Page 4 of Murder on an Italian Island (Armstrong and Oscar Cozy Mysteries #12)
SATURDAY EVENING
Dinner that evening cleared the chef of any involvement in stirring up discord.
It was excellent. We sat outside on a panoramic terrace with palm trees at either end and a glorious rambling rose on the wall behind us filling the air with its heady scent.
From here, we could see the twinkling lights of the coast reaching for miles into the distance.
The recent sunset was obscured from view by the rugged hillside behind us and the sky above was a deep claret colour, the tables on the terrace submerged in the shadows by now.
The waiter had set a candle on our table to provide light and, as there wasn’t a breath of wind, the flame barely moved – apart from when one of us laughed.
And we did a lot of laughing. Certainly, it would appear that our table at least hadn’t been afflicted by the moodiness affecting some of the other guests.
As this was our first night, Anna and I had insisted on treating Virgilio and Lina to the menu gastronomico to thank them for making all the arrangements.
As we were on an island, I had been expecting a seafood feast, but along with the fish were some Tuscan staples like pasta and grilled meats.
While we were surveying the different dishes on the ‘gastronomic’ menu, I gradually came to terms with the fact that we were not expected to make a choice between them – we were going to be served all of them, drinks included.
The waiter brought us glasses of sparkling wine and a bowl of water for Oscar, who, although he had just had his dinner, was positioned between Anna and me, sitting to attention, his head to one side.
He appeared to be listening with appreciation as Virgilio read out the list of delights awaiting us and I knew full well that, given the chance, he would have ordered a double helping of everything.
As I sipped my spumante – I’m not really a fan of sparkling wine but it came as part of the menu gastronomico package – I looked around at my fellow diners and spotted a few familiar figures.
I counted fifteen tables, but only half a dozen were occupied.
Rita at Reception had told us that this was their last quiet week before this summer season took off next weekend when school holidays started.
From then on, the hotel was fully booked until mid-September.
A few tables from us, I could make out the woman with the dachshund with her companion, and beyond them, the man who had come stomping up the path.
He was sitting at a table for two with his female companion, nursing a glass of red wine, while she enjoyed a pre-dinner cigarette.
They weren’t doing a lot of talking, but at least this meant that his exertions in the hot sun hadn’t affected his health.
There was no sign of the two hard nuts – as I had notionally labelled them – but at least some of the other diners sounded more cheerful.
In particular, there was a group of four people who were clearly enjoying themselves immensely.
Waves of laughter came wafting across from time to time and, along with the merriment, there was the unmistakable sound of British voices.
Even in the candlelight, it was clear to see that two of the guests at that table hadn’t been using enough suncream, and there was one man in particular whose bald forehead was positively glowing.
I hoped for his sake that he wasn’t going to have any unpleasant repercussions as a result.
Alongside this group was a table set for three, but with only two people – a man and a woman – presumably sitting and waiting for their companion to put in an appearance.
Apart from them, there was just a younger couple towards the far end, no doubt enjoying the romantic setting of the hotel and the warm summer’s evening, and beyond them, a table with just one lone diner.
It was hard to tell in the candlelight, but I thought he looked East Asian in appearance.
Our antipasti arrived on a trolley laden with individual dishes, and we soon worked out that the waiter was intent on piling a bit of everything onto our plates.
Although I enjoy my food – obviously not as much as Oscar, of course – I knew I had to pace myself, so, although I did my best to take a little of everything, I did try to limit the size of the servings.
Even so, by the time the waiter moved off again, all four of us were staring at plates groaning with food.
The waiter had respectfully murmured the names of the various dishes as he had served them, but I hadn’t been able to understand everything he said.
As a result, I picked up my fork and embarked on a voyage of discovery.
Silence settled around the table as we all began to sample the delights on offer, the quiet only broken from time to time by mournful murmurs from Oscar, whose nose had no doubt already picked up exactly what was on our plates and even identified the ingredients of the accompanying sauces.
I handed him down a couple of breadsticks and he settled on the floor with a sigh.
I felt sorry for him being excluded from this feast, but I knew him well enough by now to recognise that I had to harden my heart.
Oscar, like most Labradors, would happily eat until he explodes.
Among the amazingly tasty selection of antipasti was the chef’s take on bruschetta.
In Florence, this tends to be slices of bread topped with chopped tomatoes or chicken liver paté, but here on the island, the toppings were a wonderful smoked fish mousse, slices of grilled aubergine, and chopped squid in a cheesy sauce.
Along with these were stuffed mussels in their shells, grilled anchovies, slices of cured ham and orange-fleshed melon, tiny little octopus in a spicy sauce and a whole lot more.
We drank white wine from mainland Tuscany.
The waiter apologised for the lack of truly local wine, telling us that wine production here on the island had shrunk tenfold over the past fifty years as tourism had overtaken fishing, mining and agriculture as the main industry.
Although the wine he served us was not from the island, he was able to point across the sea towards the lights of the Tuscan vineyards responsible for producing it, barely twenty kilometres away in the gathering dusk.
Whatever its origin, it was a lovely, crisp, dry wine that went perfectly with the antipasti.
By the time we had finished our starters, I was seriously beginning to question whether I would be able to finish everything on the menu.
In true Italian tradition, the antipasti were followed by the pasta course or primi piatti – first dishes – as they call them.
Once again. the trolley arrived, this time with a selection of different pasta dishes ranging from fusilli ai frutti di mare – the pasta almost submerged beneath a rich, creamy sauce containing shellfish and crustaceans – to a local speciality of black risotto.
This unusual-looking dish was made using squid ink to turn the white rice black and was dotted with pieces of fish and shellfish, giving it a questionable look, but a wonderful taste of the sea.
After the primi piatti , we moved onto the secondi piatti and this time, the waiter brought a massive T-bone Bistecca alla Fiorentina which he sliced vertically and divided between us, along with a selection of grilled vegetables.
This was accompanied by a fine, rich, red Chianti Classico, whose label told me it had in fact been produced less than twenty kilometres from my house.
It was as we were tasting this that things suddenly got weird.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the people on the table of three stand up and start walking in our direction.
He was a big man and, from his unstable gait, it looked as though he’d been drinking heavily.
Sensing something in the air, Oscar roused himself from dreams of Florentine steaks, squirrels and swims in the sea, and stood up, his nose pointing inquisitively at the newcomer as he approached our table.
The man lurched to a halt behind Virgilio’s shoulder and, before any of us could do or say anything, he suddenly reached forward and tipped Virgilio’s glass of red wine into his lap.
Virgilio looked up in surprise, pushed back his chair and was about to leap to his feet when the man’s right hand caught him by the shoulder and pushed him back down.
‘You need to be more careful, Sergeant. That was terribly clumsy. You’d better look out or something bad could happen to you…
something really bad.’ He spoke Italian with a strong Tuscan accent and the menace in his voice was at odds with his summery blue and white shirt and shorts.
He was probably about ten years younger than me, with tattoos on both forearms, and it was clear from his muscular build that he kept himself fit.
Virgilio is a strong man, but I could see that the pressure of the man on his shoulder was preventing him from making a move.
So I did it for him.
I jumped to my feet and reached across to catch the big man by the arm, doing my best to make him release his grip on Virgilio. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I must confess to using an Italian expression that was a whole lot ruder than that.
The man turned towards me and fixed me with a malevolent stare. ‘Take your hand off me or I’ll snap you in two.’ His tone was as aggressive as his alcohol-filled breath, but I’d been up against tougher men than him in my time.