A Deadly Paradise (10 page)

“Perhaps luck had nothing to do with it.”

Elena jumped on Cenni’s suggestion. “We’d have to assume the killer is someone who lives in the square and knows Signora Cecchetti’s schedule. That would eliminate Molin”—Elena refused to grant her a title—“and anyone else who doesn’t live here. That’s too easy.”

“Not necessarily. Baudler’s lived here for more than a year. She would have seen her neighbor leave the last Wednesday of every month, dressed to kill. From what I’ve learned of Baudler, she made it a habit to laugh at her neighbors. She probably told everyone she knew about the spy who loved her, and the single day a month that she was free of her. I don’t think the signora’s visiting schedule will help us find the killer; it was just an observation.”

“Here’s something else she told me which should be of use. The German was having trouble with her car. On Tuesday, it wouldn’t start, and the pillar of salt says Baudler gave her car the finger before giving up and returning to her house. I guess that was her primary mode of expression.”

Cenni laughed. “I may yet get to like her. At least she knew how to express herself in style.”

“Some style! Anyway, the signora claims that the German didn’t leave the house again on Tuesday, and that her Volkswagen was still in the same place when the taxi picked the old lady up at eleven to take her to her sister’s.”

“The neighbor found the body at five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. The postmortem indicates that Baudler had been dead some five hours, give or take an hour, when Falchi examined the body at eight. Counting back, let’s say Baudler was killed between two and four in the afternoon. So what happened to her car? Did she drive it somewhere, say a garage, and leave it there? And if so, how did she get back home? Or did the garage pick it up after the old lady left at eleven? We should have heard something by now from one of the garages in the area. Ask around if there are any local mechanics who fix cars on the side. When you have time,” he added, noting Elena’s raised eyebrows “What about the other people living in the square? Nobody saw anything?”

“Nothing, according to the carabinieri. In addition to the German, the old lady, and the neighbor who found the body, there are two couples living in the square: a man and his wife who work in Perugia in the same law office; and an accountant, who also works in Perugia, and his wife, who works in a shop in Assisi. The husband drops her off every morning and picks her up at night. They’re all out of their houses by nine and none of them returns until after six.”

“And the German’s other visitors in the last few weeks: did the history of the world take down their license plate numbers as well?”

“Oh, yeah. An elderly gentleman, very distinguished-looking according to the signora. She likes him because he bows to her when he sees her sitting at the window, but mainly because he never parks in her spot. BMW, German plates. I called it in to Marinella two hours ago.”

“So, what else did she tell you?”

“Remember the medical book yesterday, the page that fell open to a description of hermaphrodites!”

“Elena, I wish you’d stop doing drum rolls every time you have something new to tell me. Just get on with it.”

“All right, then. Anita Tangassi is the hermaphrodite; and, according to Signora Cecchetti, she killed her mother, and maybe even her uncle. Is that sufficiently direct for you, Dottor Cenni?”

15

ANITA TANGASSI WAS inside the kitchen of the pink house checking through the cabinets when Cenni and Elena arrived back from lunch. She was fifteen minutes early and, from Elena’s point of view, shouldn’t have been in the house in the first place. She found it impossible to hide her displeasure:

“Signora, who let you inside?”

“I let myself in with my own key. It’s my house.”

Cenni was inclined to agree, and he also didn’t want to antagonize her at the beginning of the interview—plenty of time for that later—so he asked if she’d found everything in order. That was a mistake. She snatched up the green-and-white-checkered cloth that had been covering the kitchen table and flung it to the floor.

“There, ring marks! I warned her about using coasters. And look at the scratches on the table legs. It’s that cat of hers. I hope there’s no one expecting me to return her deposit.”

While she was throwing a minor tantrum, Cenni had a chance to observe her. She was thirty-nine, but seemed younger, perhaps because of the tantrum. She had strong, attractive features: long nose, full lips, white straight teeth, and dark eyes set wide apart. Her hair, which was black and curly, framed her face nicely. She was taller than average and had large bones. Her dress was simple, straight black skirt and white cotton shirt, sensible shoes. She had very shapely legs. As he observed her, he realized that he was looking for telltale signs that she was a hermaphrodite. He also realized that he was a fool. He’d always objected to putting labels on people, and here he was doing it to Anita Tangassi. The term
hermaphrodite
was outmoded, a way of describing a dozen or more different genital or reproductive abnormalities. He’d recently read a long article in one of the more erudite magazines about the surprising number of people who were born each year with ambiguous genitals: one of every two-thousand births, the article had said. In a small town like Paradiso with everyone’s life at the disposal of every malicious gossip, where the slightest difference could be cause for ostracism, Anita Tangassi’s life must have been pure hell. He wasn’t surprised at the tantrum.

When they finally began the interview, Cenni was quick to reassure the woman that the purpose of “their talk” was to help the police understand more about Signora Baudler so they could find her killer. In no way did he mean to suggest that she was implicated in her tenant’s murder. He also informed her that they were taping the interview.

“Standard practice,” he said, reassuringly.

“
Certo!
” Tangassi replied, seemingly at ease with the police if a bit defensive about their commandeering her house: “Three days now! And I need to prepare it for another tenant. She’s only paid up through May and this is already the first of June.”

Elena jumped in, stopping Cenni before he could begin, to ask about the keys. “How many are there besides the one you let yourself in with?”

“Four in total. I have two and I gave her two, unless she had some new ones made, but I doubt it. You need a card to make replacements, and I don’t give that to anyone. And I want her keys back. They’re expensive.”

Elena noticed the frown on Cenni’s face—he hated interruptions—and she spoke up again, this time to him:

“You told me last night to make a note about the keys.”

“So I did. How many keys do the police have?”

“Just the one.”

“Let’s see if we can come up with the other one for Signora Tangassi,” he said, and began again:

“Signora Tangassi, after we finish talking, I’d appreciate it if you’d accompany Inspector Ottaviani and me through the house to indicate if anything is missing or if you notice anything out of place.”

“But I did that with the carabinieri on Wednesday evening,” she protested.

“Yes, I know, but it would help us as well. I’d like to focus on the cellar where she was killed. But before we do that, I have a few questions”. Cenni, in his long career in homicide, had encountered many different types of personality— in actuality, as many as the total number of witnesses and suspects he had interviewed in those years. Each demanded a different approach; and, within a few minutes of meeting Anita Tangassi, he’d decided to try shock. It didn’t work.

“Lorenzo Vannicelli, the neighbor who found the body, did he kill her?” Cenni began.

“I don’t think so,” she responded, phlegmatically. “They didn’t like each other’s cats. But wouldn’t it be easier to kill the cat?”

“We’re talking about her, not her cat.”

She shrugged. “No reason to kill her that I know of.”

“And you, signora, did you kill her?”

She pursed her lips. “You said just a minute ago that I wasn’t implicated.”

“I ask this question of everyone concerned in a murder case.”

“The exact opposite. Because of this murder, I can’t get into my own house. My realtor told me a week ago that the German was planning to find another place to live, and I was delighted. You can ask him if you don’t believe me. She refused to pay for garbage pickup, and you can see what
she
did to my furniture.”

Garbage pickup, her furniture! Cenni was amazed at Signora Tangassi’s ability to focus strictly on her own concerns.

“If I were to tell you that we have witnesses who claim to have seen you two arguing, what would you say?” “That nasty old bat across the street probably told you that. She sits at her front window all day and minds everyone else’s business but her own. If she doesn’t see something interesting to talk about, she makes it up. I haven’t been inside my own house since the month after
she
moved in.
She
mailed me the rent on the first day of every month, and when I had utility bills, I’d put them in the mail. Every now and then, if I were walking by the house, I’d slip them under the door.”

“You’re saying you haven’t been inside your house in more than a year?” Cenni responded incredulously.

“I pass by a few times a week, particularly in spring. It’s the shortest distance between where I live and my grove of olive trees. And sometimes I visit Lorenzo. But if that old bat across the square says I’ve been inside this house, she’s lying!”

Cenni had to admire the way in which she’d skirted around his statement that she’d been seen arguing with the German. He tried another tack:

“Signora Cecchetti was away on the day of the murder. It’s rather a coincidence that someone murdered Signora Baudler on the only day that your neighbor was not sitting at her window. Perhaps the killer was someone who knew that Signora Cecchetti was not at home the last Wednesday of every month.”

“Which is everyone. She’s been doing it since I was a child, and she makes a production of it too, let me tell you. You’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to notice.”

“What about the back door, signora? Do you have keys for that as well?”

“The door’s locked, and the key’s been missing for years. I told her if she wanted the lock changed, I’d take care of it, but it would cost a hundred euros. She refused! And if you’ve seen the jungle out back, you’d know she never used that door. There’s a dirt road in the back of the house, but it’s been overgrown for years. Nobody uses it any more.”

“And there’s a large spider web over the door at the moment,” Cenni commented, looking at Elena as he said it.

Elena, grinning, responded with a prepared speech: “Spiders are well known to spin their webs quickly and with great diligence. Two, maybe three hours to spin a web the size we found down in the cellar. If, however, the web has bugs and flies in it, this may indicate it’s been there for a while. Or, it may not.”

“You’ve been doing your spider homework, Inspector,” Cenni said, smiling. “How many bugs does a spider eat in a day?”

For the first time since they’d found her in the kitchen checking out the cabinets, Anita Tangassi showed some softening of expression, even, he thought, a hint of a smile. He’d been waiting for just such a moment:

“Signora, your name is very familiar to me. Are you the Anita Tangassi who found the body of her best friend in 1978?”

Tangassi’s body stiffened. The look she gave Cenni was venomous. “I don’t want to talk about that, and I don’t have to. Lorenzo said I never had to talk about it again.” She sounded and looked very much like a recalcitrant child.

Cenni decided it would be unwise to continue this line of questioning, although he was even more convinced that Anita Tangassi knew something about the Lanese murders beyond what she’d admitted to in her original interview in 1978. He asked her a few more questions about Jarvinia Baudler.

“Did Signora Baudler leave her door unlocked when she was at home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did Signora Baudler have many visitors?”

“I don’t know. Ask the nosy bat across the street.”

“Did Signora Baudler pay her bills on time?”

“The ones she paid, she paid on time.”

“Did Signora Baudler tell you why she was leaving?”

“
She
didn’t tell me; she told my realtor.”

“Did Signora Baudler have anyone living with her?”

With this question, he touched a chord.

“When I rented the house to her, she claimed she was alone. Then, as soon as I signed a lease, she brought in another woman. Black, too. Probably illegal. Going around telling everyone
she
was a diplomat to impress them. A criminal, more likely!”

“Did she get on with the people in town?” he asked, fairly sure the answer would be
no.
He was surprised.

“With the old men she did; she was always buttering them up, buying them grappa. Even the drunks, telling dirty jokes, making up lies.”

He’d kept the delicate question to last. “Signora Baudler’s clitoris was removed after her death. What do you think about that?” he asked, phrasing the question to elicit some type of response beyond her usual abbreviated answer.

“It’s disgusting! Filthy-minded! I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, and turned away from his gaze.

He concluded from her response that she’d already known about the mutilation. Her reaction was one of disgust, not of surprise. Whether she was the person responsible was still to be determined.

The significant facts that Cenni had elicited from Anita Tangassi were her obvious dislike of Jarvinia Baudler and her extreme reluctance to talk about the earlier murders. He found the latter unusual. Most people can’t shut up about the crimes they’ve witnessed, and the more gruesome the crime, the more they need to talk. But his experience with children was limited, and he acknowledged to himself that children might react differently, even thirty years later as adults.

Touring the house with Signora Tangassi was a lesson in parsimony. No matter which floor they visited, she had a complaint, and it always involved money and what it would cost her to repair the damage, none of which was apparent to either Cenni or Elena. In the cellar she really let loose. Every empty bottle and dirty jam jar was counted; every half-empty can of paint was lifted to measure its contents; and every box was checked for tampering.