8. Chiara #2
“They could have meant anything.” Her willingness to say that makes me listen more closely.
“Work she’d finished, plans she’d completed, gossip about someone else entirely.
That’s what I kept telling myself. But after what happened at the launch, after watching everyone blame you…
” She draws a shaky breath. “It’s too much of a coincidence. I should have trusted my instincts.”
“Will you tell Lorenzo what you heard?” I move the report aside so there’s nothing between us. “I won’t put words in your mouth. Only what you remember.”
“I’ll tell whoever needs to hear it.” Rosalia straightens in her chair, some of her usual composure returning. “I should have spoken up days ago. The least I can do now is stop being a coward about it.”
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “Can I write down what you told me? The exact words, the time, the location? I want to have it documented before I do anything else.”
Rosalia nods, and I pull my notebook from the stack of papers beside me. She checks what I write and corrects the time to roughly midnight. She couldn’t see the phone screen or hear the person on the other end. I add that, too.
It doesn’t tell us what Livia was talking about. It does give us a question worth asking, and I’m grateful Rosalia is willing to answer it in front of someone besides me.
“The sommelier gave me our supplier’s number.” I show her the card. “I want to ask about recent purchases.”
“Do you know who handles the purchasing for cellar supplies?” I leave space beneath the number for a name.
“Livia does, mostly. Since her promotion.” Rosalia waits while I write that down, then stops me before I close the notebook. “But before that, it was shared among the senior staff. She’s been doing estate errands for years.”
“I need to see the cellar access records.” I gather the laboratory analysis and tuck it into my notebook. “And the shift schedules. Is there a way to get copies without going through Lorenzo?”
“The steward’s office keeps duplicates of everything.” Rosalia stands when I do. “You were the launch lead. You might still have access to operational records.”
The records take less time to obtain than I expected.
I frame my request carefully: documentation for the launch review, operational logs I need to complete my own accounting of what went wrong.
The clerk who helps me doesn’t ask questions, just produces copies of the access logs and shift schedules for the relevant period and hands them over without meeting my eyes.
I don’t know if he believes I’m innocent or if he’s simply afraid to refuse the Don’s wife. I don’t particularly care. The papers are in my hands, and that’s what matters.
Back in my room, I spread everything out on the small desk and begin to work through it systematically.
The access logs show everyone who entered and exited the main cellar area during the two weeks before the gala.
Lorenzo’s name appears several times. The cellar team shows up daily, as expected.
Livia’s name appears repeatedly, including in the evenings.
I put the schedules beside the entries to compare them.
She had access. But so did others. This doesn’t prove she was alone with the wine.
I mark the entries that overlap with shifts when Livia was assigned to cellar oversight and the rest of the team wasn’t scheduled. Someone else could still have come in. I can ask about those gaps without pretending they tell me what she did.
I call the number on the supplier’s card. He confirms that he stocks that kind of product and will be at the shop all afternoon. I put the card beside my bag and ask for the car.
Rosalia insists on coming with me, and I don’t argue.
The driver Lorenzo assigned takes us into town without comment, and I spend most of the journey reviewing my notes and trying to anticipate what questions I need to ask.
The supplier is a modest establishment near the town square, the kind of place that services local businesses and estates with everything from cleaning supplies to specialized chemicals.
The man behind the counter looks up when we enter, his expression shifting to recognition when he sees Rosalia.
“From Baglio Marchetti, yes?” He sets down the inventory list he was checking. “I know your face. You’ve come with the estate orders before.”
“I’m Chiara Marchetti.” I step forward, keeping my voice pleasant. “I’m trying to track down some purchases made for the estate in recent weeks. For our records.”
Rosalia stands beside me instead of hanging back by the door. I am glad of it when the man reaches for his records.
“What period are you looking at?” He moves toward a filing cabinet behind the counter.
“The weeks leading up to the vintage launch.” I show him the description I copied from the laboratory findings. “You said on the phone that you stock this kind of product.”
“Let me check.” He pulls out a ledger and runs his finger down the entries. “Here. There was a purchase of that sort three weeks before your launch.”
“Can you tell me who placed the order?” I almost give him Livia’s name, then stop myself. I need his answer, not agreement with mine.
“Livia.” He says the name without hesitation, like it’s obvious. “She comes in regularly for estate errands. Has for years. Knows exactly what she needs, never wastes time.”
My heart is pounding, but I keep my expression neutral. “Do you have documentation of that specific purchase? A receipt or counterfoil?”
“Should have the counterfoil.” He rummages through the filing cabinet again.
“We keep copies of everything. Here.” He pulls out a slip of paper and sets it on the counter.
“There’s the date. She usually collects for the estate account, so I remember this one.
She wanted to pay cash and take it with her. ”
I look from the date to the handwritten cash notation. This was before Lorenzo made her cellar steward. She was already doing errands for the estate; she wouldn’t have needed the promotion to shop here.
“Could I have a copy of this?” I take my hand away from the counterfoil when I realize I’m about to pick it up. “You keep the original.”
“Of course.” He moves to a small copier and produces a duplicate. “Anything else you need to verify?”
“That’s everything.” I take the copy and tuck it carefully into my bag. “Thank you for your help.”
Outside, Rosalia grips my arm as we walk back to the car. “He named her. You didn’t even have to give him her name.”
“And he’s willing to say so.” I hold the bag against my coat as the driver opens the door. “Lorenzo can call him. He can ask for himself.”
The purchase doesn’t prove Livia used the substance to contaminate the wine.
The product has legitimate applications, and buying it isn’t a crime.
But she bought something consistent with what the laboratory found, three weeks before the gala, and paid cash.
I don’t know why. For the first time, I have something to ask her about that she can’t dismiss as a matter of taste or tradition.
Back at the estate, I gather everything in my room before doing anything else.
I photograph the pages on my phone and put them in a folder in the small desk drawer. These are copies; the original records are still with the people who supplied them. Rosalia’s account is in my notebook. I leave that in the drawer too.
Rosalia has afternoon duties she can’t avoid, so I’ll have to confront Livia alone. That’s probably better anyway. Whatever happens in the cellar, I don’t want Rosalia caught in the middle of it.
“Be careful.” Rosalia pauses at my door instead of leaving for her shift. I have already kept her longer than I should. “She’s not going to take this well.”
“I’ll stay near the stairs.” I close the desk drawer and take my bag. “I want to hear what she says about the purchase. I’m not going to try to force a confession.”
Rosalia nods and slips away to her duties. I check my reflection in the mirror, straighten my shoulders, and head for the cellar.
***
The cellar is quiet when I find her.
The remaining afternoon light filters through the high windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor.
Livia stands near the back wall, checking labels on a rack of bottles with the careful attention of someone who takes pride in their work.
She doesn’t hear me approach, or maybe she does and chooses not to acknowledge me.
“We need to talk.” I stop far enough away that she can’t claim I’m crowding her, close enough that she can’t pretend she didn’t hear.
Livia turns slowly, her expression shifting from concentration to something more guarded. “Signora Marchetti. I didn’t expect to see you down here.”
“I’ve been to the estate’s supplier.” I stop beside the worktable, leaving the stairs clear behind me. “I asked about a purchase you made three weeks before the gala.”
Her face goes very still. It’s a small thing, a tightening around her eyes and mouth that most people wouldn’t notice, but I’ve spent months watching her and I know what careful looks like.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice is steady, but she takes a half-step back toward the wine rack.
“He remembers selling to you.” I keep my bag closed. I came to ask her directly, not hand over what I found. “He checked the date against his receipt. What did you need that purchase for?”
“I buy things for the estate.” Livia leaves the bottle labels unchecked and turns fully toward me. “You’re grasping at shadows because you need someone to blame.”
“Then you can explain what it was for.” She hasn’t answered the question, and I won’t let her turn it into an argument about my right to ask. “Where was it used?”
Something flickers in Livia’s expression, there and gone before I can name it. When she speaks again, her voice has lost its careful neutrality.