Chapter 9 #2
The rest of the piazza was eerily silent.
Most of the boats we’d seen moored the previous night were no longer there.
Several women spoke in hushed tones, crossing themselves as they cast furtive glances at the boatshed and the adjoining house.
They didn’t stop going about their business, however.
Life in Pecco continued as usual. The fishermen still had to earn a living from the lake and the women still had to feed their families, a pattern that had probably been the same every day for hundreds of years, perhaps thousands. Not even death altered it.
Under the guise of asking for directions, Miss Wheeler approached the officer, guidebook at the ready. He ordered her back with palm forward in a stopping motion.
He shook his head. “No.”
Miss Wheeler switched to Italian. After a brief exchange, she translated for us. “He says there has been a death and that we are not to come any closer.”
“Did he use the word murder?” Oscar asked.
“No.” She watched as the door to the boatshed opened and another officer emerged.
The two men exchanged words before he strode off, heading in the direction of the adjoining building.
“But I believe they’re treating it as murder.
That officer is going to talk to the widow. It seems she found the body at dawn.”
So the thugs we’d seen hadn’t reported it. They must be the murderers then.
“They two Caribinieri were discussing something else, but I can’t translate the phrase. Fires, artifice…it doesn’t make sense.”
“Do we continue with our plan?” I asked.
We’d discussed the different scenarios we might face today on the way back to the hotel the night before.
Although my sense of justice wanted to solve the murder, we were fortunate that the men we’d seen hadn’t reported seeing us and so we were not suspects.
The plan we’d decided to enact in the event the victim turned out to be Giovanni Colombo and we were not under suspicion for his murder gave us one clear path—concentrate on retrieving the wood strengthening spell. Justice wasn’t ours to serve.
“We do,” Oscar said. “We pay our respects to the widow and offer to ease her financial burden by buying back the spell her husband stole.”
A woman clutching a handkerchief to her chest entered the house without knocking.
Oscar, Miss Wheeler and I were considering whether to follow or knock on the door when the Carabinieri officer who’d entered a few minutes earlier re-emerged.
He stepped out backwards, his hands up, and almost fell down the step in his haste to leave.
His protests were drowned out by an enraged woman shouting at him, her gesticulating hands requiring no translation.
The officer guarding the boatshed went to his companion’s aid. The woman slammed the door in both their faces.
“I gather from the exchange that she’s the widow,” Miss Wheeler told us. “And she’s angry with the officer for saying the death of her husband was an accident. She says she saw the body and the hammer and knows someone killed him. She suggests they do their job and find the killer.”
“It didn’t sound like a suggestion,” Oscar said.
“I heard the word anarchico,” I said. “Is she blaming an anarchist?”
Miss Wheeler nodded. ”A man she called The Angel.”
“The Angel? Are you sure you heard correctly?”
“I’m sure.”
“It must be a nickname,” Oscar said. “Come on. Let’s introduce ourselves.”
I wasn’t keen to have a discussion with a angry grieving widow, but both Miss Wheeler and Oscar had made up their minds to speak to her.
Our knock was answered by the older woman we’d seen enter a few minutes earlier.
Miss Wheeler spoke to her in Italian and, after an assessing gaze that took in the three of us, the door opened wider, releasing delicious cooking smells.
“I explained that we had business to discuss with the widow,” Miss Wheeler said.
I expected to hear crying coming from inside, but the same hush that enveloped the piazza had also fallen over the house.
The other thing that took me by surprise was the lack of mourners.
Aside from the woman who’d let us in, the widow was the only other person in the house.
Perhaps the boatbuilder hadn’t been liked.
Signora Colombo sat at the central table in the space that doubled as both kitchen and reception room.
It was, perhaps, the only room on the ground floor of the narrow house.
The stone floor was blackened near the hearth, and all the food preparation would have to be done on the central table.
Baskets and pots hung from hooks on the walls, and crockery was stacked neatly on the shelves.
A photograph of a man and woman with a small child between them took pride of place on the lower shelf next to a wooden cross.
I wasn’t close enough to see if the widow was the woman in the photo.
Miss Wheeler spoke to Signora Colombo, introducing each of us in turn. “I’ve offered her our condolences,” she interpreted for us, “and said we’d planned to speak to her husband today but have just learned of his death.”
The woman who’d let us in directed us to sit at the table with Signora Colombo then shuffled to the open fire where she’d been cooking something in a pan. Another pot hung over the coals, steam rising into the low rafters. The room was already hot, despite the early hour.
Miss Wheeler and the widow continued to talk while Oscar and I tried to cobble together the conversation from the little Italian we understood.
Although Signora Colombo’s eyes showed signs of crying, they were now dry.
She had a worn out look that wasn’t merely a result of grief.
It was difficult to guess her age, but I placed it as late thirties, although she could have been up to five years younger or older.
The woman at the fire scooped out the squares of yellow cake or bread that she’d been frying onto the plate.
She grated some cheese over them and placed the plate in front of Oscar and me with an air of expectation.
When neither Oscar nor I went to take a slice, she pressed the fingers to her thumb and made an eating motion.
Oscar and I dutifully picked up slices and bit.
It wasn’t cake or bread, although it did have a crispy crust. The inside was soft, and it tasted a little like corn which the shavings of cheese set off to delicious effect.
Oscar made sounds of approval and smacked his lips.
The woman beamed and shuffled back to the pan.
Even with a language barrier, he was a successful flirt.
The widow’s voice suddenly rose and she pointed angrily at the door. The woman at the fireplace turned, frowning, spatula in hand.
Hands up in a placating gesture, Miss Wheeler rose. “She wants us to leave.”
“Did you say something to offend her?” I asked.
“I didn’t think so. I simply told her about the spell that we believed was in her late husband’s possession and asked if we could buy it off her. I didn’t mention that he’d stolen it.”
The widow removed a set of rosary beads from her apron pocket and clutched them to her chest. It was the only sign of distress over her husband’s death that she’d shown.
While the other woman spoke to Signora Colombo and patted her shoulder, Miss Wheeler told us more.
“She said she doesn’t know anything about a wood spell, or about her husband’s plans to expand the business with the help of a magician.
She says he was happy here in Pecco. I couldn’t tell her that we knew he was wanting to expand without revealing you saw the new factory’s plans in the boatshed. ”
The widow seemed more angry than upset. I suppose I would be too if I’d just learned my spouse wanted to move out of the village.
“Ask her about The Angel,” Oscar said.
“Why? He’s an anarchist. He has nothing to do with the stolen spell.”
“We can’t say that for certain.”
My eyes widened. Could he be right? The murder coming so soon after the theft of the spell would imply there was a connection, but I couldn’t see what it would be. The anarchist movement would have no interest in a wood strengthening spell.
Miss Wheeler spoke to the widow who suddenly shot to her feet, forcing her friend to take a step back. Signora Colombo spat on the ground and fired off some words in Italian.
“She says The Angel is a bad man and hated her husband,” Miss Wheeler explained. “Perché?” she asked the widow.
Signora Colombo made a shooing motion and snarled a few more harsh words in our direction.
Miss Wheeler backed up to the door. “We should go.”
The widow calmed down when she realized we were leaving, and a tense silence filled the room. Until the creak of a floorboard overhead broke the silence. The widow resumed shouting at us again. Her friend, however, had gone ashen. She stared up at the ceiling and crossed herself.
We hurriedly filed out of the house and back into the piazza, the friend on our heels. Signora Colombo slammed the door behind us.
Miss Wheeler spoke to the friend who shook her head over and over. The hand that clutched her handkerchief beat lightly against her chest, as she replied.
Miss Wheeler swallowed hard. “I asked her about the child, the one in the photograph, and if he was terribly upset over his father’s death. She said there is no child anymore. He died recently.”
“Then who was upstairs?” Oscar asked.
“That’s the thing. No one was up there. Signora Colombo is alone now.”
“Someone was up there. We all heard a noise.”
“The neighbor thinks it’s the spirit of Signore Colombo. His violent and untimely death means his ghost can’t rest.”
We all looked back at the house. I may not be a religious man, but I had a sudden urge to cross myself, too.