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

Chapter 6

6

WEDNESDAY MORNING

The drive up to Verona on Wednesday was smoother than I had feared. We took the Autosole , the main north/south autostrada, up through the Apennines mountain range and then down onto the flatlands of northern Italy, forking east at Modena and passing the historic city of Mantua on our way to our destination. I had located the Argento villa on Google, and the satnav in my van steered me around Verona and onto the slopes of the first of the foothills of the Alps to the north of the city without too much trouble. We had been climbing for only ten minutes or so, and Verona was still in view below us, when I spotted our turn-off and swung left onto a minor road heading west around the flank of the hill to where the villa was situated. When we reached it, I saw that the entrance to the estate was through an impressive stone arch, firmly sealed by a pair of iron gates. A smart sign to one side indicated that this was the home of AOA, the Accademia Opera Argento. Interestingly, this was written both in Italian and in English, Argento Opera Academy. I pressed the call button on the gatepost and a disembodied voice rang out from the speaker.

‘Chi è?’ It was a woman’s voice and it sounded friendly enough .

I gave her my name and was about to explain that I was a friend of Violetta’s when there was the whine of an electric motor and the gates began to open. As they did so, the voice replied.

‘Welcome to the academy, Signor Armstrong.’

Clearly, we were expected. By arrangement with Violetta, the only people here who’d been informed of my real purpose in coming to the villa were the manager, Dolores, and the principal, Clarissa. I didn’t have their surnames. As far as anybody else was concerned, we were just friends of Violetta’s here for a few days’ holiday and a visit to an opera at the Arena. There would be time to reveal what I was really doing if I began to identify any possible suspects among the people here.

I drove in through the gates and the first thing we both noticed in the park surrounding the villa was the amazing view, not only south towards Verona and north into the high Alps, but west over the long expanse of Lake Garda, its blue waters dotted with sails as holidaymakers sought to escape the early-August heat.

After running across the top of a well-mown field with a pair of tennis courts at the far end, the drive disappeared briefly into a massive clump of rhododendron bushes before emerging into a gravelled parking area, beyond which stood the beautiful villa, now reborn as the opera academy. It was an amazing piece of architecture. Anna, ever the historian, had been researching its origins and she was able to tell me that it had been built at the end of the seventeenth century in the prevailing baroque style of the time. To my untrained eye, it reminded me of the Palace of Versailles that I’d visited with my wife and daughter twenty years earlier. I’m sure my gran would have described it as fussy, with its monumental pillars either side of the main entrance, its balustraded balconies and the mock-Roman statues positioned every three or four metres or so along the top of the facade concealing the roof. All around the parking area were meticulously maintained flower beds with a mass of magnificent roses in bloom and a huge area of lawn curving downhill beyond the flower beds. I could well imagine the effect coming here could have on aspiring opera singers. It must breathe new life into them.

There were no Bugattis or similarly valuable vehicles to be seen, so I presumed that Rodolfo Argento must have kept his collection elsewhere. Back in Tuscany, Violetta had told me that he had owned a dozen classic cars and I could only guess at how much a collection like that might be worth. Having had a number of elderly vehicles myself over the years, I know my way around old cars reasonably well but, of course, none of mine would have made it into Rodolfo Argento’s collection – to a dump, probably, but definitely not of interest to a collector. I pulled up next to a nondescript Fiat, turned off the engine and checked my watch: eleven forty-five. I stretched and gave Anna a smile. ‘Just in time for lunch.’

She shook her head in wonderment. ‘I will never understand how you can eat as much as you do and never get fat.’

I grinned at her. ‘Clean living and the love of a good woman. Possibly assisted by all those long walks I do with Oscar.’

Movement from the rear of the van told me that Oscar had realised that we were at journey’s end and, more significantly in his eyes, that lunchtime was fast approaching. His nose appeared over the back of the rear seat as Anna and I got out and savoured the fresh air. It was still hot here but certainly not quite as overpoweringly hot as Florence. In particular, there was a very welcome breeze blowing, just hard enough to move the fronds of the row of magnificent palm trees planted around the parking area. I was mildly surprised to see palm trees up here so close to the high mountains but clearly this area had its own little microclimate. I opened the back of the van and Oscar jumped out, tail wagging happily as he headed for the nearest palm tree. I kept a watchful eye on him in case he decided to go charging into the flower beds, but he was just laying down a marker to all other dogs that he had arrived and was staking his claim to the villa and its grounds. He behaved impeccably and soon returned to accompany Anna and me across the gravel to the villa.

As we approached the entrance, a figure came out of the door and it was all I could do not to gape in amazement. He was a heavily built man, maybe in his sixties, and he was dressed in a striking outfit of green and black striped pantaloons, a salmon-pink and scarlet striped shirt and a three-pointed hat with bells at the corners. As it was, Oscar stopped dead and shot me an uncertain look that mirrored my bemusement. Fortunately, Anna left me looking gormless and walked over to the court jester character, holding out her hand.

‘Rigoletto, I presume. I love your costume.’ She addressed him in Italian and when he replied, I could hear his noticeable Tuscan accent. Maybe he was a Florentine just as she was.

The man, whose already red face had been embellished with traces of clown’s make-up, smiled broadly and swept off his hat in a theatrical gesture, bowing low towards Anna as he greeted her in return.

‘My pleasure, fair maiden… oh, shit.’

Now it was Anna’s turn to look bemused. The jester was still bending towards her and I saw at once that he was having trouble straightening up so I hurried across to him and offered him a helping hand. He grabbed hold of my arm gratefully with both hands and slowly pulled himself back upright again, wincing as he did so.

‘Thank you so much. Do excuse me, please. I’m afraid the doctor told me I shouldn’t make any sudden movements but…’ I saw a cheeky grin return to his face ‘…when confronted with such beau ty, I couldn’t stop myself.’ He shot me a wink. ‘That’s the young lady I’m speaking about, not you, sir.’

I grinned back. ‘I had already worked that out. I have to ask, do you always go around dressed like this or are you in the middle of a performance?’

‘I most certainly do not go around dressed like this, but today is Verdi Wednesday.’ Seeing the expression on my face, he explained. ‘It was Dolores’s idea: every Wednesday lunchtime, we dress up as characters from operas written by one of the great composers. Last Wednesday was Mozart, today’s Verdi, next week it’s Bizet and so on.’

Anna was looking enchanted. ‘How wonderful. Do you all have your own costumes?’

‘No, but Rodolfo used to collect operatic costumes as well as old cars. There’s a huge selection here for us to choose from.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a bit of fun, and it gives the students a taste of what might await them in the future.’

‘And will you be singing some of Verdi’s arias?’

He shook his head. ‘Some of the others may well burst into song at some point – in fact, it’s almost inevitable – but you wouldn’t want to hear me sing. I can’t sing a note. No, I teach stagecraft – you know, acting. So many of these kids come here thinking that opera is all about singing, but it’s far more than that. Opera is a spectacle for all the senses, not just the ears.’

As he was sounding chatty, I gently mentioned the dead man. ‘And this was all set up by Rodolfo Argento. How terrible that he’s died. You must all miss him.’

Just for a moment, I thought I saw a shadow cross the jester’s face, but then he immediately started nodding again. ‘He was a very good man… well, maybe not such a good man if you happened to be a woman, but creating the academy was a masterstroke of generosity and I won’t hear a word said against him. ’

I exchanged glances with Anna. Clearly Rigoletto – or whatever his real name was – was confirming the womanising stories I had seen online and heard from Rodolfo’s mother. Seeing as this man was apparently only too happy to talk, I tried quizzing him a bit more on the victim.

‘He did have a reputation as a bit of a womaniser, didn’t he? But I imagine most people here saw him as a benefactor.’

‘He was a very generous man and everybody here owes him a lot.’ A more serious expression appeared on his face. ‘But not all of them are prepared to admit it.’ Maybe realising that he had said too much, he sucked in an exaggerated lungful of air and gave us a little wave. ‘Now I must go for my pre-prandial walk.’ He smiled. ‘Doctors? What do they know?’ And he set off down the steps towards the lawn beyond the parking area.

Seconds later, as we were approaching the door ourselves, it opened and a woman appeared. She was wearing what looked like a medieval peasant woman’s costume and she looked good in it. She was probably barely into her forties, with dark hair and a trim, energetic demeanour. There was a friendly smile on her face as she approached us but I found my attention attracted to her companion. Just as the door was about to close, it was nosed open by a very unexpected arrival. To my surprise, the woman was accompanied by a black Labrador, an inch or two smaller than Oscar but remarkably similar. Beside me, I suddenly saw Oscar register this new friend and a toothy canine smile appeared on his face. The woman, noting my surprise, made the introductions.

‘You must be Signor Armstrong.’ She glanced across at Anna. ‘And this must be your partner but, I’m sorry, Signora Violetta didn’t tell me your name or that of your lovely dog.’ She pointed at the other dog, who was studying Oscar closely. ‘I’m Dolores. I have the pleasure of being the manager of this wonderful establishment, and this is Elektra. I’ve had her for four years and she’s very friendly.’

She shook hands with the two of us while at the same time bending down and patting Oscar’s head with her free hand. She was obviously good at multitasking. Her Italian was excellent and if I hadn’t been told that she was Spanish, I would never have guessed. She sounded as if she meant what she said about the villa. I couldn’t detect even a hint of irony in her voice.

I was quick to confirm my identity and to introduce Anna and Oscar. For his part, Oscar wasted no time in trotting across to say hello to his mirror image. Elektra reached out with her nose and the two touched. The smile on Oscar’s face grew even broader and the two dogs were soon giving each other a full olfactory check-up, tails wagging. While they were doing this and as we were outside in the open air and there was nobody else around, I took the opportunity to bring up the reason why I was here.

‘I imagine that Signora Violetta has explained what I’m doing here. In spite of the conclusion arrived at by the police, she’s convinced that her son was murdered. Do you have any thoughts on this?’

Dolores answered almost immediately. ‘I honestly don’t know what to think. Giacomo, who farms down the hill where the accident happened, saw the whole thing and the police said he confirmed that Rodolfo made no attempt to brake as he came to the corner. From the sound of it, I wondered if he’d had some sort of seizure. I find that hard to believe as he was still a young man, although he did have a tendency to push himself a bit too hard… Let’s say he lived life to the full.’ A vaguely disapproving look appeared on her face.

‘I have a feeling I know what you mean by that, but could you maybe spell it out to me? I promise that when I submit my report, I’ll be very careful to be as diplomatic as possible although, if you’re going to say what I think, Violetta told me the very same thing a couple of days ago.’ I caught her eye for a moment. ‘Women?’

Her cheeks coloured and she nodded. Before replying, she glanced over her shoulder but the door behind her remained closed. The two dogs, tails still wagging, had clearly made friends and were sitting side by side, engaged in a silent conversation. Dolores, on the other hand, was struggling. ‘It’s just that…’ She was looking more uncomfortable now and Oscar, who’s far more sensitive than I am, got up and wandered over to lean against her leg in support. He was immediately followed by Elektra, who added her weight to Dolores’s other leg. Encouraged by these signs of canine solidarity, she lowered her voice to little more than a whisper. ‘I don’t think there’s a woman here who hasn’t been groped by him at some time or other.’

Although I had already gathered that Rodolfo had been a womaniser, I had assumed that his relationships had been consensual. ‘But didn’t they mind? What about you? Were you a victim of his unwelcome advances?’

She was looking positively embarrassed now. ‘I was and I told him to keep his hands to himself and, to be fair, he did. As far as the others are concerned, some did and some didn’t.’

‘I gather he had recently married. Do you think he might still have strayed a bit since?’

‘It’s not up to me to comment. Heaven forbid that I should sully the name of a wonderful, kind, generous man – and he really was all of those things.’

So there had obviously been another side to him as well. I gave her a few seconds before pressing her a bit more. ‘I quite understand your position and your feelings, but please just answer me this: is it possible that he might have been carrying on with somebody here at the villa? ’

She didn’t look up from the dogs at her feet as she answered. ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but that’s all I feel I can say.’

I couldn’t help noticing that she hadn’t poured cold water on the idea that Rodolfo might have had a relationship with somebody here, but I could sympathise with her position and I left it at that. ‘He must have been quite a character.’

Dolores nodded. ‘He certainly was that and, like I say, he lived life to the full; not just with his stage performances but skiing, sailing, climbing and, of course, racing his beloved cars. Certainly, I would definitely rule out suicide. He had everything a man could want.’

‘What about his wife? Do you like her?’

I was mildly surprised to see her nod her head. Somehow, I’d been expecting more disapproval if Alessia had been unfaithful to her husband as Violetta had said. ‘Yes, very much. She’s a lovely friendly person and she’s very talented – as well as being very beautiful.’

‘And how did she and Rodolfo get on? Surely she must have realised that he was carrying on with other women?’

I was again surprised at what Dolores said next. ‘She loved him dearly, I’m sure, and when they were together, they always looked happy.’

This was so totally different from what Violetta had told me that I had to find out more. ‘I believe she’s been away a lot, hasn’t she?’

‘She’s really made a name for herself as a singer over the last few years and, of course, this has meant that she’s been doing a lot of touring, with performances as far away as Argentina and the USA.’

‘And of course Rodolfo was still doing quite a lot of touring himself, wasn’t he? It must have been difficult for them to meet up. ’

‘Yes, indeed. But when they did, it was usually here – their haven away from the media. They looked really happy together right up until the end.’ She looked up at me. ‘So if you think she might have murdered him for his money, you should think again. Apart from the fact that I’m sure she has a lot of money of her own, she really loved him, I’m certain of it.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have to ask: might she have been jealous if she thought that her husband was involved with other women?’

I had to wait for her answer. When it came, it sounded genuine. ‘When she married him, she must have known what sort of man he was. I’m sure she knew he was a terrible flirt – or worse – but I’m equally sure that she didn’t believe for a moment that once they were married, it ever went much further than flirting.’

I stood silent for a few moments and took stock. Yes, Rodolfo had been a womaniser, but it would appear that his marriage had changed him into a paragon of virtue. Call me an old cynic – and I am – but in my experience, such radical changes in behaviour are rare. Had this leopard really changed its spots? One thing was for sure: I was looking forward to talking to his widow.

No doubt anxious to get away from such a potentially intimate subject, Dolores glanced at her watch. ‘Almost lunchtime. Why don’t I show you to your suite?’

Oscar looked up with interest. She had mentioned lunchtime, after all.