Page 18 of The Venice Murders (Flora Steele Mystery #11)

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The café when they walked through the door was almost empty, but the array of salad dishes on offer was tempting, though truffle omelette appeared missing from today’s menu. Quickly, they made their selection and found seats at an outside table.

‘What do you make of what we’ve learned?’ Flora asked, snaffling a chunk of Taleggio cheese.

‘That the Massis were happy with their son’s choice of bride and unhappy that he let her down.’

‘But the business of Franco feeling tricked.’

‘It suggests, doesn’t it, that he never truly wanted to marry? He was doing the decent thing and when it was no longer necessary, he wanted out. Married life in a small Mestre apartment wasn’t for him.’

‘I’m thinking it must have made Bianca very angry.’ She cut a slice from a large tomato and matched it with a second bite of Taleggio.

‘For sure. But does that get us anywhere?’

‘I’m trying to understand what was going on in the girl’s mind, Jack. As far as I can see, she hasn’t spoken of this baby to anyone. How must she have felt when she was abandoned by her fiancé because she was no longer pregnant? She’d fallen in love with the man – OK it was an expedient kind of love – but she obviously cared for him, and everything was looking fine. They were planning a wedding, her father had loaned the money for a deposit on a just-built flat, and the new baby would make them a family. Then, pouf , it’s all gone.’

‘All true what you say, but it doesn’t mean she went looking for Franco to kill him. There were other people angry with him, too – don’t forget, we still don’t know what was behind that massive quarrel he had with Silvio Fabbri.’

Flora had silently to agree and turned back to her salad. There was so much that remained hidden. But when the waiter arrived to clear their plates and bring them the dessert menu, she ignored the treats on offer to ask, ‘Do you know the Tasca family, by any chance?’

‘Of course.’ The young man brushed back his hair. ‘Everyone know the Tascas. They are here a hundred years.’ He gave a grimace. ‘And for another hundred.’

‘And Luigi Tasca? Does he live here still?’

Another grimace. ‘Sometimes yes, signora. Sometimes, no. He is here and there.’

‘I thought he might work on his father’s farm.’

‘ Forse , perhaps, but not always. One day he paint the house, then he build fence, then he clean windows.’

‘A drifter,’ Jack muttered.

The waiter seemed to understand, nodding in agreement. ‘He was soldier but then he has to go.’

‘Dismissed?’

‘Drink,’ the waiter said succinctly.

‘Do you know if he visits Venice often?’

The young man looked confused and Flora wasn’t surprised – it had been an awkward turn of conversation. Hard enough to dig for the truth among strangers, she thought, but forced to ask questions in a foreign language, it was near impossible.

The waiter surprised her, however, when he nodded and said, ‘Tasca has the motorbike. He goes to Venice with Matteo.’

‘Matteo Pretelli? It’s his aunt that lives in Venice, isn’t it?’

‘Signora Pretelli is very good cook.’ A woman, the owner, they presumed, had come out of the café to join them. ‘The boys, they visit for cake, I think! But you want Matteo?’

Why not? Flora thought. ‘He works in Asolo?’ she asked, her expression innocent.

‘At the Tasca farm. You want to go there?’

‘We were thinking of it,’ she said casually. ‘We understand that Signor Tasca runs an excellent business. We are farmers, too,’ she lied blatantly. ‘A man we met in a restaurant – in Venice – was a good friend of the signore. He suggested we paid a visit.’

The woman’s forehead puckered, as she tried to follow Flora’s words. ‘Silvio Fabbri?’ she asked at length.

‘Yes! Do you know him?’

‘Everyone know him. Everyone know everyone,’ she said simply. ‘Signor Fabbri in Venice many years, but he come to Asolo. He come to buy.’

When Flora looked questioningly at her, she said, ‘Enrico Tasca, he sell vegetables and he sell fruit, all to Fabbri – for the restaurant. They are friends from little boys.’

‘Really? We’ve just come from a visit to Signora Massi. Her husband grows fruit and vegetables, too, but he doesn’t sell to La Zucca?’

The woman smiled complacently. This was easier for her to understand. ‘One time he sell, but now restaurant is too big.’ She spread her arms wide. ‘Too much vegetable. Too much fruit. Massi has small farm.’

More interesting snippets, Flora decided, as Jack retrieved his wallet to settle the bill. Franco had quarrelled badly with Silvio Fabbri and Fabbri was in business with Luigi Tasca’s father – another connection – but what, if anything, did either of them have to do with the theft of the painting or a missing woman?

Maybe Franco’s anger that night had nothing to do with what had happened at Santa Margherita. It was what Jack had argued at the time, that Massi’s fury could have been provoked by something completely different. Had that something different affected his family here? An injury to his mother or father, perhaps a business arrangement gone wrong? Tasca and Fabbri were closely intertwined, it seemed, and perhaps Franco had suspected questionable dealings between them, dealings that had prejudiced his own family’s livelihood.

Or perhaps it was simply that he’d found Fabbri out in something underhand – after all, how had a man like Silvio Fabbri, coming from very humble beginnings, managed to buy an expensive restaurant? If Franco had discovered that Fabbri was guilty of dishonesty, when all the time he’d been recommending the Cipriani’s guests to eat at La Zucca, he would have been very angry. He could have seen it as endangering the career of which he was so proud.

From this distance, it was unlikely they would ever discover what had sent Franco Massi into a towering rage that fateful evening, but the incident could still be the key to unravelling the reason for his death. And the key to finding his killer.

Perhaps a visit to the Tasca farm would give them the answers they needed. In her heart, though, Flora was doubtful.

* * *

The owner of the café had been clear in her directions: they were to take the first turning on the right from where they were sitting and follow the long lane until they came to the point that it snaked into a horseshoe. It was there they would find Enrico Tasca’s farm.

Jack had been prepared for a sticky and uncomfortable walk – the sun was now at its zenith – but the reality proved worse. By the time they had reached the horseshoe both of them were steaming and Flora’s usually bright copper waves had become a mass of damp frizz.

But, at least, they had arrived and, even better, despite it being Sunday, there was a man working in the field nearest the lane – a young man. Was he, Jack wondered, one of their ‘persons of interest’, as the inspector was fond of saying? Might he even be Matteo himself? They’d learned this morning that the boy worked on this farm.

Flora, it seemed, had no doubts, marching up to the gate and calling to the toiling figure. ‘Matteo Pretelli?’

Would he recognise her? he wondered. He crossed his fingers – they had met for only seconds in the basement of La Zucca where the lighting was extremely dim.

The young man, his oversized shirt clinging damply to limbs made powerful from years of labour, looked up from his planting. From where Jack was standing, there seemed no sign of recognition on his face.

‘Sì? ’ He sounded uncertain, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a none too clean handkerchief.

‘Could we have a word?’ Flora asked. ‘We’ve come from Venice and we’d love to speak to you.’

To Jack, that seemed a pretty inadequate explanation. Pretelli would have no clue as to who they were – at least he hoped not – or what their connection might be to any drama of which he’d been part. Nevertheless, the young man ambled towards them, perhaps not understanding Flora’s English, and propped himself against the gate.

‘We met Father Stephano Renzi in Venice,’ she began, ‘and he told us about you.’

‘ Sì? ’ Suspicion had crept into his voice at the mention of the priest’s name.

‘He said how you often came to visit your aunt, even when she had moved to Venice, and what a good cook she was.’

Matteo smiled slowly. ‘A good cook,’ he repeated, holding on to words he’d evidently recognised. ‘She is good cook.’

The present tense, Jack noted, though that might simply be the young man’s English. Unless…he believed his aunt was still alive, either because he hadn’t been told of her kidnapping or because he knew where she was.

‘Your aunt is missing. Sua zia è scomparsa ,’ he said, plunging head first into difficult territory, and hoping he hadn’t mangled the Italian too badly. ‘Did you know?’

He nodded. ‘It is not good,’ he said in English.

‘You have no idea where she is?’ Flora asked.

‘ Dove? No.’

‘And your friend, Luigi, would he know perhaps? He visits your aunt with you, we’ve heard.’

‘You know Luigi?’ He hadn’t answered Flora’s question, Jack saw.

‘We understand the two of you have been friends since you were children.’

Matteo’s smile was genuine. ‘Luigi my best friend,’ he stated proudly.

‘Even though he went to prison.’ Flora was stepping on dangerous ground.

‘You know this? How you know this? ? stato un errore . A mistake. Luigi is good person. I see him in prison, and now he makes no more mistake.’

‘He doesn’t work here with you?’

‘One day, two days.’

‘And the rest of the time?’ Flora was thinking, Jack knew, of how easy it would be for Luigi to spend time in Venice, time plotting the theft of a valuable painting.

Matteo shrugged, a gesture that suggested Luigi did little work or, when he did, it was on a casual basis. Plenty of time then to get into mischief.

A splutter of an engine behind them had Jack turn to see a large man in overalls jump from a muddy and much dented Land Rover.

‘Qual è il problema? ’ he asked Matteo.

‘No problem.’

‘ Poi torna al lavoro .’

Matteo scowled. It seemed he was being ordered to get back to work. The red-faced man turned to them. ‘ Siete interessati nella mia fattoria? ’

‘We like your farm,’ Jack confirmed in English. ‘We are visiting Asolo from Venice.’

‘ Conoscono Don Stephano ,’ Matteo added, pausing in his work.

The mention of Stephano Renzi had the man’s shoulders stiffen, but he held out his hand to them and introduced himself. ‘Enrico Tasca.’

Flora gave him her most dazzling smile. ‘It’s so good to meet you, Signor Tasca. We were hoping that we might. Hoping that perhaps you could help us.’

‘Help? What do you mean?’

‘Filomena Pretelli, Matteo’s aunt, is missing and Don Stephano is very worried. We wondered if she was here. She lived in Asolo for many years, we believe.’

‘She not here,’ he said curtly.

‘Don Stephano thinks that maybe she has had a breakdown,’ Flora pursued.

‘ Un crollo ,’ Jack added quickly, trying to follow Flora’s lead. ‘Items have been stolen from Santa Margherita and the signora has become very upset. Did you know this?’

The man jiggled the Land Rover’s keys in his hands, passing them from one to the other. At length, he said, ‘Silvio tell me when I go to Venice. From church! It is bad.’

He seemed shocked, Jack thought. Sincerely. If it had been his own son stealing from Santa Margherita, Enrico Tasca appeared ignorant of it.

‘Silvio?’ Flora queried. ‘Signor Fabbri? We went to his restaurant, La Zucca. The food is very good.’

The man nodded. ‘We grow.’ He pointed to the spread of fields in front of them. ‘Good vegetables. Good fruit.’

‘I’m sure. But Signor Fabbri – he has no farm of his own?’

A slight smile passed across the weather-beaten face as he pocketed the keys and held out a pair of grimy hands, a testament to years of rural labour.

‘Not for Silvio,’ he said, shaking his head.

That seemed to signal the end of the conversation. There was little more they could ask and prolonging the encounter would seem to solve nothing – they would be met by blank faces and a shrug of the shoulders. If either Matteo or Enrico Tasca were aware of Filomena’s whereabouts, neither of them were saying.

But neither of them, Jack realised suddenly, appeared unduly worried. Yet this was a woman that both Matteo and Enrico’s son had been close to, in this town and later in Venice.

Flimsy grounds for suspicion, he had to admit, but the connection between the Tasca farm and the Venice restaurant was more than simply a commercial arrangement, he was sure, yet no matter how many questions they’d asked, it had remained murky. Deliberately so?