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

Chapter 5

5

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

I have to admit that when I got back from my monumental meal – the lamb had been followed by the most amazing tiramisu – all I felt like doing was collapsing onto the sofa and closing my eyes. Oscar, who had been served a massive bowl of leftover lamb and pasta by the cook, looked similarly afflicted and he stretched out at my feet with a deep sigh and was soon snoring happily. I was still asleep when Anna arrived at four-thirty and I was awakened by the sound of her car, but I must have still been looking dozy when she came in because she knew immediately what I’d been doing.

‘Don’t tell me: you had too much to eat and drink at lunchtime and you’ve been having a nap while I’ve been down in baking-hot Florence, sweating over a pile of dusty sixteenth-century books. It’s all right for some.’

While Oscar hauled himself to his feet and trotted over to greet her, I made a beeline for the kitchen. ‘A cup of tea or something cold?’

‘Definitely something cold, but I don’t know whether to drink it or pour it over myself. God, is it hot!’

I squeezed a couple of lemons, freshly picked from one of my own trees, and made her a big glass of lemonade with sparkling water from the fridge. I added sugar, threw in some ice cubes for good measure and took it across to her. ‘Here, try some of this. I have some good news for you. I’ve managed to get us accommodation in Verona where we should be able to leave Oscar on Saturday night.’

She took the glass of lemonade from me and swallowed a big mouthful gratefully, before pressing the cold glass against her forehead. ‘That is so good, thank you. Well done on finding the accommodation. Where is it?’

I went on to relate what I’d learned from Violetta Argento, and Anna listened with obvious fascination. In particular, when I told her that the Argento family’s Verona villa was now an upmarket academy for opera singers, her eyes lit up. ‘How wonderful! And we’ll be staying there? I wonder if there will be any famous faces among them.’

I thought I’d better not build her hopes up too much. ‘I doubt it; she said it’s to promote and nurture talent for the future, so they’ll probably be new faces to you. But, you never know…’

In spite of my doubts, there was a dreamy expression on her face now. ‘Just imagine if they do their own concerts. We could have a front-row seat.’

‘Best not with Oscar. Somehow I don’t think his singing would be appreciated.’

She smiled back and reached over to ruffle Oscar’s ears. ‘Who knows? Maybe he’ll suddenly develop a hidden talent. In fact, maybe you will too. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing. Do you maybe have a voice like José Carreras and you’ve been hiding your light under a bushel all these months?’

‘Trust me, you don’t want to hear me singing. Put it this way: Oscar is very definitely more tuneful than I’ll ever be.’

She grinned and gave a theatrical shudder before returning to more practical matters. ‘What’s the plan? I’m pretty free next week, so if you want to go to Verona a few days earlier so you can get on with your investigation, I should be able to come with you. I’ve never been to the city before and there’s a load of historical stuff I’m dying to see there.’

‘Great, I told Signora Violetta that I’d have a word with you and then let her know. I also need to check with Lina, who controls my diary, but, as far as I can remember, there’s nothing particularly urgent next week. Seeing as it’s August, everybody’s on holiday and even my customers are taking a bit of time off.’

Since I had set myself up as a private investigator, I had soon discovered that many of my cases were to do with marital infidelity, and the arrival of the month of August meant family holidays for most people, reducing the opportunities for adultery. I had no doubt that this would, inevitably, all start up again in September.

I’d been thinking about how long I would need to spend in Verona so I made a suggestion. ‘If possible, I’d quite like to go up there on Wednesday. That would give me three clear days before the weekend. Would that be okay with you?’

‘Fine by me.’ She sat back and stretched her legs. ‘And what about Violetta Argento? Are we giving her a lift? Don’t tell me she’s planning on driving that monster car of hers all the way to Verona.’

I’d been quite worried about that myself and had been heartened to hear Violetta say that she would take the train to Verona on Thursday in good time for the board meeting the following day. Impressive as the Bugatti was, I wondered how it – and she – would fare on a long journey up the autostrada. Certainly, if the old car were to break down, I felt sure the average roadside mechanic would be unlikely to have any suitable spare parts lying around. I was also still concerned about the possibility of an attempt on her life if, indeed, her son’s death hadn’t been an accident. Of course, that remained to be seen.

This brought me back to something that had been playing on my mind all day. From what I’d heard from Virgilio, there had been no signs of foul play when the experts had examined the wrecked car. If Rodolfo Argento really had been murdered, how could that have happened? A nearby witness had said that the car had made no attempt to brake and had just headed straight for the tree. Not for the first time, I had a feeling that, in spite of Violetta’s suspicions, this might turn out to be suicide after all, but, if so, what might have pushed a handsome, successful, wealthy man with a new wife to end it all?

While Anna went upstairs for a cool shower to freshen up, I picked up my iPad and did a bit of online investigation. The first thing I checked was a highly specialised website dealing with the not too complex workings of classic cars. Unlike modern vehicles where mechanics often have to rely on computer diagnostics to discover faults and remedy them, cars over fifty years old aren’t that different from cars of a hundred years ago: an internal combustion engine linked through a gearbox to four wheels and with a braking system inspired by that of the humble bicycle. Nowadays, there are all sorts of dual circuits and fail-safes, so the traditional would-be murderer’s trick of simply cutting through a rubber or copper hose to drain the brake fluid no longer works. Not so for Rodolfo’s 1967 E-type. Despite its sleek lines, the old Jaguar had been remarkably uncomplicated and, in consequence, more vulnerable than, say, my VW. But if somebody had fiddled with it, why had there been no trace of interference when the Verona police had examined it?

The next question was motive. Yes, I could see that the victim’s two cousins might have been motivated to do away with the third shareholder in the hope of inheriting his share of the business, but why strike now? I would have to investigate whether they or his agent – who also stood to gain handsomely from the tenor’s death – might have suddenly found themselves in urgent need of money for one reason or another. According to Violetta, it didn’t appear that the company was having financial troubles, so it would almost certainly have had to be a personal matter and of course that opened the door to the killer being a woman – like his wife, for instance. I looked forward to talking to the four of them.

Other possible motives for murder can include love, lust and jealousy and I had a feeling I was going to be spoilt for choice with a raft of unhappy women apparently littering the singer’s past. Professional jealousy, of course, could have come into it, as well as simple envy of him and his millions. There are some very bitter people out there and maybe one of them had taken a dislike to Rodolfo and decided to murder him. A check of his social media profile revealed lots about his career but very little of a personal nature. No doubt he’d been advised to steer clear of anything too intimate.

I sat down to read everything I could find online about Rodolfo Argento but it didn’t tell me much that I hadn’t already heard. His Wikipedia entry confirmed what I’d already been told and added very little. What were more interesting were a number of articles in scandal magazines about his outrageous behaviour, ranging from drug-fuelled sex parties to appalling treatment of a number of famous female stars, although there was no mention of him transgressing since getting married to Alessia. Otherwise, it was clear that he had been a rare talent, one of Italy’s greatest tenors and, in spite of his relative youth, his name had been compared to the very best. Certainly, there appeared to be nobody sniping at him for poor performances.

I then turned my attention to his wife. When I checked her profile, I learned that Alessia Ricco, age thirty-seven, was a promising singer in her own right but, unexpectedly, not of classical music but of modern Italian music. Although pop prevails nowadays, Italy still embraces the ballad, and she was apparently making a name for herself on Italian television and at events such as the Festival of Sanremo, where she had appeared alongside well-known Italian crooners. Names like Ornella Vanoni and Massimo Ranieri probably mean little outside Italy, but to the locals, these singers still occupy legendary status. Listening to some of these is like stepping back in time to the days of Sinatra and the Rat Pack.

There were numerous photos of the glamorous wedding Alessia had enjoyed with Rodolfo on the island of Elba. Apart from her no doubt expensive wedding gown, other photos of her in glitzy and daringly revealing outfits on stage highlighted what an attractive woman she was. One wedding photo in particular, where she and Rodolfo were toasting each other with glasses of Champagne, showed her as an outstandingly beautiful woman and it was clear to a cynical old copper like me what had attracted him to her. No sooner had this thought crossed my mind than an echo of my ex-wife’s voice reminded me that the attraction to Rodolfo didn’t necessarily have to be lust. Surely it could just as easily have been her brain or her singing voice – but I remained unconvinced.

I could find absolutely no suggestion online of impropriety on her part as far as her marital vows were concerned, and in this day and age of paparazzi and investigative journalists, this was strange. Violetta had had no doubt in calling her out as unfaithful, but I could find nothing that backed up that assertion. Maybe the octogenarian had been mistaken or maybe she had deliberately been trying to cast doubt on the probity of her son’s widow. I could well imagine that a new wife might not have gone down well with a protective mamma who had obviously been very close to her son, and slagging her off was Violetta’s revenge.

When Anna reappeared, she was looking refreshed. She told me she’d skipped lunch and was starving but, seeing the expression of panic that flooded across my face – I was still feeling full from lunch – she took pity and suggested a solution.

‘Why don’t we go down to Tommaso and Monica’s café? I’m sure Oscar will enjoy the walk and you look as though you have a few extra pounds to work off. We can sit outside in the shade and you can have a cold beer or two while I have one of her salads. She does a very nice tomato, basil and mozzarella salad with prawns.’

This struck me as an ideal solution and we set off down to the village on foot. It’s a half-hour walk, but mainly on the strada bianca – so named because of the chalky white gravel coating on this, just like many of Tuscany’s famous tracks – that snakes down the hill between ancient cypress trees that provide welcome shade. It was all downhill and so not very taxing, and by the time we decided to return, the sun would hopefully have lost some of its intensity and, in consequence, climbing the hill wouldn’t be too much like hard work. As we walked, Oscar ran with us, collecting and bringing sticks and pine cones for us to throw for him. It was a delightful afternoon – as long as we stayed in the shade – and the view down over the valley of the River Arno to the deep green of the distant Apennines beyond was as charming as ever. I looked across at Anna and gave her a big smile.

‘This is so far removed from my life in London that I can hardly believe my good luck. And that starts with you.’

She smiled back and pointed at Oscar. ‘That’s not strictly correct, though, is it? You met Oscar before you met me.’

I caught her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Ah, but you can do things that he can’t do for me.’ I gave her a wink. ‘Like cook, for example. ’

Down at the café, most of the usual suspects were sitting in the shade discussing the usual topics. We chose a table not far from Giovanni the postman, and when he spotted me, he gave me a conspiratorial wave, beckoning me over. I left Anna with Oscar and went across to shake his hand.

‘ Ciao , Giovanni, what’s new?’

He grinned up at me. ‘How was your lunch with Signora Violetta?’

I was impressed. I had always known that the bush telegraph in Montevolpone was highly efficient, but this was above and beyond. I gave him a grin. ‘It was excellent, thank you. I ate too much but it was worth it. So, go on, then, how did you know?’

He tapped the side of his nose in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘A spy never reveals his sources. So, was it business or pleasure?’ He then went on to demonstrate that he was totally wasted as a postman and probably would have done very well running the national security services for his country. ‘You know what I think? I think she’s employed you to investigate what really happened to her son. Am I right?’

I gave him an equally conspiratorial wink. ‘A private investigator never reveals the identity of his clients.’