Elegant Death Page 13

  “What about family?”

  “You mean the cousin in Canada? Why should she suddenly come and kill her?”

  “I don't know.” Stefano pulled a pad onto his lap. “I'll note it as an idea anyway. We'll give it as a distraction to Cervi if he makes any more noises about arresting Enzo.”

  Carlina sighed. “You know, I hate to think about the other motives you mentioned.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Money and love. Both of these point to only one person: Enzo.” She shook herself and stretched out both hands as if to ward off something evil. “I can't even bear to think about it.”

  Stefano frowned and stared at the pad. “That leaves us with hate and blackmail gone wrong.”

  Carlina took another turn around the room. “Somehow, I don't see her as a blackmailer. A blackmailer has to keep secrets. She was more the type to make fun of your secrets in public, wasn't she?” She stopped short. “On the other hand . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “It was something Liza said. She said Dorotea enjoyed the feeling of having power over someone, of knowing things about you. Maybe that's what she did. She found out something bad about someone and let them know about it, without the intention of blackmail, just having a bit of fun, enjoying her position of power. And the person was so terrified she would talk about the secret to others that he or she decided to kill her.”

  Stefano took another note. “It's a possibility.” Then he sighed. “We're having too many possibilities. That woman made enemies too easily.” He looked at the pad. “And that's why hate is a more likely option.”

  “Hate is the result of fear, isn't it? At least, it's very close.”

  “Yes. I believe many people here not only feared but hated her. But was it enough to get out a gun and shoot her in the back?”

  Carlina shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Before they could continue, a knock came on the door.

  “Come in!”

  Liza put her head around the door. “Signor Ashley told me to bring you the report about the meeting from last Friday.” She placed a print out onto the table.

  “Thank you very much.” Carlina smiled at her.

  “No problem.” Liza gave her an entreating look and left the room.

  “Why did she look at you like that?” Stefano asked.

  “I think she wanted to remind me that our conversation at lunch was private, and that I won't share the information about her relationship anywhere.”

  “Hmm.” Stefano stretched out his hand and picked up the report. “Let's see what this says.”

  “Good luck with it.” Carlina went to the door. “I'll get us some coffee. I believe we'll need it if we want to understand what's written there.”

  But in the end, they didn't do much more than scan the pages before Enzo came and asked them to join him in several interviews with his directors. They were one-on-one interviews, and he said they would help to get a clearer understanding about their characters. However, the meetings didn't reveal much because they mostly stuck to technical details which were incomprehensible to them. Carlina had trouble staying awake.

  Finally, the day was over, and exhausted, they left the office to return to their hotel. In spite of Enzo's offer to stay at a luxury hotel, they had opted for a middle-priced one. Carlina still had to smile when she remembered what Stefano had said at the time. “I don't like staying at a place where my every move is being watched and where my napkin is placed in my lap as soon as I'm barely seated.” She didn't relish the over-the-top services, either, so they had chosen a nice hotel on Corso Como that was close enough to get to the office on foot.

  The weather had turned, and the temperatures had dropped so much that a cold wind swept through the street, but it hadn't started to rain yet. Stefano reached out to Carlina and put his arm around her shoulders. “Let's do something nice tonight.” He kissed the top of her head. “It is, after all, our honeymoon, and today, we managed to avoid Enzo's immediate arrest. We should celebrate that.”

  Carlina snuggled against her husband. “I'd like that. What would you like to do?”

  “How about some food we don't often eat? What do you think of Thai?”

  “Thai? Lemon grass, coconut milk, green curry?”

  “Absolutely. My mouth is already watering.”

  Carlina smiled. “Sounds perfect. You know what I like about Milan?”

  “Hmm?” They went through the revolving glass doors of the hotel. In front of them was the reception desk, and to the right, the polished floor stretched into the bar area and café. A scattering of chairs around low tables, partially hidden by palm trees, allowed people to have a drink and look at passers-by on Corso Como, one of the most famous shopping streets of Milan. The low chairs were all covered in opulent brocade patterns, each very different from the other, and it made a charming contrast to the modern shape of the reception and bar.

  Carlina smiled at her husband. “I like about Milan first that your boss can't reproach you for taking a break in a case, and second that my family is nowhere near to make things complicated.”

  Stefano looked up, and the smile dropped from his face. “I'm afraid that's not quite true.”

  Carlina followed his gaze and froze. “Oh, no.”

  “Carlina!” Fabbiola ran to her daughter with outstretched hands. “Finally!”

  “What are you doing here, mamma?”

  “I'm living here.” Fabbiola drew herself up. “We've got a room in this hotel, just like you.”

  Stefano expelled his breath audibly.

  Behind her, Aunt Violetta rolled up.

  Fabbiola looked around. “Where's my cushion?”

  Carlina clenched her teeth. “Please don't tell me you're walking around Milan with that stupid cushion, mamma.”

  Her mother lifted her chin. “It's not stupid, and I feel much better when I've got it with me. It's just my little idiosyncrasy, and I really don't know why you want to make a fuss about it.”

  “I'm still sitting on it.” Aunt Violetta's voice was dry.

  Carlina blinked. “You're sitting on mamma's cushion?”

  “Yes. She insisted on bringing it.” Aunt Violetta glared at Fabbiola. “And she kept dropping it everywhere.”

  “It's very difficult to push a wheelchair while holding a cushion underneath your arm.” Fabbiola sounded like a pouting five-year-old.

  “So I asked her to place it on the wheelchair. This way, it doesn't get dropped every ten meters, and it doesn't show.” Aunt Violetta sniffed. “Ridiculous habit, that, taking a cushion with you wherever you go.”

  “Not quite as ridiculous as being wheeled around in a chair when you're perfectly able to walk!” Fabbiola's voice was sharp. “Besides wanting to open a brothel for women, which is the most outrageous idea I've ever –“

  “Ladies.” Stefano pointed to his right. “Why don't we all move to the bar and have an aperitivo.”

  “Now you're talking.” Aunt Violetta nodded so hard, her brown hair moved forward en masse.

  If she loses her wig in the middle of the hotel lobby, I'll scream. Carlina averted her gaze and hurried to the bar that was built like a white curve at the other end of the lobby. A drink was exactly what she needed, before they went out to that Thai dinner, without the family. She'd tell her mother it was too spicy for her delicate stomach. Not that she had one, but maybe she could make her mother believe in it.

  It only took fifteen minutes to discuss the merits of different cocktails. In the end, the smile on the bartender's face became rather fixed, but he produced the Negroni for Aunt Violetta, the Bellini for Carlina, the Prosecco for Fabbiola, and the Campari soda for Stefano, turning away from them with a visible sigh of relief when he was done.

  The bar and lobby hummed with people, and there seemed to be a lot of coming and going, couples and friends meeting before dinner and leaving again.

  “It's just the right time for an aperitivo.” Aunt Violetta looked around her with a satisf
ied expression on her wrinkled face. “I like being in the middle of things.”

  “We know,” Carlina said underneath her breath.

  “Milan is different.” Aunt Violetta now sucked with energy at the straw of her red cocktail. “In comparison, Florence is a small town. Boring.”

  Fabbiola sat up straight. “That's not true!”

  “Course it is.” Aunt Violetta grinned at her. “You're too young to face the facts and only stick up for it out of a misplaced sense of loyalty toward the town where you grew up. But I say it's boring. I mean, look around you!” She flung out her hand with the drink, sloshing it over. “Take that man over there, for example, the one who just came in. Would you see anyone like him in Florence?”

  Chapter 8

  Carlina turned her head and looked into the direction Aunt Violetta had indicated. A man had come through the revolving glass door and now looked around. He wore the tightest trousers she had ever seen since Freddy Mercury and a pair of kid gloves, plus a fluttering scarf.

  Benito Bellini met her gaze, and his face broke into a smile. He came to her with his hands outstretched. “Signora Garini! And signor Garini! What a nice surprise.”

  Aunt Violetta stared at him as if she'd seen an apparition. “You know him?” she whispered out of a corner of her mouth.

  Carlina grinned. “Mamma, Aunt Violetta, this is Benito Bellini. He's the director of marketing at Camicie Di Silva. We met through our current project.” She took the time to give them both a significant glance, so they wouldn't tell Benito Bellini any details that would blow their cover. “Won't you join us for a moment, signor Bellini?”

  “Thank you, I'd like that. And call me Benito, please.” He pulled up one of the brocade chairs and folded his long frame into it. “I'm here to meet someone, but he hasn't yet come.” Then he gave a sign to the waiter. “A dry Martini, please, with one leaf of lemon balm.”

  “Lemon balm?” Fabbiola blinked. “Don't you combine martinis with olives?”

  Benito waved a languid hand. “That's so passé, dear. Lemon balm gives a truly surprising accent to your martini, like vanilla ice-cream with pumpkin seed oil. You should try it.”

  “Proprio no!” Fabbiola shook herself.

  Benito grinned. “So are you planning to go to dinner later on?”

  “Yes, we are.” Stefano nodded. “But we thought we'd enjoy the atmosphere of Milan here first.”

  Benito nodded. “A good choice. I'm not saying anything against Florence, you know, but Milan, of course, is a lot more cosmopolitan.”

  Fabbiola sat up straight and opened her mouth, but before she could utter a word, Aunt Violetta cut in. “My thoughts exactly. Nobody who's used to Milan could live in Florence.”

  Fabbiola blinked.

  Benito smiled at Aunt Violetta. “I see we're soul-mates,” he said. “But that's no surprise, considering our history.”

  “Oh, no, not again,” Stefano said under his breath.

  Aunt Violetta, however, didn't blink and bent forward, dropping her voice suggestively. “Our history is just about to start.” She winked at him as if she were a dashing twenty and he the same age.

  Carlina opened her eyes wide.

  “Not quite, my dear.” Benito looked into her eyes, lifted his glass and toasted to her. “We're just continuing where we left off when our enemies so cruelly separated us in 1789.”

  Fabbiola stared at him, then looked at Carlina and Stefano. “Is he drunk?”

  “No.” Carlina suppressed a smile.

  Fabbiola turned back to Benito who only had eyes for Aunt Violetta. “What do you mean by 1789?”

  “The French revolution, of course. It was in Paris, and--”

  “Are you trying to tell me that in a former life, you were the lover of Aunt Violetta in France?”

  Benito winced. “At the time, we used a more genteel expression.”

  “Genteel, my foot.” Fabbiola poked Aunt Violetta into the ribs. “Get up, do. I need my cushion.”

  Aunt Violetta sighed and relinquished the cushion.

  Fabbiola took it and held it like a little dog on her lap. “That's better.” Then she turned to Benito. “You must be kidding. Aunt Violetta would hate to be French. She doesn't like them at all. I'm sure something is a bit wonky in your memory.”

  But Benito was a match for her. “She was from the court in Madrid.” He turned to Aunt Violetta. “Do you remember, dear?”

  Fabbiola snorted. “This is too maudlin for me.” She turned with a determined face to Benito. “Were you born in Milan?”

  He gave her a winning smile. “This time, yes.”

  “How nice.” Fabbiola's voice was like ice. “And I bet you believe, like so many other big-city-people do, that life here in town is the only acceptable life on earth.”

  He opened his eyes wide. “Is there another?”

  Carlina decided this had gone on long enough. “Most people like the place where they stay. Otherwise, they would move.”

  “If they can,” Stefano said.

  “How about signora Di Silva?” Carlina asked. “Was she a convinced Milanese?”

  Benito nodded. “Oh, boy, yes. I'm afraid she talked of the province whenever she had to go to Florence, and she complained about it a lot these last weeks.”

  Carlina and Stefano exchanged a glance. “These last weeks?”

  “Yes. She had to go down there quite often to finish the deal.”

  Dimly, Carlina remembered that Enzo had mentioned a business deal in Florence, planned for the Monday after the wedding. But somehow, she'd thought that they didn't count because they would only have expected Dorotea to fly down on Monday morning. They could not have known that Dorotea would spend the entire weekend in Florence. But maybe they'd dismissed them too soon and there was more to this connection with Florence than met the eye? Carlina felt excitement running up and down her spine. “Can you tell us some more about that deal?”

  The bartender arrived with Benito's drink.

  Benito accepted it and threw the bartender a kiss.

  He looked revolted and fled.

  “What kind of deal was that?” Carlina repeated.

  “Didn't you know?” Benito took a dainty sip from his drink. “It's quite a story.”

  Aunt Violetta bent forward. “Tell us everything.”

  Benito settled back in his chair and looked at them like an entertainer about to start the evening's program. “Once upon a time, there were two friends who founded a company for luxury men's shirts together. They'd been friends for many years, but as often happens when you start to transfer friendship into business, they started to fight.”

  “What about?” Fabbiola frowned.

  “About the design direction of the company.” Benito looked into his glass with a sad shake of his head. “One wanted to have his shirts pure and classical, with an amazing cut, exquisite materials and details that made all the difference. Does that ring a bell?” He looked at Carlina.

  “Sounds like Camicie Di Silva,” she said.

  “You're perfectly right. That was Carlo Di Silva's vision. He dreamed of shirts so pure and elegant, they didn't need any frill or colors. That's what he wanted to do, that was his style, that's what he wanted to become famous for. Now his partner, Alfredo Stellini, saw things differently. He soon realized that big money can be made with luxury labels if you serve the Arabian market. The Arabs, however, like it more dramatic. They don't balk at wearing shirts with massive gold applications, epaulets that make them look like pilots, frills, even brocade . . . and anything that looks opulent and rich.” He winked at Aunt Violetta. “You'll remember how it used to be in the days when we danced together. The shirts Alfredo Stellini created would hardly have looked out of place at the balls in Versailles.”

  He took another sip from his drink. “So they split up, and Alfredo moved to Florence.”

  “Why?” Fabbiola frowned.

  “Because his parents lived there. He also claimed that most of his customers came
to Florence for sightseeing anyway. But of course, he returned to Milan often, for the fashion shows and other meetings. Carlo gave his new company and brand the name of Camicie Di Silva, and Alfredo created Camicie d'Oro. Of course he used the word gold in the company name, and to crown it all off, he even put one golden star into the logo. In fact, the logo is just as opulent as the shirts.” Benito smiled. “Carlo couldn't stand the sight. Whenever someone mentioned Camicie d'Oro, he looked as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.”

  A faint memory stirred within Carlina. Dorotea at the wedding. They'd talked about dresses, and she'd looked up and down her mother with a sneer. Carlina could still hear her voice, saying with disdain, “You might prefer the shirts from Camicie d'Oro, then.” That was the moment Enzo had grabbed her hand and had pulled her onto the dance floor. So it had been an insult, but only Enzo had realized the magnitude at the time.

  Stefano had listened without moving, but now he frowned. “You talk about it as if you had been there. Surely that was before your time?”

  “Oh, yes, I was still a child then. But I've heard about it so often I know every detail.” Benito made a wide move with his hands. “Anyway, those two never talked again. If they met somewhere, they would look into the other direction and pointedly ignore each other. The whole industry knew you couldn't put the two of them in the same room if you wanted to have a relaxed atmosphere.”

  “And then?” Aunt Violetta asked.

  “Both companies grew and flourished. They expanded and became famous, and they each served their target group to perfection. Carlo died young. Dorotea not only took over the business, she also took over her father's attitude and never talked to the Stellinis. Alfredo Stellini had a son the same age as Dorotea. Apparently the fathers, when they were still speaking and when their kids were still babies, planned for those two to become a couple, but of course that was never mentioned after the break. Alfredo's son is called Alessandro, and he's a loser. No feeling for style, no discipline, no vision. The whole industry knows that, but Alfredo didn't want to face facts. He installed him as a director in the company, but they always needed co-directors to make sure things kept going. Of course, Alessandro, though he has no clue, wants to decide everything and throw his weight around whenever he actually appears at a meeting. And that's why the directors at Camicie d'Oro always leave with such speed that the industry placed bets on anyone staying longer than three months.”