Murder in Verona (An Armstrong and Oscar Cozy Mystery #9)

Chapter 2

2

SATURDAY EVENING

I got to Florence in good time and left my van in the courtyard of the Renaissance building in the centro storico where I had my office. From there, it took me twenty-five minutes to walk to Anna’s apartment just on the other side of the Ponte Vecchio but I knew from experience that I would have struggled to find a parking space any nearer. On a cold January day, it would have been no more than a fifteen-minute walk, but now, in midsummer and at the height of the tourist season, the city was absolutely packed. It took me an age to navigate my way through all the sightseers, making sure that Oscar didn’t stick his cold, wet nose where he shouldn’t. Nevertheless, as usual, even the oppressive crowds weren’t able to extinguish my love for this wonderful city. Every time I walk around the centre, I make a point of looking out for new discoveries – whether a particularly beautiful fresco painted high up on a Renaissance facade, or something as simple as an iron ring in a wall where horses would once have been tethered. Yes, Florence just exudes history.

Anna knows all about Florentine history. She’s a lecturer in Medieval and Renaissance History at Florence University and over the past few weeks, she had been spending quite a lot of time in the university library, researching a paper she was writing on Cosimo il Vecchio, the founder of the Medici dynasty. Being with her had considerably broadened my cultural and historical knowledge, although there was so much history here in Tuscany that I knew I had no chance of ever reaching her giddy heights.

I found her wearing a light summer dress and looking gorgeous. Oscar evidently agreed as he trotted across to stand up on his hind legs against her, tail wagging furiously. She scratched his ears then shooed him off, caught hold of my arm and led me straight back out again to meet up with Virgilio and Lina.

Virgilio Pisano is my best friend here in Tuscany and we have a lot in common. I used to be a detective chief inspector at Scotland Yard, and he still works as an inspector in the Florence murder squad. He and I play tennis together and I sometimes help him out when he has a case involving English speakers. In return, he often puts business my way. His wife, Lina, started working for me as my PA in April this year and has taken a load of work off my shoulders as Dan Armstrong, Private Investigations has begun to gather pace. Tonight, Anna informed me, we were meeting them at a new pizzeria that had only recently opened. This was on the south bank of the River Arno, a fifteen-minute walk from Anna’s apartment, and there were tables outside in a little square close to the remnants of the old city walls.

Virgilio and I had an agreement that we would do our best not to talk shop when in the company of our partners. Even so, I could see that he was bursting to tell me something. Luckily, both Lina and Anna know the two of us so well by now that Lina took it upon herself to tell him to, ‘Just spit it out and get it over with so that we can get on with our meal in peace’. Virgilio gave her a grateful smile and broke the news to us.

‘My big news is that my promotion from inspector to commissario has just come through, so that makes you and me the same rank, Dan.’

I clapped him on the back and Anna gave him a hug before turning her attention to his wife. ‘How do you feel about this, Lina?’ I knew that Lina, like Anna, had been feeling a bit left out from time to time as work had intervened in our relationships. I’d been worried that Virgilio’s work had been overlapping and impinging on his private life and I was delighted to see Lina smile in return.

‘According to Virgilio, this means he’ll probably be spending more time in the office and so, hopefully, he might have a more normal schedule, instead of being called out at all hours.’

Virgilio and I exchanged glances. Neither of us said anything, but I knew from personal experience that more responsibility doesn’t necessarily make for more leisure. Time would tell, but for now, we celebrated. After we’d drunk a toast to him, I changed the subject and mentioned my brief meeting with the mother of a famous opera singer. As I’d expected, Anna knew all about him and so did Virgilio – although in his case, in a non-music-related way.

Anna was the first to respond. ‘Rodolfo Argento died last month and he was a real colossus in the opera world. He was a child prodigy and he was already playing lead parts when still in his early twenties. His death at, I think, forty or so was a tragedy. I can only imagine how his mother must be feeling.’

I nodded in agreement. I knew how I would feel if anything were to happen to Tricia, my daughter. After a long sigh, Anna picked up the conversation again. ‘Rodolfo Argento was a larger-than-life character both onstage and off it. He was a fearless rock climber, he skied like an Olympian, but the love of his life was motor racing. He was ever so handsome and his legions of – mainly female – fans must be distraught at his untimely death. Above all, he had a wonderful voice and people have compared him to the most famous of Italian tenors like Caruso or Pavarotti.’

Lina joined in. ‘I’m not so sure that cars were as important to him as women. He had quite a reputation as a womaniser. The gossip magazines were always full of photos of him with his latest conquests. How did he die, Anna? Not natural causes, I imagine.’

‘I’m pretty sure it was a car accident. Ironic, really, considering his lifelong love of motor racing.’

Virgilio took over from her. ‘He was going too fast and his car crashed into a tree on a twisty road in the hills above Lake Garda.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But I remember hearing that a nearby witness said he just drove straight into the tree at speed without braking so, to my mind, it was more probably suicide, but it was all hushed up.’

I couldn’t help asking a technical detective question. ‘Could he have had a problem with his brakes?’ I almost added, or might somebody have tampered with them? but I restrained myself. This was supposed to be a pleasant night out with two close friends, not an opportunity to talk shop. As I bit my tongue, it occurred to me that maybe the opera singer’s mother might have been entertaining similar thoughts. If so, I told myself, surely she would speak to the police rather than to a random private eye she had happened to meet at the bar.

Virgilio’s answer was far from conclusive but, once again, I stopped myself in time. This was a social evening, not work. ‘From what I’ve heard, the Verona police checked the wreckage of the car, but the vehicle was so badly damaged, it was impossible to be sure. At the moment, the most likely explanation is that for some reason, he just decided to end it all, although it was put down to misadventure.’

Anna shook her head sadly. ‘Dan and I are going to a concert in Verona next Saturday. I wonder if there’ll be any sort of commemoration of his death?’

Virgilio – who knows me very well by now – shot me a sceptical glance. ‘I didn’t know you were an opera buff, Dan. Is this something new for you?’

I grinned back. ‘I’m an opera virgin, Virgilio. The tickets were a present to us from Anna’s daughter, Virginia. I’m going with an open mind.’ I could have added and some ear plugs but I restrained myself. Anna and I have very different tastes in music and I was keen to demonstrate that I was a modern Renaissance man and open to all new experiences – within limits. Anna smiled at me and put her hand on my arm.

‘And I’m sure you’ll love it, especially in the Arena.’

Lina shot us an envious look. ‘How wonderful! I’ve always wanted to go to a concert in Verona’s Arena. Imagine sitting in a real Roman amphitheatre that’s even older than the Colosseum in Rome. The sense of history must be amazing, let alone the music. What are you going to see?’

‘ La Traviata. It’s one of the classics and the perfect introduction to opera for my philistine boyfriend. He doesn’t know what he’s been missing.’ Anna grinned and glanced across at me. ‘By the way, Dan, have you booked us somewhere to stay yet?’

‘I’m still trying, but I’m struggling to find one that’ll let us bring Oscar. Besides, even if I find one, there’s the problem of what to do with him while we go to the opera.’

Lina was quick to offer to look after Oscar. This was very kind, but I was trying not to take advantage of her, particularly as she was now working for me. I thanked her and told her I’d keep trying before bothering her. In fact, I knew that she loved having him, but he was always returned to me a couple of kilos heavier than before, as she was still a sucker for his I’m starving look.

Any further talk was interrupted by the arrival of our pizzas. These were enormous, overflowing from the already larger than average plates, and they tasted as good as they looked. We had all opted for the same thing, the house seafood special, and the generous mix of prawns, clams and mussels was mouth-watering. We drank cold white wine from southern Tuscany and it was a very pleasant evening all round.

But I still couldn’t stop thinking about the dead opera singer, his badly damaged car and his elderly mother who might or might not have suspicions about his death. That’s the trouble about being a detective – there’s no on/off switch in the brain.

And my divorce was the living proof of that.

Anna and I both managed to sleep reasonably well that night in spite of the heat but we agreed next morning that we would head back into the country for the rest of August while the temperature in the city remained in the mid- to high thirties. She had work to finish so she agreed to drive out to join me later that afternoon, but I set off early on Sunday morning and the first thing I did when I got back to my place was to slip back into shorts and trainers and take Oscar for a good long walk before it got too hot. Black dogs – not to mention Englishmen – and hot sunshine don’t mix. Out of curiosity, I decided to walk up through the olive groves to take a better look at the villa belonging to Violetta Argento. In the shade of the olive trees, the temperature was still acceptable, but I knew that by lunchtime, it would be far too hot for anything too strenuous – for Oscar or for me.

When we reached the top of the small hill, I walked past the firmly sealed four-metre-high iron gates I had seen before but then turned off the track and carried on all the way around the high brick walls for a change, until we reached the far side of the estate. Here I discovered a second entrance, this time with the gates wide open, facing the gravel lane described by Giovanni the postman. Oscar and I stopped there for a minute, enjoying the shade cast by the trees surrounding the villa and admiring the building that was just visible through the branches. It was a classic Tuscan villa, not enormous, but certainly with space for several big families to live here. The walls were a traditional light-ochre colour, bleached even lighter over the years by the sun, and the windows were protected by dusty, dark-green louvred shutters. It looked old and I felt pretty sure that it had been here for centuries. There wasn’t a breath of wind and it was good to rest for a couple of minutes before heading back out into the bright sunlight again.

I was just thinking about setting off when I heard a sound that I immediately recognised. This was coming from one side of the building, first muffled and then louder. There was the crunch of gravel and Violetta Argento hove into view at the wheel of her beloved Bugatti. I caught hold of Oscar’s collar and stepped out of the way to let her past, but I was surprised to find that she stopped and switched off the engine. Once again, this was achieved with a loud bang followed by a flash of flame and a cloud of smoke from the exhaust that made both Oscar and me jump. The driver extended a leather-clad hand towards me.

‘Good morning. You’re the English detective, aren’t you?’ She was wearing her leather flying helmet and goggles but otherwise she was very elegantly dressed. ‘I recognised your lovely dog. I was going to come and visit you one of these days. I’m just on my way to church now but I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes later. I’d like to talk to you about something.’

My ears pricked up. I had a shrewd idea what this ‘something’ might be but I made no comment, waiting to hear what she said. But all I got for now was an invitation.

‘If you don’t have plans, could I persuade you to come and have lunch with me today? Do, please, bring your lovely Labrador.’

Whether it was just because he realised he was the subject of the conversation or whether he had picked up that Signora Argento had issued an invitation to lunch, Oscar started wagging his tail. Taking my lead from him, I thanked her for the kind invitation and we agreed that I would drive back here at noon. She gave me a cheery wave, started the car again and roared off, wheels spinning, in a cloud of smoke and dust. As I picked pine needles and dust out of my hair, I looked down at Oscar, who was sneezing.

‘And you’ll need to be on your best behaviour. If you try jumping up at her, you’ll knock her over.’

He looked mildly offended. Of course he would be on his best behaviour – she had invited us for lunch, after all.