Dying on the Vine

TEN

GIDEON had been told that eighteen people had signed up for the class, the maximum that Luca would accept. All of them seemed to be at the reception. Most of them were women; all were American. In the slanting evening sun, the porticoed stone terrace that fronted the garden was beautiful. The old marble columns were a buttery gold. Two buffet tables lined up along the wall of the main building held hors d’oeuvres and bottles of Villa Antica wine. Behind them, two tuxedoed young men smiled and expertly filled plates and glasses for the attendees. Another waiter circulated with a tray that held wine and appetizers. Most of the attendees were sitting in twos and threes at round tables that appeared to have been taken from the tasting room, happily shoveling in bruschetta, anchovies, and miniature tortellini, and washing them down with generous swallows of the 2005 Villa Antica Carmignano Riserva and one of their rare whites, a 2009 trebbiano. From the noise level of the conversation and laughter, it was clear that the festivities had gotten going well before the official seven o’clock opening time. And as Nico had surmised, nobody seemed to be the least upset about the late start of formalities.

Julie, Marti, and John were already there, speaking with a six-foot-tall, formidable-looking woman, who, unlike just about everybody else, already seemed bored. While she spoke, her eyes continued to cast about, as if hoping to find someone more interesting to talk to. Gideon was waved over and introduced.

His name produced a modest flicker of interest. “You know, I think I’ve heard of you. Aren’t you the Bone Doctor?” She had the kind of voice that goes with a lorgnette, fluty and imperious.

“Skeleton Detective,” the always-helpful John corrected.

“Yes. So what is it that a Skeleton Doctor does exactly, anyway?”

“Skeleton Detective,” said John.

“Whatever.”

This unpromising exchange went on for another minute or so and was then cut short by Franco’s taking his place behind a lectern at one end of the terrace and managing to look both dignified and in a hurry at the same time. People quickly found seats. Gideon took the chance of risking Franco’s disapproval by going to get a glass of the trebbiano before he squeezed in beside Julie, John, Marti, and Linda at one of the larger tables. He was the last person to sit, and Franco impatiently, pointedly waited until he was settled.

“I’m Franco Cubbiddu,” he announced, “the president and CEO of Villa Antica Winery, and I want to welcome you to our facilities and wish you a very pleasant and productive week. Thank you. Luca?” He turned on his heel and headed back into the winery.

“Short and sweet,” Marti said.

Linda laughed. “Franco might have a fault or two, but long-windedness isn’t one of them.”

Luca was now up at the lectern. “I won’t take much of your time,” he said. “You’re here tonight to enjoy a little camaraderie and a few good wines. Tomorrow morning is when we get serious. For those of you who are staying not in Figline but in Florence, the easiest way to get here is to take the train from the Santa Maria Novella station. There is an 8:02 train that will put you in Figline at 8:37. A five-minute walk will bring you here with time enough for a cup of coffee and a brioche before we get started at nine. You’ll find the rest of the logistical details in your packets and I’ll answer any questions tomorrow. For now I would like to very briefly summarize the philosophy of Vino e Cucina.”

He took a deep breath and surveyed the crowd, smiling and relaxed. He looked happy.

“This is a guy who likes having an audience,” Gideon murmured to Julie.

That produced an elbow nudge and a smile. “Takes one to know one.”

“First, the vino part. Have you ever wondered why Italian wines are so good with food? Because that’s what they’re made for, to go with food, to be enjoyed, and not merely with a meal, but as an essential part of it. It isn’t made for people to spit into a bowl. It’s made for them to drink, and to drink with food, with a meal. Wine is like bread or pasta. Without it a meal is not complete.” He was growing more animated and enthusiastic. His opening sentences might have been prepared, Gideon thought, but now he was speaking spontaneously, straight from the heart. This was a continuation of the argument he’d been having with Franco, Gideon understood. Without Franco’s presence Luca was a lot better at it: less heat, more light.

“And it’s like anything we love to eat. Would you chew up prosciutto or ossobuco and spit it out? Of course not.”

People were politely nodding their agreement, and there was some scattered clapping.

“And the cucina part? It’s simple. You will not learn how to prepare nouvelle cuisine this week. In good Italian cooking, there is no such thing as cucina nuova. When it comes to preparing food, being trendy or innovative is not something we aim for. If a recipe has survived for four generations, handed down from mother to daughter, we figure it must be pretty good, so why would we want to change it? Our goal isn’t to improve or build on grandma’s dishes, it’s to come as close as we can to reproducing them—but with the advantages of today’s modern kitchen equipment and market goods. In fact—”

He stopped suddenly, straightened up from leaning over the lectern, and his low, husky laugh rolled out over the terrace. “In fact, I see my wife letting me know that it’s time for me to sit down. Well, you’ll hear more than enough from me in the next few days.”

He had brought a glass of Sangiovese with him to the lectern, and now he raised it in toast to his audience—“Buon appetito, mi amici!”

• • •

DINNERS at the winery were part of the Vino e Cucina package on most nights, so when the reception wound down, Luca, Linda, Julie, and Marti went off to the refectory with the others, leaving John and Gideon on their own. Luca had provided them with a few suggested Figline restaurants, but none of them hit the right note with John.

“You know what I’d really like?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think you’re going to find a Big Mac in Figline Valdarno. Some Chicken McNuggets, maybe.”

“Ho, ho.”

“One of those giant Florence beefsteaks?”

“Nah, let’s wait till we’re in Florence for that.” Both of them having had a few glasses of wine, they’d ruled out driving to the city. “But how about a pizza? I bet we can find one of those in Figline.”

A perusal of the phone book turned up Ristorante Pizzeria Mari e Monti a few blocks from Villa Antica, and they walked there in a light, not unpleasant drizzle. It turned out to be a cozy little place with arched brick entryways, rough-stuccoed walls, warm lighting, and a big, ceramic wood-burning oven. Even with his tenuous hold on Italian, John had no trouble with the menu, quickly finding the pizza that struck the deepest chord in his essential being.

“Pizza carnivora,” he announced. “Mamma mia!”

Gideon ordered frutti di mare, the seafood pizza. He asked about local beers, and the waiter recommended Birrificio Artigianale pale ale. “Is most same like bitter,” he said, apparently thinking they were British. Gideon said fine, and John went along with him.

The beers came quickly, and while they worked at them, Gideon explained what Linda had told him at the wine festival about Cesare, the little-known stepson.

“Whoa,” John said. “You’re saying you think this guy killed the two of them?”

“No, I’m nowhere near there. Not yet, anyway. All I’m saying is that Rocco said that one reason they were so sure that Pietro did it was that everything pointed to him and nothing at all pointed to anybody else. They didn’t have any other viable suspects. Any suspects at all. Well, wouldn’t you say Cesare would be a viable suspect? Pietro was about to cut him out of his will.”

“So why would he kill Nola? Christ, she was his mother, wasn’t she?”

“And you never heard of anybody killing his mother before.”

“Well, okay, that’s a point. But why would he kill her?”

“That I don’t know.”

“What about the fact that it was Pietro’s gun?”

“John, I still don’t like it that that gun just happened to stay with him while he was falling two hundred feet and bouncing off rocks all the way.”

“So you’re still on about that.”

“Yes, I am. It just doesn’t sit right. You know that suicides generally don’t hang on to the gun. A lot more likely for it to get flung five or six feet away than to stay in his hand.”

“Well, actually, you got me thinking about that, and I came up with a perfectly good reason it didn’t happen this time.”

“Which is?”

“Cadaveric spasm,” John announced brightly, referring to the rare bodily reaction in which a kind of rigor mortis sets in instantly (rather than several hours later), locking the muscles into whatever position they were in at the moment of death. In that case, if a gun had been grasped in one’s hand to shoot oneself, it would conceivably continue to be gripped so rigidly that it would be hard to pry or jar it out of the death clasp. “It happens,” he added when he saw Gideon’s dubious expression.

“That’s so, it happens, and I suppose it also happens a gun can get stuck in a jacket in such a way that any fingerprints that might be on it are still going to be there a year later—not that I’ve ever seen it personally, of course.”

“Well, no, me neither,” John agreed. “But it could happen, right?”

“Sure, but what would you say the odds are of both things happening together? Cadaveric spasm, and then the leather-jacket thing.”

“Not great,” admitted John. He held up his beer bottle. “Hey, you know, this isn’t bad. Hoppy, malty. Citrusy, is that a word?” Of the two of them, John was the beer authority.

The waiter came back with their pizzas. John looked at his with a sigh. “I’m in hog heaven.” The pizza was thick with prosciutto, ham, pepperoni, and mortadella. And a few chunks of artichoke for the health-minded. Gideon’s looked terrific too, a plain marinara sauce, no cheese, covered with mussels and clams in their shells, shrimp, and crabmeat.

“Well,” Gideon said, cutting into his, “maybe it’ll all become clearer tomorrow.”

“Boy,” John said, “will you look at all this bacon?”

“It’s prosciutto.”

“You call it prosciutto, I call it bacon,” John sang happily. “Let’s call the whole thing off.”