A Funeral in Mantova Read online

  “We can wait here,” said Marco. “I’ll check on their arrival, but it should be in just a few minutes.” He got out of the car, pulled a cell phone from his suit pocket, and walked a few steps before dialing.

  Rick opened his door and stepped to the cement. He stretched and looked around, his nostrils taking in the coarse odor of burning airplane fuel that always hung over runways. After so many plane trips as the son of a diplomat, he knew it well. They were close to a door at one end of the terminal where, he assumed, they would go in to meet Rondini at the gate. Better than going through a crowded terminal. Marco clearly knew his way around; he must have done this countless times when meeting other clients. Through a break in the clouds, Rick could see snow on the mountains, making him think of the upcoming ski season. Perhaps he could meet Flavio again for a ski vacation. The clouds closed in and his thoughts returned to the present. The Lufthansa plane was now at the end of the runway, gunning its engines, almost close enough to make Rick cover his ears. It lurched forward, picked up speed, and suddenly climbed sharply into the air. After it disappeared into the clouds, Rick heard the distant sound of another plane coming from the opposite direction. As he was turning to find it, the driver came back to the car.

  “I have a friend who works in the control tower.” Marco gestured toward the terminal. “The plane should be here at any moment.”

  “It’s probably the one I just—” Rick’s sentence was interrupted by the sound of the Lobo Fight Song coming from his pocket. He extracted his cell phone and flipped it open. “Commissario Fontana, it is an honor to speak with you.” It was his standard response when receiving a call from his uncle.

  “And how is my nephew?” said the voice at the other end of the line. “Have you been to the castle yet?”

  “Still in Verona, Zio. At the airport. The man’s plane should be here momentarily. Did you solve the case that has kept you so busy the last few days?”

  “I’m afraid not, and we are running out of time.” He paused. “Riccardo, did you speak with Betta before you left last night?”

  Rick rubbed his eyes. It was the kind of question a mother would have asked, but perhaps Piero had begun thinking that he should be his sister’s stand-in. Despite his affection for Piero, he was annoyed by this kind of meddling. Or was he annoyed because the relationship with Betta was going sour?

  “I left her a message.”

  Even over the phone Piero could sense that his question was not appreciated. He let it drop. “Everything is on schedule up there in the north?”

  “With typical northern efficiency, Zio.” Rick turned away from the tarmac, hunched over, and raised his voice as the engines from the arriving plane got closer. “The driver is waving at me; it must be time to go into the terminal. Talk to you later. Ciao.”

  Marco was gesturing for Rick to return to the car. When Rick got in, he put it in gear.

  “Are we driving back to the terminal, Marco? I thought we’d be going in through that door.”

  “No terminal for us, Riccardo.”

  The Mercedes drove through an open gate onto the tarmac as the plane was directed to its parking place by an airport employee wielding two brightly colored paddles. Rick chuckled and shook his head as they parked off the left wing. He didn’t know much about private jets, but he knew this was a Gulfstream, that it could easily fly direct from Chicago to Verona, and that if you had to ask what it cost, you couldn’t afford one. The name RONDINI ENTERPRISES was centered under the seven oval windows, large enough to read but small enough to be tasteful. As they sat waiting for the plane engines to stop, a small Fiat Panda with a flashing light on its roof pulled up next to them and a man in a blue suit holding a briefcase got out.

  “Passport and customs,” said Marco without looking at Rick.

  The two engines whined to a stop and the door of the plane opened. As soon as the stairs dropped to the ground, the official scurried up into the plane holding tightly to his briefcase. Rick and the driver got out of the car and leaned against its hood while they waited.

  “Nice way to travel,” Rick commented.

  The formalities didn’t take long. The man came down the steps, got back into his car, and drove off toward the terminal. As the car departed, a woman dressed in blue slacks and a white blouse looked out from the plane door. She gazed at the snow on the mountains to the north before noticing Rick and giving him a wave. He waved back. A few more minutes passed before Angelo Rondini himself appeared, shaking hands with the pilot and copilot. Rondini slapped one of them on the back and took in the mountain view before starting down the steps.

  The society photo had not flattered or aged him. Except for a brown suit and tie rather than a tuxedo, it was the guy in the picture, down to the yellow-tinted glasses. He looked like he had recently lost some weight but hadn’t bothered to get himself a suit that fit better. An Italian with that much money would have worn a perfectly tailored suit, but, apparently, appearance was not that important to Angelo Rondini. His eyes locked on the two men on the tarmac who now moved toward the plane, and Rick could feel himself being sized up.

  “You must be Montoya,” Rondini said as he shook Rick’s hand. “There’s a certain American aura about you. I haven’t seen boots like that since I opened a shopping mall in San Antonio. The person wearing them almost cost me the deal. And this guy is our driver, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He was about to make introductions, but Marco took the cue and stepped forward to offer his hand. “Marco Bertani, Mr. Rondini, at your services. It is my pleasure.”

  The English was accented but clear.

  “Sounds to me like this guy speaks good English,” Rondini said. “So tell me, Montoya, why did I hire you? I’ll have to have a talk with Lexi. That’s all right; I’ll find something for you to do.”

  “Mr. Rondini, if you want to end my services now—”

  The man clapped Rick on the shoulder just as he’d done with the pilot. “I always like to throw a curve ball when I first meet people. See how they react. It’s never failed me in business, and as you can see, I’ve done all right.” He didn’t feel the need to gesture toward the plane to help make his point. “I think we’ll get along just fine, Montoya. Despite the cowboy boots. Now if we can get Lexi off the plane, we can get the hell out of here.”

  “I didn’t realize Ms. Coleman was coming along. She never mentioned that in her e-mails.”

  “Probably didn’t think you needed to know. That’s just like her. But I never go anywhere without Lexi, even to a funeral. Plus, she keeps contact with the office. Never know what trouble those assholes back there will get themselves into.”

  Rick looked up at the empty airplane doorway. Great. Not only do I have to deal with a millionaire with an ego, I have to put up with his supercilious special assistant. Perhaps I should have negotiated for three times my usual fee.

  A male crew member came down the steps carrying bags and stowed them in the trunk of the car. He hustled back up the stairs and returned with another set. Angelo Rondini walked toward the tail of the plane to get a better look at the mountain. Rick pulled out his cell phone and checked the time.

  Finally, Alexis Coleman appeared at the top of the steps, gripping a leather briefcase as if it held the nuclear codes. Jet-black hair in a natural cut framed an oval face, its smooth skin the color of a caffè macchiatto. The frames of her glasses subtly matched the burgundy hue of her lipstick, and if there was other makeup, it had been applied with perfection. He had been unable to estimate her age from the few words she’d spoken on the phone, but now Rick guessed mid-thirties, or perhaps younger, given the perfect complexion. He moved his eyes from the face to a slim figure which showed itself through the opening of a long wool coat.

  Had it not been for her all-business manner, he might have looked forward to working with Alexis Coleman.

  She exten
ded her hand when she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “I assume you are Rick Montoya.” It was a serious handshake, matching her expression.

  “My pleasure, Alexis.”

  “Everyone calls me Lexi.” It sounded more like an order than a clarification. “And this is our driver, Mr. Bertani?”

  Marco mumbled a few words and shook her hand.

  Rondini watched it all with a large smile on his face. “Can we get this show on the road, Lexi? The only funeral I want to be late for is my own.”

  Chapter Two

  The drive from the airport to Mantova was short and mostly quiet. Rick was expecting Rondini to ask questions about the area of his birth, but instead he spent most of the half hour looking silently out the window at the flat countryside on either side of the autostrada—which made sense if he hadn’t been back to Italy in a while. Or had he been back at all? Rick had a few questions of his own for Rondini, many about the reasons that his family left Italy for America. Italian emigration was something that had always fascinated Rick, the personal histories of desperation and hope. He would wait for the right time to ask.

  While Rondini, deep in thought, watched the farms zipping by, Lexi tapped away at her tablet, sending and receiving e-mails that had stacked up during the flight. A question sneaked into Rick’s head, but it was one he would never ask: how much of the operation did she run? Rondini had complete trust in the woman, that was clear, but what was the extent of her real power? Rick recalled something his father had told him about working in the bureaucracy of the State Department: the trick was knowing when to make a decision yourself and when to consult your boss. Lexi, it appeared, knew the trick. The personality of the boss was the key, and while Rondini did not strike Rick as a micro-manager, he was definitely in charge. So how much leeway did Ms. Coleman have? It would be fascinating to watch the two interact.

  Marco eased the car off at the Mantova exchange, paid the toll, and headed west into town. As they neared their destination, the number of buildings increased—low boxy structures that included factories and gas stations along with residences. Beyond clumps of trees and bushes on both sides of the road, the lake suddenly appeared, stretching in both directions and dotted with floating patches of morning fog. They drove onto a long, two-lane causeway that separated the Lago di Mezzo on the right from the Lago Inferiore on the left. In the distance the skyline of Mantova began to appear through the morning mist, the round dome of Sant’Andrea and a medieval tower its first identifiable shapes. Halfway across the water the squared-off lines of the Gonzaga castle took form, and eventually overpowered the view. The Mercedes turned left when the causeway ended, drove between the fortifications and the lake, then eased into Mantova itself. Once inside the historic center, it passed over a narrow canal and started down a long, straight street before pulling to a stop in front of the hotel.

  Rick estimated the buildings on the street dated from the nineteenth century. All were two to three stories with plain stucco fronts, neat and well maintained. As they entered he found that the interior of the hotel was very much of the present century, starting with the reception area. White walls contrasted with a décor of glass, shiny metal, and dark wood, the result of a restoration that was so spotless it could have been finished the previous day. Rick was certain that the efficient Ms. Coleman was not one to dip under five stars when choosing accommodations for her boss, so this place had to be the best in Mantova. The reception staff was young, spoke passable English, and fully checked them in while Rondini was still standing out on the street talking with the driver. When he got inside, Lexi handed him his key card.

  “You are in the suite on the third floor, Mr. Rondini, and I’ll be a few doors down. Rick is one floor below. Our bags are being taken to the rooms. The funeral is set for eleven, an hour and a half from now. I assume it will start on time?” She looked at Rick.

  “The ones I’ve been to always have,” Rick answered.

  Rondini did not appear to have heard what was being said. His eyes were on a framed abstract print on the wall. “I was just chatting with our driver and he seems to know his Mantova art. Comes from taking tourists around the town over the years. That will come in handy.” He turned to Lexi and Rick. “I’m going to rest for a bit and change into a dark suit. I’ll see you down here at quarter to eleven. Knock on my door if I’m late.” He turned and walked to the elevator.

  “Mr. Rondini is very interested in art,” Lexi said to Rick. “It is another reason he wanted to make the trip, besides attending the funeral of his cousin, of course.”

  “Lexi, that’s the first I’ve heard whose funeral we’re attending. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee and you can tell me about what’s going to happen during the next few days?”

  She looked at her watch and then studied Rick’s expression. “I suppose you’re right. You don’t really know much about all this. I have to make some calls so let’s do it quickly.”

  They walked into the breakfast area where a couple was finishing their coffee and rolls. A girl appeared and Rick ordered a caffè latte for him, a cappuccino for Lexi.

  “Do you want something to eat?” Rick asked as they sat at one of the tables. The buffet was so well stocked it looked as if it had just opened.

  “No, I was well fed on the plane. But you go ahead.”

  He did, taking a yogurt and sweet roll from the groaning board. It had been a while since the train and he wasn’t sure when he’d see food again. He walked back to the table and saw that Lexi was stealing a look at her cell phone. She glanced up at him and slipped it into an outside compartment of her briefcase.

  “The funeral is for Mr. Rondini’s cousin, Roberto Rondini,” she began, as if making a presentation to a board. “Obviously, their fathers were brothers.”

  “Were the cousins very close?”

  “On the contrary, they’d never met. Mr. Rondini came to the U.S. as an infant and has never felt very close ties with Italy. His parents thought it important that he embrace his new nationality, and they made a point of speaking English in front of him when he was growing up. Not that he feels any ill will toward his native country, but the whole Italian-American thing was never his style.”

  “So he doesn’t wear a baseball cap that says ‘Kiss Me, I’m Italian.’”

  She looked hard at Rick, then shook her head. “No.”

  The coffees arrived and Rick stirred sugar from a small bowl on the table into his. She sipped hers without adding anything.

  “Roberto Rondini’s daughter, whose name is Livia Guarino, called the morning he died and I spoke to her. Her English is halting. She wanted Mr. Rondini to come to his cousin’s funeral. She was very compelling and I put her through to him.”

  Rick swallowed a bite of the sweet roll. “So he was convinced.”

  “Yes. He didn’t tell me what she said and I didn’t ask. He just told me to make the arrangements.”

  “You said something about his interest in art.”

  “Yes.” She took another sip of her coffee. “Mr. Rondini is an art collector, and lately his interests have shifted from modern to more classical genres. Not that he can afford to purchase any Botticellis or Raphaels, but he wants to see some of the great Italian painters other than those in museums in the States. So he sees this trip as a way to do that. Naturally, we won’t say that to the family.”

  “But he must have some interest in his roots.”

  She gave him a faint shrug. “I know him as well as anyone outside his family, but I’m not sure.”

  “Perhaps the art thing is just an excuse to find out about his family, rather than the other way around.”

  Lexi brushed back her hair and he caught sight of one of her earrings, gold with a pearl pendant. “I never thought of that.” She drained her cup and got to her feet. “I really have to make those calls. I’ll see you in the lobby in about an hour.”

/>   Rick watched her walk away, still clutching her briefcase. Her coat had been sent up to her room with the luggage, so he could get a full view of her slender figure. The elegant pants suit fit perfectly, but Alexis Coleman would have looked good wearing a sweat suit three sizes too large. If only her temperament was as attractive as her looks.

  On the way to the church, the driver gave his passengers background on what they were going to see, but since it was just a few blocks away, Marco wasn’t able to say very much.

  “Even though the Duomo is the city’s cathedral, Sant’Andrea is the more famous because it was designed by one of the greatest architects of the fifteenth century, Leon Battista Alberti. In fact, it was the last work designed by Alberti. Construction on it started in 1472, the year he died. You will see immediately how Alberti used classical elements, beginning with the Roman arch. The facade of Sant’Andrea is filled with them.”

  “Is there any art of importance inside, Marco?” Rondini asked. “I couldn’t care less about architecture.”

  “The tomb of Andrea Mantegna is decorated by his aiuti—what is it in English, Riccardo?”

  “His assistants,” Rick said from the front seat.

  “You finally earned your pay, Montoya,” said Rondini. “I should let you take the rest of the day off, but I may need you at the funeral, and it looks like we’ve arrived.”

  The car parked across the piazza from the church where people dressed in dark clothing were beginning to climb the steps.

  “You want to come in, Marco?”

  “I should remain with the car, Signor Rondini. And the funeral would be a painful memory of one I attended recently.”

  The three of them got out and walked across the pavement. Rondini was dressed in a black suit with a gray tie over a white shirt. Lexi had changed into a blue print dress, covered by the same long, wool coat, but for the first time since getting off the plane she was without her briefcase. Rick wore his only suit, with a suitably somber tie, and his dress cowboy boots.