A Funeral in Mantova Read online

  He looked at the facade and understood what Marco had meant about the architect’s use of classical design—the arches and columns could have been taken from a building in imperial Rome. Because of the buildings which hemmed in the basilica, he was unprepared for its cavernous interior. A barrel vault ceiling covered with deep, square coffers seemed miles above their heads, and tall chapels running along the sides under their own vaults added to the vast sense of space. It was also empty, or at least most of it. The single-wide nave was bare of seating until directly in front of the main altar where rows of chairs had been set up. Rick, Rondini, and Lexi walked slowly toward the chairs that were starting to fill with silent mourners. Unlike the others who kept their eyes on the ground, the three could not help but take in their surroundings as they walked. When they were close to the chairs, Rondini spoke into Rick’s ear.

  “How am I going to find Roberto’s daughter?”

  Not many strangers would show up at her father’s funeral with a black woman and a guy wearing cowboy boots, Rick thought. But he said: “I’m sure she’ll find you.”

  At that moment they saw a woman quietly greeting people at the end of the aisle that ran between the rows of chairs. She wore a black dress and her head was covered with a veil of the same color. She smiled weakly at each of the people, who in turn embraced her and murmured into her ear. When it was Rondini’s turn, he stepped forward, unsure what to say.

  “My dear Uncle Angelo, I thank you for coming.” She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “You recognized me.”

  “How could I not? The resemblance with my father is…” She searched for a word and found it. “Striking.” She looked at Rick and Lexi.

  “This is my assistant, Alexis Coleman,” Rondini said, “and my interpreter for the visit, Mr. Montoya.”

  “My condolences,” said Lexi as she took Livia Guarino’s hand.

  Rick was next, and offered his condolences in Italian.

  She shook his hand and stayed in the same language. “I’m glad you’re here. My English is abominable and it is nonexistent among my family.” She said something about seeing them after the service and turned to the group forming behind them.

  The three took seats in the fourth row from the front just as a voice began to sing in Latin from somewhere out of sight. The mournful words echoed off the walls and faded into the dome high above them. Ahead, between the rows of chairs and the altar, sat the dark casket, its top covered with a tight blanket of white carnations. Rick listened to the music and let his eyes move around the space. He remembered the few funerals he’d been to in Italy, starting with two for his Italian grandparents, who had died within months of each other in Rome. It had been a difficult year for his mother and uncle, and, by extension, for all the Montoya family. Those masses had been celebrated in the same parish church where he, his mother, and his sister had been baptized, and where his parents had exchanged vows. It could have fit in one corner of Sant’Andrea.

  The priest and two altar boys appeared, and the mass began. The eulogy was full of vague descriptions of the dead man, and many allusions to the afterlife. In case Angelo might want to know what was said, Rick tried to remember them since taking notes would have been inappropriate. At the end everyone rose and the casket was rolled between the chairs toward the door, accompanied by six men and followed by Livia Guarino and several others. As they passed up the aisle, those watching began to applaud.

  “What the hell is this?” Rondini whispered to Rick.

  “Sign of respect. Italians often do it at funerals.”

  Rondini nodded and began to clap. “I like it.”

  As the casket took its slow journey toward the large doors of the church, the people emptied the rows and followed behind them, talking softly to one another. Rondini walked to one side and stopped to look into one of the chapels, Lexi at his side. Rick watched, remembering what Lexi had said about Rondini’s interest in art. The man was starting already.

  “Signor Montoya?”

  The person who spoke must have been sitting behind them, since Rick had studied the profiles of everyone in the rows ahead while listening to the priest. The man’s fatigued eyes were even with Rick’s, putting him over six feet, and his plain, dark suit was well filled out. Too well filled out. Could it be that this guy…?

  “I am Inspector Giulio Crispi.”

  He is. A cop.

  “Your uncle and I worked together a few years ago, and I was speaking to him this morning. He mentioned that his nephew was in our city.”

  “That’s right. I’m working as an interpreter for the American cousin of Roberto Rondini. He flew in this morning. Did you know the deceased well, Inspector?”

  “Never met him.”

  No doubt the questura sent an official representative to the funerals of prominent locals, and Inspector Crispi had drawn the short straw. Rick was about to ask if that were the case, when he saw that Rondini was looking around for him.

  “Inspector, it was a pleasure to meet you, but I must be on my way.”

  “Signor Montoya, we suspect that Roberto Rondini was murdered.”

  Crispi was a man of few words, but they got Rick’s attention. “I…I had no idea.”

  “There is no reason you would. Since you will be spending some time with the family of Signor Rondini, I would be most grateful if you could be observant, now that you know of our suspicions.” He handed Rick a card. “I can be reached at any hour at this number. The address of the questura is also there. Good day, Signor Montoya.”

  When the Mercedes fell in line behind the hearse, clouds were beginning to move in from the west. They were the vanguard of a cold front that had originated south of Geneva, descended to Turin, and now widened as it moved through the Po River Valley toward the Adriatic. The weather system could eventually bring rain or snow, but, for the moment, served to remind the Mantovani that winter was on its way. The fields on either side of the road had given up their crops weeks earlier; for them a white winter blanket would be welcome. For the townspeople, not as much.

  “Who were you talking to in there, Language Man?”

  They were the first words Rondini had spoken since the car had driven across the lake. Rick had been fingering Inspector Crispi’s card in his overcoat pocket while deciding how to handle the policeman’s request. The inspector suspected foul play. What better way to gather information about the dead man and his family than from Riccardo Montoya, who was working for a member of the family? Crispi also must have known, from talking to Piero, that Rick had assisted the police in the past. The problem for Rick was his present employer. Working on the side with the police wasn’t something he could keep from Rondini; that would be unethical, not to mention impossible. Now was not the time to explain, and there hadn’t been time in the church to get any details of the case out of Crispi. Rick could meet the policeman later, when he had a break from his translation duties. Before that, he’d talk to Rondini.

  “His name’s Crispi, a work colleague of my uncle. He found out I was here and stopped me to say hello.”

  Marco kept his eyes on the road, and Rick wondered how much of the conversation he was getting, since Angelo had a fast, choppy way of talking. It was a speech pattern that many foreigners would have trouble following. That was likely what Roberto Rondini’s daughter meant when she said how pleased she was to have Rick’s assistance.

  “You have a big family, Montoya?”

  An interesting question from someone who’d never bothered to meet his own cousin. Was the funeral bringing out some feelings of guilt in Rondini? Well, that was fine; it wasn’t too late for him to get to know what was left of his family. Rick turned in his seat to answer.

  “The cliché would be that my Italian side, my mother’s family, would be much more numerous than those on my father’s American side. But in fact it’s just t
he opposite. I have an Italian aunt and uncle, and one cousin, that’s all. Back in New Mexico, there are Montoyas everywhere.”

  Rondini listened and nodded before returning his eyes to the countryside passing the window. As if mesmerized by the monotony of the terrain, he was still staring out when he spoke again.

  “I suppose being an only child had its advantages, like getting all the attention from my parents. All my friends in the neighborhood had big families, so there was no lack of kids to play with or fight with. They even had grandparents, which I didn’t, but the old folks didn’t speak much English and I didn’t speak any Italian, so I stuck with my own generation. When I went off to college, the size of your family was never something anybody talked about. Still isn’t.”

  The Mercedes slowed, pulled over, and stopped, keeping its place in the line of cars which were now emptying of their passengers. The casket was removed from the hearse by eight of the men; there would be no wheeled cart as in the church. They carried it carefully through the iron gate of a tall, stone wall, followed by mourners who kept their eyes to the ground as they walked. Once inside, Rick saw that the wall was made up of horizontal tombs, like catacombs, most of them sealed by stone squares etched with names and dates. Beside the gravel path next to the wall, the ground held traditional graves marked by gravestones, many with small black-and-white photographs of the deceased. Wilting flowers drooped from metal vases attached to the grave markers on the ground and the wall. The only sound was the crunch of shoes on the gravel path as the procession walked to a far corner where the freshly dug grave awaited. Rick noticed that three graves in the same row had the names Rondini etched on their surfaces. From the dates below the names, he concluded they were the dead man’s parents and wife. He whispered in Rondini’s ear while he inclined his head toward the grave markers. Angelo looked at the names of his aunt and uncle and nodded. The priest began to speak.

  Perhaps because of the ominous clouds, the ceremony was brief. The thick walls, filled with stacked tombs, protected the circle of mourners from a wind that stirred the air, bringing with it the scent of wet leaves. When the ceremony ended, everyone gathered around Roberto Rondini’s daughter and exchanged more embraces. Rick and Lexi hung back while Angelo joined in offering his condolences. They watched Livia Guarino speak into Angelo’s ear, after which he nodded and gave her another hug. Then he shook hands with the man whom Rick assumed was Livia’s husband. The man’s awkward demeanor indicated to Rick that he didn’t speak much or any English, but he did pass something to Angelo, earning a nod.

  “We’re invited back to their farm,” said Rondini when he got back to Rick and Lexi. He held up the card. “This is the name of the place. Our driver should know how to get there. It will be family and close friends, so Lexi, you can go back to the hotel and get some work done.” He looked at Rick. “But not you, Language Man. Time for you to go to work.”

  Rick remembered Inspector Crispi.

  In more ways than one.

  Chapter Three

  The driver knew exactly where the Rondini dairy farm was located. In an area of Lombardy where numerous cheese producers thrived, Rondini’s was known by everyone as one of the largest and most successful. Much of its production came from its own cows, but it also bought milk from other farmers in the area. Rondini cheese could be purchased throughout Italy and was exported to other countries in the European Union, and while the farm’s lead product was Parmigiano-Reggiano, it made other cheeses that were less regulated and less expensive. All this required acreage and equipment, and Latteria Rondini had more than enough of both. The farm’s clean, white buildings lined one side of a large parking lot where trucks and tractors were neatly parked. Behind them, level fields dotted with cows stretched for kilometers. Marco drove past the farm entrance to a modern house separated from the business operation by a row of thick trees. Cars from the funeral were already parked in front and people were walking up to the house. The Mercedes slowed and entered a long, circular driveway, coming to a stop at the walkway that led to the door.

  The driver got out and opened the door for Rondini, who disengaged himself from the seat with some effort. Rick stood and looked around him, taking in a rural smell that mixed the strong odor of hay with the fragrance of the few flowers that still bloomed along the driveway. The sky continued to threaten, but it was impossible to know if anything would come of it. Those who’d spent all their lives in the Po Valley might know, but he didn’t.

  Rondini leaned down and spoke through the open driver window. “Lexi, call me if there’s any movement with the guy in Memphis, but I have the feeling it’s not going to happen. If you talk to him, tell him we need the decision by yesterday.” He stood up and looked toward the house. “Marco, you should have time to get something to eat before you come back. This may take a while.”

  Marco got back in the car and drove toward the road with Lexi in the back seat.

  “Mr. Rondini, before we go in, I need to talk to you about something.”

  Angelo, who had been straightening his tie, stopped and eyed Rick. “You can’t ask for a raise, you haven’t done anything yet.”

  “No, sir. It’s something else. The man I was talking to in the church? He’s a policeman.”

  “He’s not a friend of your uncle, like you said?”

  “I said he’s a colleague of my uncle, and my uncle is with the police in Rome.”

  “That could come in handy if I get into trouble on this trip.” He chuckled while watching the Mercedes pull out onto the road. “So what’s the big deal?”

  Rick took a breath before answering. “Inspector Crispi thinks there is a chance your cousin was murdered.”

  “Whoa.” He scanned the house, where the door was open and visitors were entering. “Does Livia know that?”

  “He didn’t give me any details, since there wasn’t time to talk.”

  “Why would he tell you this?”

  “I’ve worked with the police in the past. He knew that.”

  The man’s face showed that what had been confusing was starting to make sense. “And he wants you to work with them again. He knows you’ll be around people who were close to Roberto but might not be forthcoming with him.”

  “That’s correct. But my contract is with you. If you don’t want me to help him, I won’t. Just say the word.”

  Rondini rubbed a hand over his chin and squinted his eyes in thought. “He really thinks Roberto was murdered?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Are they going to pay you?”

  It was a logical question from a businessman, but something that never entered Rick’s mind. He shook his head. “They haven’t before.”

  Rondini had run out of questions. Rick guessed that this was not an issue he usually faced in his business dealings, most of which dealt with the bottom line. Complicating it was the new family connection, a foreign culture, and a little jet lag. But the man had not become successful by avoiding decisions.

  “Yes, do it. He was my cousin, after all, the least I can do is not stand in the way of an investigation if he was murdered. But here are the conditions. It can’t interfere with what you are doing for me. When I need you to interpret for me, you have to be there.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you will keep me in the loop with anything you find out from these people.”

  Rick agreed, but interpreted “these people” as the family and friends of Roberto Rondini, not the police. He didn’t want to share what Inspector Crispi might know, unless forced to.

  “And finally, Roberto’s daughter must not know what you are up to. This is just between you, me, and the cops.”

  “Understood.” Rick stretched his arm toward the walkway up to the front door. “Shall we go in?”

  A man wearing an ill-fitting suit took their coats inside the door. Rick guessed he was someone who worked else
where on the farm and had been pressed into service for the event. They walked into an ample rectangular living room, beyond which he could see a dining room, its round table set with trays of food. The dining room chairs had been pushed to one side, under windows that looked out on the grass lawn and fields beyond. About two dozen people mingled between the two rooms, most with glasses in their hands, a few with small plates of food. The voice level was higher than it had been in the church, but still muted. Some looked up when Rick and Angelo approached, one being Livia Guarino, who had been talking with her husband and a man with the ruddy complexion of someone who worked in the open air. She walked over to them and took Angelo’s hand in both hers.

  “So good to see you, Uncle. May I call you that? It was kind of you to come all the way from America. I know you must be a busy man.”

  “I wish we had met under other circumstances, Livia. As I wish I had met your father.”

  Rick decided he wasn’t needed and didn’t want to listen in on their private conversation. He excused himself, encouraged by Livia to partake of the food and drink. After lifting a glass off a passing tray, he surveyed the group like an embassy officer at a diplomatic reception. Why not start with Livia’s husband and the man with the tan? He was curious about both. He took an initial taste of his wine, a dry, dark red, and walked to them.

  “You must be Livia’s husband.” Rick shook the younger man’s hand.

  “That’s correct; Francesco Guarino,” he answered, before turning to the man next to him. “Carlo, this is Riccardo Montoya, Angelo Rondini’s interpreter. Riccardo, Carlo Zucari is the manager of the dairy farm.” His eyes darted toward the door where an elderly man was making his way in from the hallway. “Can you excuse me a moment? Livia is busy and I should greet the new arrivals.”