In the corner
under the window stood a small wood stove the altar ladies sometimes used for
heat. A closed door interrupted the eclipsed wall at the far end. The novice wondered
where the opening led. Was there a passage under the church? She imagined a
procession of heretics being

herded toward the piazza for execution.

“We need a new light bulb over there,”
the priest noted.

In the darkest corner at the farthest
end of the same wall, Sister Daniela could just make out a pile of furniture. “What
are those?”

“Flagpoles, candlesticks, things we use
for holy days.” The novice tripped over a small credence table that had been
pulled out of the pile. “What’s this?”

“Watch out. The table’s broken with a
missing a leg. I don’t know why it ended up down here.”

Sister Daniela thought it would make a
perfect nightstand for her bedroom. Perhaps she would ask about it later.

“This room back here used to be an office,”
Father Domenic explained, opening the door to her fantasy. “But now it’s just
storage. I don’t think anyone’s keeping it organized.”

A cloud of dust billowed from the box he
kicked.

“How many boxes are there?” she asked.

“They go back at least two to two-and-a-half
centuries, although the old ones aren’t as intact. We don’t move them because
they would probably fall apart,” he said. “But look here. They are
labeled—that’s a start. I hope the records inside are the same as those noted
on the labels.”

“I’ll work on this now, Father. Please
go back to your own duties. It wouldn’t do for both of us to get dirty.”

As soon as he left, Sister Daniela began
to regret being alone. The clanging of the hot water heater and other creaks
and moans in the ancient church scared her. Checking her pockets, she
found it. Mother Vicaress Annemarie would not let her chew gum in the school,
but it would relax her a bit now. She popped a couple of sticks into her mouth.

She must have labored an hour before she
finally found the right label, and then another two hours to drag the box closer
to the light and leaf through all the records. But she had it, small packet
that it was. Examining some of the others around it, she found nothing out of
place.

Removing three envelopes, she walked to
the bottom of the steps and sat down. Carefully lifting the documents out of
the first, she recorded the contents.

Birth Certificate for Sandro Tosone

Baptismal Certificate for Sandro Tosone

Confirmation Certificate for Sandro
Tosone

Sliding the papers back into the envelope,
she dumped out the next, consisting of the same three papers for Sophia Dosso.
This envelope also contained a fourth—a marriage certificate verifying that
Sophia Dosso had married a Thomaso Giambellino. Again she refilled the envelope
and turned the third over. Three papers fell out, face down.

Sister Angela must have been wrong. This
one contained the same verifications. She turned over the first, attesting the
confirmation of Bernardo Reni when he was fourteen. The second was a certificate
of baptism for Bernardo at about one year. The third should have been an
official birth certificate, but it looked different. There were lines naming
the parents that read, “Giuseppe and Valeria Reni,” and Bernardo’s name was on
the sheet too, but it was not like the others. It had no official seal or
hospital name.

“How odd,” she murmured. Sister Daniela
quickly stuffed it into her pocket and walked to the file room where she
hesitated. Removing the certificate from the basement was stealing.

She slipped it out of her pocket and
looked at it again. If she put it back into the envelope, it might disappear.
The
stove—n
o
one would use it to heat the basement this time of year
.

At first, she considered placing the
paper inside it. She slid the heavy burner lid to one side and peered in. A
mound of residue still littered the base—blackened branches sticking out of a
heap of ashes. Under that, there were clumps of paper and cloth. Worried
someone might come and clean it out, she replaced the cover. Then she removed
the wad of gum she had nursed for the last few hours and stuck the paper to the
back of the stove. Nobody would find it. Someone would have to know it was
there to see it.

Relieved that she would be outside in
clean air in minutes, she quickly filed the other envelopes and dusted herself
off before starting to climb the stairs. Father Domenic stood at the top, his
dark figure looming in the doorway. Sister Angela had not shared her fears
about his guilt, but the novice had a strange feeling when she looked up at
him. Though shadows hid his face, she noticed dark circles under his eyes.

“Did you find anything?” he asked, his
voice echoing off the closed walls of the staircase.

“Uh, yes. I mean no,” she stammered,
examining the high windows along the wall of the basement and wondering if she
could escape through one of them. “I found the records on the boy, and they
looked normal, so I replaced them. I’ll tell that to Sister Angela.”

The figure descended a few steps, his
black robe swishing over his highly polished shoes. Then he stopped. “I really should
come down here and clean up. Perhaps the cross will turn up.”

Sister Daniela stood at the bottom
unable to lift a foot. “I-I can search for you, but not today. I have to get
back to my classes now.”

The priest finally turned and climbed to
the top, disappearing into the sacristy. Ten minutes later, Sister Daniela
heard a door close. Grabbing her notes, she scampered up the stairs and out the
door into the garden. The gate was open, and she quickly slipped through into
the alleyway. When she got to the busy main street, she finally took a deep
breath.

When Sister Angela arrived, Dr. Piombo
sat behind his desk, a napkin tucked in under his chin. Breadcrumbs littered
the desktop along with a bowl of steaming pasta. He blew on it. A small glass
of wine stood next to a lighted candle. Rankled by the interruption, he glanced
at his watch. It was two o’clock.

“Excuse me, Sister Angela. It’s late,
and I’m very hungry. Can you come back later?”

“More food is what you don’t need,
Andreus. If you walked at lunchtime instead of eating, you would feel much better.”

“I had to work through lunch. Sometimes
the bodies don’t tell me everything that I want them too,” he said. “I take it
you are here to find out more about the young man we brought down yesterday.”

“Yes, Andreus, please, but I can wait
until you are finished,” she said, sitting down across from him. “And your wife—is
she well?”

Piombo’s eyes began to water. He had
taken a bite too soon—no doubt the nun broke his concentration. Sister Angela
spun toward the corner and drew water from the cooler.”

“Lena’s well,” he said when he had
regained his composure. “Would you like some wine?”

“No, thank you. Don’t let me interrupt
your lunch,” she said. “But while it cools, perhaps you could tell me about the
olive oil factory by the freeway. Do you know anyone who works there, Andreus?”

“I assume you are talking about
Garibaldi’s. It’s not new, Sister. It’s been there for nearly three decades.”

“And still with the same family?”

“Yes. Enzo took over from his father,
Bartolo, nearly fifteen years ago. You don’t know them? I believe they attend Santa
Maria. I’m surprised because I’m sure they have given much to the diocese.”

“I have heard of them, yes. But mostly
about the gifts, not the individuals.”

“I only knew the father. He was a kind
man. But his son married money. I’m afraid that sets him outside my sphere of
acquaintance. I hear he has a huge yacht. While he works at the factory,
she
sails it around the Greek Islands and even farther out.”

“You mean his wife?” Sister Angela
asked. “Have you ever seen her? I once saw her in a picture. I wonder how much
it had been touched up. She’s no spring chicken if I calculate right.”

“Ah, but her luxurious lifestyle must
perform miracles on her complexion.”

“I wonder if I know anyone who is
friendly with him. I’ll have to think about that.” “I suppose you don’t want to
approach the bishop’s assistant. What’s his name?”

“You mean Father Sergio?”

“Yes, he would be acquainted with such a
benefactor.”

“Heavens no. I’m sure he would never
speak negatively about such a patron, even if he were
aware
of something
untoward about him. As far as you know, has the family ever been involved in
any scandal that concerned the police?”

“I don’t think so,” said Piombo. “Unless
a body was involved, the police and newspapers would know more than I do.”

“I’ll bet Lena didn’t make that lunch
for you. She would have made something with a bit less cheese.” Sister Angela said,
shaking her head as he nibbled on a piece of pasta that clung to his fork.

“My food is delivered from across the
street. Lena doesn’t give me enough. I ate her sandwich this morning before I
started with the young man.”

“And that doesn’t bother your doctor,
Andreus? I’m sure he tells you that you eat too much, especially after that last
heart attack.”

“Not a heart attack, Sister—an
infarction. There’s a difference.”

“A myocardial infarction
is
a
heart attack, Andreus. And the doctor told you to slow down.”

“I did slow down. I took two and a half
hours on that youth instead of two. I lit a candle on my desk, and I usually add
a little Mozart or Beethoven to calm me. But today I’m listening to a friend
who looks as though she could stand to take some of her own advice.” Sighing,
he finally put down his fork and blew out the candle. “Come on, Sister. My
lunch is still too hot. Let’s go over what I found.”

Bernardo’s body was no longer on the
table. Dr. Piombo deftly slid out a drawer of the refrigerator unit and pulled
the covered body onto a gurney. When he had adjusted the lights and sheets just
so, he began. Unable to get a reaction when he tried before, he knew the nun
would not be squeamish. “Let’s start at the top. Do you want some gloves,
Sister?” he asked, pulling a gown over his head and then turning the sheet down
to reveal Bernardo’s body. “The cause of death was the first blow.”

“How do you know it was the first blow,
Andreus?”

“Because if the side blow came first,
how could the attacker maneuver the weapon to hit him on top with the second?
The youth would have been lying on the floor,” he said, the volume of his voice
increasing with his annoyance. This much was obvious.

“Does it look like the cross?” she
asked, placing her fingers around the wound.

“It could have been,” he said. “Father
Domenic hasn’t found the cross then? But it would have left a deep gouge back
here. It isn’t perceptibly deeper at this end.”

“What if it missed? The crosspiece could
have fallen beyond the skull.”

“Then why the sharp cut on the
forehead?” he asked. “Is the cross long enough at the bottom? This wound didn’t
come from a wooden pole.”

“I think it’s long enough, but I can’t
remember. We don’t have it to measure.”

“Anyway, the object was long and sharp.
I see no bits of debris like paint or patina in the wound, so it was probably a
polished metal.”

“And do you agree the killer had to have
been strong—too strong to be a woman or a small man?”

“That depends on the cross. How long and
heavy is the processional cross?”

“If I remember correctly, the
processional cross was about two meters and five kilos at most.”

“Then yes. The attacker was most likely
a man. The body must have been hit very hard to make this kind of wound.”

“There was some blood around the
body—blood that had been hastily mopped up. That must mean the killer had blood
on his clothes, right?”

“Yes. There would have been a lot of
blood. Do you have any idea what the assailant used for a mop?”

“There was nothing missing in the
church. The linens and albs are all accounted for, I believe,” she said. “Maybe
the killer used his own clothes.”

“And remember he took the cross with
him.”

“Those items can’t be very far from the
scene, Andreus. The killer wouldn’t have wanted to run into someone in the morning
hours who might question him. If they were his own clothes, he wouldn’t walk
the streets naked or covered in blood. He must have been wearing a robe.”

“Or didn’t have to walk very far.”

“Father Domenic, you mean. I find that
almost incredible.”

“You haven’t searched the rectory yet,
then,” the doctor said. “It’s probably too late anyway. I’m sure the killer
would have found a great hiding place for the evidence by now.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“Nothing physical. The victim was a bit
dirty, probably from running and trying to find a place to hide. I did a tox screen.
The results won’t be in until next week. I found nothing to indicate he had
been using drugs.”

“But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t selling
them.”

“True. But I don’t think he was using
them. And I checked the fingernails. No material underneath, and there are no
scratches or bruises that would indicate a fight.”

Sister Angela winced, the first
indication the scene had gotten to her. “That means he either knew the killer
or gave up rather quickly,” she said, biting her lip.

Not wanting to take advantage of the
slight show of emotion, the doctor covered the body again and walked her to his
office. She grabbed her bag and ambled toward the door, stopping just before she
pulled it open.

“One last thing, Andreus. As you know,
this boy was slow in school. Could you see anything obvious that might have
caused that?”

But he had already returned to his desk,
savoring his pasta from the restaurant across the street. He did not reply.

*

Garibaldi swiveled his chair to look directly
at his guest, sitting across the table. “These are the numbers. I need more but
will go elsewhere if you insist on raising the price, Vittorio.”

“I told you, Enzo. The weather hasn’t
cooperated with your needs. Those olives didn’t do well this season. Too little
sun, I’m afraid. You can approach any supplier in the region, and you’ll get
similar quotes.”

“Give me a few days to make sure of the
numbers. I’ll get back to you—through Nicola, of course. By the way, where is Nicola?
She hasn’t been here all week. You haven’t sent her to another factory, have
you? She’s employed here, you know. She begged me to hire her.”

“No. I’m afraid Nicola’s been ill. She
should be back in a day or so.”

“Not something serious, I hope.”

“I don’t believe so. She’s a woman so I
don’t understand her. Only mothers comprehend their daughters. If only…”

“I get the picture, Vittorio. Her mother
would have known what to do,” Garibaldi said, turning his back to Vitali again.
“As I told you, give me a couple of days so I can assess what I need. You will
show yourself out, Vittorio, won’t you? I’m late for a meeting and have to pull
some papers together for it. Please tell your daughter we all hope her health
improves.”

*

Sister Angela glanced at her watch. It
was after three-thirty. There was not enough time to make it to Bernardo’s place
of work. His aunt’s house, though, was only five or six blocks from the Dr.
Piombo’s office. If she hurried, she could visit the aunt and still catch the
six o’clock bus back to Montriano.

Petraggio was bigger than
Montriano—bigger and more spread out. Many of the houses incorporated into the
town were small farms. The Gianninis lived on one of them—a small farm with
chickens and a few goats. The land was not much good for growing crops, but
Mrs. Giannini had started a vegetable garden, and the tomatoes seemed to be
doing very well.

Sister Angela was warm by the time she
got there, and Mrs. Giannini poured her some apple juice. The woman chased a
cat from the table on the porch before sitting down across from her visitor.
She seemed to know why the nun was there.

“I talked to my sister, Valeria,
yesterday afternoon. She was very upset. I’m afraid we have let her down.”

“Surely you did nothing on purpose, Mrs.
Giannini. Mrs. Reni never blamed either you or Mr. Giannini. Please tell me about
Bernardo—how he spent his days and evenings.”

“He left for work each morning at about
eight-thirty,” she said. “I had breakfast for him and made a lunch too. He worked
until six.”

Mrs. Giannini stopped to light a
cigarette. She inhaled deeply, letting her breath out slowly. The woman was
younger than her sister. The nun guessed she was less than forty. With

her long fingers, the aunt pulled back
her dark bangs and then released them. They fell forward once more. She
repeated the gesture again and again during their conversation. There was no
hint of gray in her hair, only streaks of dark red that were professionally
applied.

“How did he get there?”

“He took a bus,” Mrs. Giannini said.” I
don’t know if he had to connect somewhere. I suspect he did. Anyway, he was
always hurrying so he wouldn’t miss it.”

“It was nice of you to take him into
your home. Wasn’t his mother worried about him?”

“Yes. She called often, wondering if he
was all right. Valeria never really wanted him to leave, you know. She thought
he wasn’t ready to be on his own.”

Mrs. Giannini snuffed out the
half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray and lit another. Sister Angela would have
understood the gesture if it had been chewing gum. Gum lost its flavor after a
while. Cigarettes did not. The woman then put her foot up on the edge of her
chair and cradled her knee.

“But he wasn’t really on his own, was
he? I mean you were taking care of him. Did you resent the implication?”

“No, not really. The trouble she had
endured since the day she brought him home, I can’t begin to imagine. What a shock
to us when we found out he had problems.”

“Trouble?” the nun asked, hearing only
the first lines. “What kind of trouble did she endure?”

“He was retarded.” She seemed really
agitated now, the puffs coming in closer intervals. “You know what he was like,
Sister. He was your student, wasn’t he?”

“But you still let him live here with
you.”

“What’s the difference between cooking
and cleaning for one and doing it for two? At least Bernardo paid for it.”

“He paid rent? Mrs. Reni didn’t mention
that.”

“It wasn’t much, but it helped pay for
the food.”