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

Chapter 3

3

SUNDAY MIDDAY

At noon on the dot, I drove up to the villa and parked my van alongside the Bugatti, noting that this was almost a metre longer than my vehicle. Close up, it was a gorgeous piece of nineteen-thirties engineering and the shiny, red, leather seats could no doubt tell many tales of the rich and famous – or infamous. After admiring it and marvelling at how remarkable it was to see something like this still in everyday use, I repeated my instructions about being on his best behaviour to Oscar and together we walked over to the front door. There was a brass knocker almost the size of a lifebelt on the door and a handle on the wall alongside it. I opted to give this a tug and heard a bell echoing around the interior as a result. Twenty seconds later, the door was opened by a grey-haired woman, probably in her seventies, dressed from head to toe in black. She gave me a respectful nod of the head and beckoned to me to enter.

‘If you would like to follow me, Signora Violetta is waiting for you in the small lounge.’ Her accent told me that, unlike her mistress, she was from around here.

It came as no surprise to hear that there was a choice of lounges in a place like this. Even the entrance hall was bigger than my living room. We walked down a marble-paved corridor to a charming room looking out onto the rear garden. The room contained a grand piano but still had space to spare for half a dozen bulky armchairs. An unexpectedly modern hi-fi was playing opera music – thankfully not at full volume – and I had a sneaky suspicion that the male singer’s voice would prove to belong to the recently deceased Rodolfo Argento. The garden itself was a delight and clearly had involved a lot of work, not to mention an enormous amount of water to irrigate it – and water is expensive. This, as much as the historic house and the classic car, convinced me that Violetta Argento was in a very different income bracket from my own.

My hostess was standing by a wide-open pair of French windows, staring out into the garden. The housekeeper stopped at the door and coughed politely. ‘Your guest has arrived, Signora Violetta.’

Violetta turned towards me and smiled as she saw Oscar. His tail started wagging in return as she waved us forward and the housekeeper retired silently.

‘Thank you, Teresa. And thank you for coming, Signor Armstrong. I hope I haven’t disturbed you too much on a Sunday.’

I assured her that she hadn’t interrupted my plans and she pointed out through the French windows. ‘Shall we sit outside? It’s pleasantly cool in the shade.’

I followed her out to the terrace and we sat down at a beautifully ornate, marble-topped table with wrought-iron legs. Although it was still far from cold out here, there was definitely a more pleasant temperature than in the direct sunlight. From the position of the sun, it was clear that this side of the house faced north-east and we were sheltered from the midday sun not only by the bulk of the villa but by the protective screen of trees that surrounded it. Seen close up, some of these looked almost as old as the house and I commented on the fact. Violetta nodded and gave me a quick history lesson.

‘The villa was built between 1515 and 1516 and has been owned by just three families since then. I belong to the third generation of the Argento family to have lived here. Many of the trees were planted several centuries ago.’

At that moment, the housekeeper reappeared with a tray. On it were two bottles of Beck’s beer and a little plate of salted biscuits. Violetta gave me a little smile. ‘I do like a cold beer on a hot day. I seem to remember seeing you with a beer in front of you as well. Is this all right?’

I nodded gratefully. ‘Absolutely perfect, thank you.’

She picked up a generous handful of biscuits and indicated Oscar, who had adopted his ‘faithful but starving hound’ look. She shot me an interrogative glance and I nodded in response. She held out her palm and he very delicately retrieved the biscuits with his tongue and lips and swallowed them in a split second. She wiped her hand on an immaculate linen napkin before reaching for her glass and holding it up towards me.

‘Your health, Signor Armstrong.’

I clinked my glass gently against hers. ‘And yours, Signora Argento. Thank you for the invitation.’ I thought about asking why I’d been invited but decided to leave it to her to make the first move. As it turned out, I didn’t have long to wait.

She shot me what my gran would have described as a canny look. ‘And now you’d probably like to know why I asked you to come here – and it wasn’t just for the company of a tall Englishman and his lovely dog.’

‘I must admit to being a bit curious.’ And I was. I caught her eye and took a chance. ‘Might it have something to do with your son by any chance? ’

Just for a moment, I glimpsed the grieving mother beneath the businesslike exterior. Losing a child has to be an awful experience and I gave her a few moments to recover and regain her decisive persona. Finally, after wiping her eyes with the napkin, she continued. ‘Rodolfo is indeed the reason I wanted to speak to you.’ Her voice was hoarse but under control. She set down her glass and looked me square in the eye. ‘You see, I believe he was murdered.’

So my hunch had been confirmed. I decided to press her a bit more just to be sure. ‘So not an accident, a mechanical fault or suicide?’

She gave a dismissive snort. ‘An accident? Impossible. He was a better driver than I am, and I haven’t had a single accident in sixty years at the wheel. As for mechanical failure, he lavished more care and attention on his cars than on any of his ever-changing panoply of women, and he loved his E-type most of all. It used to belong to my brother, Carlo, who died seven years ago now. It might have been old, but it was in perfect working order.’

‘That’s the vehicle he was driving at the time of the crash: a Jaguar?’

‘Yes, his beloved pussycat; that’s what he called her. As for suicide, that’s quite out of the question. He phoned me only the day before the crash and was boasting that he’d just been invited to perform at La Fenice in Venice at Christmas in front of half the crowned heads of Europe. He was justifiably very proud and looking forward to it immensely.’ She reached for her glass again and took a soothing sip. ‘There’s no way he would have wanted to take his own life. None whatsoever.’

I was impressed, not just by her evident conviction, but also by her lucidity and fluency. Before coming here this lunchtime, I had checked her out on the Internet and had discovered that she was eighty-one years old and clearly as sharp as a tack. I picked up my own glass and sipped some of the refreshing, cold beer while I reflected on what I’d just been told. Of course, this chimed with what I’d been wondering since the previous night. The question was to what extent the murder hypothesis was credible. I did a little bit of digging.

‘If we rule out accident or suicide, that leaves us with foul play. Can you think of anybody who might have wanted your son dead? You mentioned his women friends; was he in acrimonious relations with any of them? What about money? Did anybody stand to gain from his death? Then there’s professional jealousy – did any of his rivals envy him enough to want to do away with him?’ I gave her a little smile to soften my words. ‘I’m sorry to ask difficult questions but that’s what I’ve been trained to do.’

I was relieved to see her smile back at me. ‘I quite understand. Feel free to ask whatever questions you like, but can I ask you something first: can I take it that you’re prepared to look into this for me? You would have to take a trip to Verona, which is where he lived… and died.’ Her voice faltered for a moment but she rallied. ‘I have every intention of paying you for your time and reimbursing whatever expenses you have. After all, Verona is several hundred kilometres away.’

I had come prepared and I handed her one of my sheets detailing my rates. She pulled out a pair of reading glasses from her little handbag, perched them on her nose and scanned quickly through it before looking up and nodding. ‘This all seems perfectly acceptable, Mr Armstrong. When can you start?’

‘How would the middle of the week sound?’ It occurred to me that I could maybe combine it with my visit to the opera. As she had said, Verona was a fair distance away.

She looked pleased. ‘This week would be wonderful. Now, let me try and answer your initial questions. Please repeat them for me. ’

‘Can you think of anybody who might have wanted your son dead?’

She replied without hesitation. ‘His wife, of course.’

This came as a surprise. From what Anna and Lina – and, indeed, his mother – had said about him, I had had him pegged as a single man with a taste for the ladies. What, I wondered, had his wife thought about that?

‘I thought you said he had an array of different women in his life?’

‘Yes, but he finally took the plunge and got married to Alessia last year.’

‘When exactly?’

‘Last September. But the fact is that she spent hardly any of the three months before his death with Rodolfo. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t have another beau.’

‘When you say another , are you implying that she might have had a number of lovers?’

There was steel in her voice when she replied. ‘I’m not implying anything, I’m telling you. There’s just something about her. She’s far too good-looking for her own good. I’m sure she must have had other men.’

Considering her son’s reputation, and what she had just said about the stream of women in his life, this seemed a bit malicious, but I didn’t press Violetta any more for now. My Internet research this morning had also included a quick look into her son’s background and this had confirmed his reputation as an inveterate womaniser. If my thirty years at Scotland Yard had taught me anything, it was that rejection, jealousy and bitterness can be powerful motivators for murder. I pressed on with my questions.

‘What about life insurance? Did his wife stand to do well out of his death?’

To my surprise, I spotted an expression of what could have been contrition on Violetta’s face. ‘He had none. That’s my fault. I handled all his business affairs and I was in the process of hunting around for a better life insurance deal when his old policy came up for renewal. If I’d been a bit quicker, things might be different, although there’s no lack of money in this family.’

I had already worked that out, but I made no comment. ‘If he had been insured, you would have insurance investigators crawling all over the place. So in this case, there would have been no benefit to his wife to see him dead. Maybe that simplifies things. Going back to your son, do I assume that there were lots of unhappy partners strewing his past?’

She nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’ She paused and I saw her take a deep breath. ‘I’d better tell you myself, before you hear this from anybody else – and you will. Rodolfo was a brilliant singer and a wonderful son, but he had an awful reputation with women. He could be generous and loving but he was pathologically incapable of keeping his hands off other women and, because of his looks and his fame, there were any number of them only too happy to be handled.’ A frustrated note entered her voice. ‘I spoke to him numerous times about this, but he never changed his ways.’

‘So might one of these women have harboured such resentment against him that she decided to murder him?’

‘Anything’s possible, although why now? After all, he’d been with Alessia for well over a year and married for almost ten months before his death. Why should a resentful woman wait so long? No, I have no doubt that the murderer was Alessia – either directly or by proxy.’

‘But if she was the one having the affairs, why was he murdered?’

She gave me the sort of expression that Oscar gives me when I ask him if he wants a biscuit. ‘Money, of course. What else? ’

‘That was going to be my next question. Did he leave a will and what were its provisions? Did she inherit everything?’

She shook her head. ‘If I hadn’t stepped in, she probably would have done. Rodolfo had a pathetic trust in people even though time and time again, this trust was betrayed. When he told me he was getting married, I insisted he prepare a new will. Unfortunately, there was no way to alter the fact that in the event of his death, Alessia would inherit half his estate – that’s the law in this country, more’s the pity.’ There was a tougher note in her voice now and my conviction that she was a very determined woman was reinforced. I wondered how this interference had gone down with her son. After all, according to what I had read on the Internet, he had been almost forty, so I would have expected him to look after his own personal finances rather than leaving these to his mother. What sort of relationship had they had? But, for now, I didn’t ask.

‘So how was his estate divided? If his wife got half his estate, who got the rest of his money? For that matter, I’m assuming he was a wealthy man, but I could be wrong. Did he leave a lot?’

‘He was indeed a rich man. We are fortunate to be a wealthy family, but, in the course of his amazingly successful singing career, he built up a considerable fortune of his own.’ She gave me a wry smile. ‘Which is just as well, considering how much he spent on his women and his hobbies. As far as the conditions of the will are concerned, Alessia, as I said, received a very healthy sum. His agent received a million euros – although that struck me as a ridiculously generous amount – while the remainder of his estate came to me.’ From the way she used the word ‘million’, I had the impression she considered this to be a trifling amount. In that case, his widow must have received an eye-watering sum, and I knew all too well that the attraction of even a million euros would be more than enough to create a compelling motive for murder for many people.

‘You mentioned a business. Could you give me some detail of that?’

‘The Argento family business is a large company involved with the import and export of agricultural products and machinery. It was founded by my great-grandfather in the nineteenth century and it’s gradually grown to its current size and importance. Although Rodolfo had a one-third share, the business is run by my brother’s children.’ She paused and gave me a decidedly smug look. ‘But I take an interest in all major decisions.’

I couldn’t help thinking that having to run everything past an eighty-one-year-old for approval couldn’t have made for easy running of the company for her brother’s children. There was something odd here.

‘How is it that you have an interest even though they run the business?’

‘Because I represent Rodolfo. When our father died, he left two thirds of the shares in the company to my brother for his children and a third to Rodolfo. It never occurred to my father to include me, even though I’d been working there, effectively helping him run things, for twenty years. When my brother died seven years ago, his children inherited one-third share each. This of course has ensured that my brother’s two children have jobs for life.’ A sour note entered her voice. ‘Unfortunately, Alfredo, his firstborn, is far more suited to a life of luxury and idleness than to running a company, so for Rodolfo’s sake I’ve always kept an eye on things ever since.’

‘Rodolfo himself took no interest in the business?’

She shook her head. ‘He wasn’t interested in commerce. He was following a far more noble vocation. ’

I thought that a bit presumptuous but I made no comment. Instead, I asked about something that had been bothering me.

‘And Rodolfo’s father? I see that Rodolfo used the Argento family name, rather than adopting his father’s. Was that for a reason?’

For a second or two, I saw that same expression of grief cross her face. ‘I married late. Rodolfo was born when I was over forty, but his father died only five years later.’ She glanced up at me and I could see the emotion in her eyes. ‘Lung cancer. There was nothing they could do.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that. Was he involved with the agricultural business as well?’

‘No, he was an opera singer. He wasn’t a top-level singer like Rodolfo but I like to think that somewhere in his DNA was the origin of my son’s amazing talent.’

‘And what was his name?’

‘Zoltan Nyisztor, he was Hungarian.’ She spelled the name out to me. ‘To be honest, it was for that reason that I kept Rodolfo with the Argento name. I could never think of my son as Hungarian.’

‘Forgive me for returning to the will, but did your brother’s children who run the company benefit from your son’s will? You mentioned that Rodolfo owned a one-third share in the company. Presumably, that transferred to them.’

Her eyes hardened. ‘Why should they get that? They already had their jobs for life.’ There was a distinctly bitter note in her voice and I could imagine how frustrating it must have been for her to see the company handed over to somebody that she deemed not to have been up to the job. ‘Rodolfo’s share came to me.’

This was potentially fascinating. It sounded as though Violetta had done much better from her son’s death than his cousins, who had in all probability expected to inherit his share in the business – all thanks to the provisions of the will she herself had drawn up. ‘How old are his cousins?’

She had to stop and think for a moment. ‘Alfredo must be forty-two now, while Rosina is two years younger.’

‘And they got nothing in your son’s will?’

‘Nothing, and they didn’t deserve anything.’ That hard look was back on her face again.

I did a bit of thinking. Violetta had provided me with the names of the two people who had stood to do very well out of her son’s death: the wife and the agent. Alessia, the wife, had apparently inherited a hefty sum and the agent a million euros, which would have been a hefty sum to me and quite possibly to him as well. Even if Violetta might consider a million euros a paltry amount, his agent might have seen things differently and I had seen murders committed for far less in my time, so he definitely remained on my list of suspects. But there were also two others – the cousins, Alfredo and Rosina – who had probably hoped to inherit Rodolfo’s share of the company, thus ridding themselves of the overbearing presence of Violetta. And this was before we even got into any question of rivals, enemies, jilted lovers – of whom there appeared to be no shortage – jealous husbands, or other people with a grudge. It looked as though I was going to have my hands full investigating the suspicious death of the famous tenor.

Any further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the housekeeper, who informed us that lunch was served.