Page 6 of Murder in Verona

I thought that a bit presumptuous but I made no comment. Instead, I asked about something that had been bothering me.

‘And Rodolfo’s father? I see that Rodolfo used the Argento family name, rather than adopting his father’s. Was that for a reason?’

For a second or two, I saw that same expression of grief cross her face. ‘I married late. Rodolfo was born when I was over forty, but his father died only five years later.’ She glanced up at me and I could see the emotion in her eyes. ‘Lung cancer. There was nothing they could do.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that. Was he involved with the agricultural business as well?’

‘No, he was an opera singer. He wasn’t a top-level singer like Rodolfo but I like to think that somewhere in his DNA was the origin of my son’s amazing talent.’

‘And what was his name?’

‘Zoltan Nyisztor, he was Hungarian.’ She spelled the name out to me. ‘To be honest, it was for that reason that I kept Rodolfo with the Argento name. I could never think of my son as Hungarian.’

‘Forgive me for returning to the will, but did your brother’s children who run the company benefit from your son’s will? You mentioned that Rodolfo owned a one-third share in the company. Presumably, that transferred to them.’

Her eyes hardened. ‘Why should they get that? They already had their jobs for life.’ There was a distinctly bitter note in her voice and I could imagine how frustrating it must have been for her to see the company handed over to somebody that she deemed not to have been up to the job. ‘Rodolfo’s share came to me.’

This was potentially fascinating. It sounded as though Violetta had done much better from her son’s death than his cousins, who had in all probability expected to inherit his share in the business –all thanks to the provisions of the will she herself had drawn up. ‘How old are his cousins?’

She had to stop and think for a moment. ‘Alfredo must be forty-two now, while Rosina is two years younger.’

‘And they got nothing in your son’s will?’

‘Nothing, and they didn’t deserve anything.’ That hard look was back on her face again.

I did a bit of thinking. Violetta had provided me with the names of the two people who had stood to do very well out of her son’s death: the wife and the agent. Alessia, the wife, had apparently inherited a hefty sum and the agent a million euros, which would have been a hefty sum to me and quite possibly to him as well. Even if Violetta might consider a million euros a paltry amount, his agent might have seen things differently and I had seen murders committed for far less in my time, so he definitely remained on my list of suspects. But there were also two others – the cousins, Alfredo and Rosina – who had probably hoped to inherit Rodolfo’s share of the company, thus ridding themselves of the overbearing presence of Violetta. And this was before we even got into any question of rivals, enemies, jilted lovers – of whom there appeared to be no shortage – jealous husbands, or other people with a grudge. It looked as though I was going to have my hands full investigating the suspicious death of the famous tenor.

Any further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the housekeeper, who informed us that lunch was served.

4

SUNDAY LUNCHTIME

We sat down to lunch in a huge, wood-panelled dining room housing a table longer than Violetta’s car. She and I perched bizarrely at one end and the highly polished mahogany tabletop stretched away from us like a lane in a bowling alley. It could have held another twenty people comfortably. Although the temperature outside in the sunshine was now oppressively high, in here, protected by thick, stone walls, we were remarkably comfortable even without air con.

Considering how tiny Violetta was, I was blown away by the variety and volume of the food on offer and the amount she managed to consume. First, there was a huge platter of sliced ham, fennel-flavouredfinocchionaand three other types of salami, accompanied by fresh figs and slices of luscious, orange-fleshed melon. Together with this, we had slices of the wonderful unsalted Tuscan bread smothered in chopped tomatoes and olive oil, and the housekeeper opened a bottle of very good Chianti Classico. This was followed bypappardelle alla lepre, the rich, gamey sauce extremely tasty, and I had to hold my hands over my plate to prevent the housekeeper from piling it high with even more pasta.I like my food – not as much as Oscar, of course – but even I have my limits.

While we ate, we continued to talk, and I learned that Rodolfo Argento’s death had taken place only a couple of kilometres from his home. As far as I could work out without a map, this was in the hills to the north of Verona, only a short drive from the historic city. I asked how long he had lived there and the answer was informative.

‘The villa up there has been in the family since the end of the nineteenth century. My family is originally from Verona, but we have a number of houses dotted around Italy – in the high Alps, at the coast, and of course this villa here. I moved down here fifty years ago and I’ve stayed ever since.’ She shot me a little smile. ‘There’s something about Tuscany.’

I pointed towards my plate. ‘And Tuscan food. You have an amazing cook.’

‘That’s Teresa, she’s a wonder. She’s been working here since she was seventeen and I couldn’t ask for a more perfect housekeeper.’

I nodded in agreement. ‘You’re very lucky. As for Tuscany more generally, I totally agree. I love everything about this part of the world.’ I went on to query her a bit more about the family business and she elaborated.

‘Like I told you, the family business is agricultural machinery and bulk agricultural products. We import and export everything from tractors and combine harvesters to milking machines and fertiliser. We also export Italian fruit and vegetables all over Europe. We’ve recently moved into wine as well and sales are developing nicely.’ She then added almost casually, ‘The company, Agri Argento, is the biggest in its field in Europe.’

Suddenly all the houses and all the millions were explained. ‘And where’s the company based? Verona?’

‘Yes, the head office is there and we have a number of warehouses on the outskirts of the city, plus others dotted around Italy. My brother’s children, Alfredo and Rosina, have always lived in Verona. Alfredo married about ten years ago and he’s still married, although I’m not wild about his choice of wife.’

‘Oh, why’s that?’

She waved the question away. ‘Oh, I don’t know, there’s just something about Ingrid, but maybe it’s just because she’s never liked me.’ Considering Violetta’s low opinion of her son’s wife and now her nephew’s wife, I wondered whether this antipathy might be more a reflection on the old lady’s lack of tolerance than the fault of the younger wives.

‘And the sister, Rosina, is she married?’

---