Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death Page 11

  After another couple of hours of pleasant rambling and a brief tour of the cathedral, where we admired the frescos and the elegant and tragic marble tomb of Ilaria del Carretto (or so said our handout, identifying the artist as Jacopo della Quercia) with her sad little dog peering up from under her feet, our group reassembled in the piazza in front of the cathedral, and we trekked back to the gate where we’d entered to return to the vans. Liguria beckoned, specifically a place called Monterosso, which was on the sea. I’d never heard of Monterosso, but our leaders’ choices had been spot-on so far. There was talk of a vineyard. Beaches and vineyards all at once? How could anyone complain?

  But I did begin to complain—to myself, at least—when we were about halfway to our destination. That was when I realized that I had been lulled into a false sense of security by the lush rolling hills of Tuscany. Leaving Lucca, at first the roads climbed gradually. Then we left the Autostrada and the roads narrowed to two lanes, and kept climbing. Then the turns began. I wasn’t troubled by motion sickness, and hadn’t been since I was a kid; it was looking out the window that was disturbing. I had switched with someone else and now sat in the middle row on the right side of the van, with a nice large window next to me. I was admiring the views, as always, when I realized I was looking at rooftops far, far below me. I had no way of estimating accurately, but I figured a couple of hundred feet would be conservative. A spindly metal guardrail a foot or two from the side of the van was all that stood between us and free fall, and it was a long way down. How much did I know about Brenda’s driving expertise? How much had she known about the perils of the roads when she signed on? I’m sure they looked quite innocent on a nice, flat map, with wiggly green lines suggesting pretty views. And now I’d committed my life and the safety of my limbs to someone about whom I knew very little. I was not reassured.

  And the hills—and accompanying valleys—kept coming. I tried closing my eyes for a minute, then decided I’d rather watch my fate approaching than meet it blind.

  I didn’t say anything. Neither did anyone else riding on the right side of the van. There was an occasional gasp when the turn was particularly tight or we met a bus coming fast from the opposite direction, which they did with alarming frequency (maybe the local population didn’t like driving on these roads either and they were all riding in those blasted buses instead). Brenda appeared unruffled, but I was pretty sure her knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and she was wrestling with a large vehicle. I was so glad once again that I hadn’t volunteered to drive. I preferred my roads flat and wide. Mountains were pretty to look at but not so pretty to drive over.

  The ride seemed to go on forever. To distract myself, I tried to recall someone’s comment about how the tiny towns strung out along the Ligurian coast were accessible from one to another only by train or by boat—not by road. Now deep in the midst of steep mountains, I could understand that: it would take a long, long time to retrace this route back to the top, then to go down to the next town. I wondered, not for the first time, what the accident rate was around here. Was I carrying any information about contacting my next of kin? Assuming my body survived the plunge with ID intact?

  Finally we arrived at our destination—or rather, as close as we could get, given the size of the vans versus the size of the lane that apparently led toward the small town we could barely see way, way below us. We unloaded our luggage and stood around cluelessly, waiting for someone to give us instructions. We also admired the pretty sea views and the pretty vineyard views, all downhill from where we stood. Finally our fearless leaders rounded us up to announce our room assignments.

  “Welcome to Monterosso, everyone. Now, listen up,” Jane said loudly, struggling to make herself heard. “The following people are staying in the hotel down below in Monterosso.” She read off a long list of over thirty names. “You’ll have to walk from here, because they don’t allow personal vehicles in the town. But I promise your luggage will be delivered to you at the hotel. The ones whose names I didn’t call”—which included Cynthia and me—“will be staying up here in the Buranco vineyard, which is owned and managed by a cousin of mine and which produces some very fine wines, which you’ll all have a chance to enjoy, I promise. There are three rooms there with different numbers of beds—I’ll let you sort out who goes where. You’ll be eating your breakfast there. The bad news is, you’ll have to take your own luggage down, by that path there.” She waved vaguely at a graveled path that wandered down the hill to the left. “The good news is, it’s downhill. The good-bad news is that you’ll be in great shape after a couple of days of hiking up and down the hill from the town—you’ll know what I mean once you see that path. If any of you assigned to the vineyard don’t think you can handle the hill, let one of us know or work out a swap with someone, all right? Is everything clear?”

  We all glanced around and nodded, more or less.

  “Then let’s go! Settle in, and those of you up the hill, join us in town for dinner at seven thirty. It’s the Belvedere restaurant, on the waterfront, and our group will be hard to miss. If you reach the water, you’ve gone too far.”

  “I’d bet we could get lost if we tried,” Cyn muttered in my ear.

  “I don’t think there are a lot of ways to get lost here, unless you’re a mountain goat,” I responded. “Shall we?” I waved a hand toward the rows of vines spread out below us.

  Our motley vineyard band collected our luggage and started wrestling it down the hill, without any clear idea where we were going. I was reminded quickly that wheeled suitcases and gravel do not mix well. By the time we emerged in front of a long patio, we were ready for a break, and we all dropped into comfortable chairs overlooking the vineyard. Some of us were panting, including me. And that had been downhill. I wasn’t looking forward to climbing back up from the town after dinner—in the dark. Was everything on a slant in this part of the world?

  “Is that the town down there?” I pointed. And down—way down—in the distance I could see the edge of the town. It looked very far away, like a toy village. There was a path leading to it that appeared to be paved, sort of. I wouldn’t want to try it in the rain. It was barely possible to make out a few ant-sized people moving around. Access to the sea led through a notch between steep hills, visible on the horizon.

  “It appears to be,” Cynthia said. “Damn, nobody mentioned we should spend a couple of months training to get to and from our accommodations. This is one wicked hill.”

  “You don’t think you can handle it?” I challenged her.

  She grinned at me. “Of course I can. But it might be a slow trip with a couple of stops along the way. To admire the scenery, of course.”

  “Of course.” I looked over our group: there were seven of us. Five had sat down to pant, and the other two, obviously in better shape than the rest of us, had decided to go exploring the rooms. Connie and Denise I had either spoken with or overheard speaking with other people, so I felt I knew them to some extent. Pam and Valerie I knew less well, and I hadn’t had an opportunity to talk with Victoria at all. Once again, the fates—or Jean and Jane—had shuffled the deck, giving us a chance to get to know more people, the ones we were with now. Valerie, the most athletic of the crew, had been the first to go exploring the bedroom options, and Pam had gone with her. They returned to the table grinning.

  “There’s a double and a triple on that end”—Valerie waved back the way we had come—“and a double at the opposite end,” she said.

  “Dibs on that last one, even if it is the highest,” Cynthia said promptly. “Laura, that work for you?”

  “Sure,” I said. Maybe that would give us some time to really talk, which hadn’t happened yet. But I wondered if there was a reason she preferred the more isolated location.

  “Okay,” Valerie said. “Anybody else want a double?”

  People exchanged glances and shrugs, and in the end Connie, Denise, and Valerie ended up in the triple, leaving Pam and Vicky in the double. I thought V
icky looked dubious. I’d noticed her huffing and puffing already, and I wasn’t sure whether she would be able to handle the steep paths. We’d find out soon enough.

  With that momentous decision settled, we turned our attention to the vineyard. At the end of the patio we had passed by a cluster of large, shiny stainless-steel vats maybe ten feet high that I assumed were used in wine making. Now we found ourselves looking at a hillside of vines that made the grapes that went into those vats.

  Oh, my. For once the pretty pictures on the website that we’d seen were not faked or enhanced; this was real. Terraces of vines rose up the hill across from where we stood and olive trees lined the hill below us. In the more sheltered valley were lemon trees and a series of blue boxes that I guessed were beehives. I could hear fowl clucking somewhere down that way as well.

  “I think I need a nap before we attack the village,” Cynthia said firmly. “Laura, are you ready to settle in?”

  “Hey, don’t forget the religious procession,” Valerie said. “Jane said it was something special.”

  Cynthia and I exchanged looks. “I’ve never seen one, up close and personal. What time does it start?” I asked.

  “Like, now, probably.”

  I suppressed a sigh. I had been looking forward to a little downtime. “Okay. Cyn, why don’t we haul our bags up and check out the room, and then head down the hill? You guys don’t have to wait for us.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Cynthia said. “Come on, Laura.” She stood up and started pulling her cute little suitcase toward the opposite end of the long patio. I followed her, hauling my large evil suitcase. I was not looking forward to the twisting concrete steps I could see leading up to our room, but we managed them. There was a charming patio in front of the door, supplied with a table and two chairs. When we entered we found ourselves in a two-bedroom aerie with a windowless bath between.

  Cynthia went back to the doorway to pick up a tote bag and now was standing transfixed. “Oh, Laura, come look at this!” she exclaimed.

  I joined her at the door. Below us was spread a vista of sky and mountains, town and sea. It was breathtaking. And if that wasn’t enough, Cynthia pointed nearly straight ahead and I could see a faint rainbow arching across the valley. I almost laughed, it was so picture-perfect. I could get used to this.

  Deep in my purse, a phone rang. Cynthia noticed and cocked an eyebrow at me: I knew she hadn’t been able to get any kind of service for days. I kept my expression noncommittal and walked outside to a corner of the patio to answer it. The call was short and to the point, but it was the news I’d hoped not to hear. When the call ended, I sat down at the table on the patio and stared at nothing, thinking hard. Terrible waste of a good view.

  Chapter 13

  Cynthia had retreated discreetly, but now she came back and sat down at the table. “Trouble? Your daughter?”

  “No, not her.” I turned over my options in my mind. What I’d just learned affected all of us. I trusted Cynthia, both because of our long friendship and because, thanks to the twins in Capitignano, she had an alibi for the time of the professor’s death, even if it was a crazy one. Just crazy enough to be believable. And the Cynthia I had known did not lie. I had to tell her.

  “Professor Gilbert did not die a natural death. Or not entirely,” I began.

  Cynthia kept her expression neutral. “What do you mean? And how do you know?”

  “The autopsy showed signs of drugs in his system—not recreational ones. An opiate, a morphine analog.”

  “You mean, like heroin?”

  “Not exactly. More like a home brew. Did you know you could make a soporific from the petals of those pretty red poppies we’ve been seeing everywhere?”

  “No, I did not know that.” Cynthia took a moment to think this over. “So somebody brewed up something and slipped it to him? Is that what killed him?”

  I shook my head. “No, it wasn’t strong enough to kill, but it was strong enough to make him unsteady and probably kind of loopy. It would, however, have made him much more likely to fall, given the terrain.”

  Cynthia nodded, digesting what I’d told her. “I see. So you’re saying someone fed him this stuff either to embarrass him by making him look like an old fool or in the hope that he would fall down and hurt himself?”

  “In a nutshell.”

  Cynthia looked around carefully, but none of our classmates was in sight. “Laura, how do you know this? Can you tell me?”

  I looked at her directly. “You know what I do, although nobody else here does. I hope they all believe I’m some mid-level analyst for a boring government office. When I found Professor Gilbert’s body, I made a call, because the whole thing just didn’t seem right to me. I did not request assistance here in Italy, but I asked that somebody make sure that the Italian authorities did a thorough autopsy, not just a quick look. Otherwise they wouldn’t have found what they did.”

  “Laura, what did you hope to gain? It certainly looked like an accident.”

  “But it wasn’t,” I said, feeling defensive and hating it. “I know what you’re saying, Cyn. I could have left it alone, let the police call it an accident, and we all would have rolled along just fine. Which is what we’ve all done so far. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

  “So why did you rock the boat?”

  “I just wanted to be sure it really was an accident. And now I’m not so sure.”

  “So you’re saying that someone in our group had a hand in the man’s death.”

  “Looks like it,” I said. Cynthia was right: I could have left this alone and we could all have gone happily on our merry ways. But I’d never been one to take the easy route, and if this was murder, directly or indirectly, I wanted to know. What I’d do once I was sure and had an idea of who might have done it, I didn’t know. I sighed.

  “Cynthia, am I paranoid, or did you get the feeling that there were people who weren’t too fond of Professor Gilbert? Who weren’t happy to see him there at all?”

  Cynthia looked away, toward the sea. “I wondered about that,” she said quietly. “As I said when it happened, I never knew him, but I told you there were a lot of rumors.”

  I nodded. “Exactly. I know I’ve talked to several people who did know him, who took classes from him, or knew someone who did. And most people said what you’d expect. After all, it was a long time ago. But there was still something a little off … There were people who looked, I don’t know—angry?” We were silent for perhaps half a minute. Then I added, “The police will be sending someone from Tuscany to talk to us.”

  “That’s what the phone call was about? What the hell are we supposed to do?” Cynthia asked.

  “That was a heads-up. And before you ask, I can’t call the same number and say, sorry, never mind. I started something and now it’s out of my hands.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Nobody, yet. I’m not sure if the police—is it the police, or the carabinieri?—even know where to find us at the moment. If they ever track us down, I’m sure they won’t be happy. The crime scene is long gone, as is any evidence in the professor’s room, and all the suspects have had plenty of time to think up nice alibis.”

  “This is Italy. You sure they won’t just throw up their hands and declare it’s too complicated?”

  I shook my head.

  Cynthia went on, “You’re saying it’s likely that one of us gave him the drug. Who?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t know any of these women well. I’ve been trying to steer conversations to the professor’s death without being too obvious, but that way I get only snippets. I think I’ve heard at least four possible motives. I think there’s something wrong. But, Cyn, how do I fix this? I don’t want these women to hate me for wrecking the trip, but I don’t want to ignore a murder, even if the guy was scum. You think I was wrong to do it?” I asked.

  Cynthia shut her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “No,” she said in a quiet voice, “I guess not. Not if
he was helped to death. He may have been a jerk, but he didn’t have to die. How you’re going to explain that to anybody else, I don’t know. They will not be happy if their vacation is trashed.”

  “I know that.” I stopped talking and thought for a moment. “I can see one way out of this,” I began tentatively.

  “What?” Cynthia challenged me. “Wait, are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

  “If that means solving this murder and salvaging the holiday, all before the police or whoever show up, then yes.”

  “The two of us,” Cynthia said dubiously.

  “Why not? We’re smart women, aren’t we? We can figure this out.”

  “I hope so,” Cynthia grumbled. “How—”

  We were interrupted by the sound of voices, ten feet below us. “Ahoy, up there! We’re ready to go explore the town. You coming?”

  I mouthed “later” at Cynthia, and then called out, “Sure. We’ll be right there.”

  We headed down the hill, watching where we put our feet, and arrived for the last part of the procession. The town, packed with people of all ages, sizes and nationalities, had gathered in front of the church to watch for the arrival of the priest and an entourage of other robed priests. The priest in front carried what I recognized from my medieval classes as a monstrance, a sun-rayed disk that displayed the consecrated Host to the spectators. The small procession trod over paths of fresh flowers laid out in intricate designs, which gave color to the cobbled streets. It was strangely moving, and I felt as though I had stepped back into some earlier time. We found our companions, and our little vineyard group watched together in silence. When the priests had marched past the church toward the sea, we followed slowly, looking for our restaurant.

  It was not hard to find. No one would ever call our class shy and retiring, and those who had arrived early had taken over the two long tables under the awning in front of the restaurant. Once again, bottles of wine were already circulating. By unspoken agreement, Cynthia and I settled at different tables, and I took a moment to admire the harbor spread out in front of us, with rocky cliffs on either side.