Good Blood (31 page)

“I don’t blame you,” Gideon said, his mouth already watering. Neither of them had had lunch or dinner, and the grilled meat and rich, wine-barrel smells of the restaurant were making his knees weak. “That looks delicious, what is it?”

“Angela recommended it. It’s wonderful. Risotto with sausage, tomato, Marsala-”

“God, I need some of that too.” His signaled the waiter for some for himself, tore off a chunk of the bread in the basket that was on the table, and demolished it in two bites.

“I understand it’s better if you chew,” Julie said.

“Too hungry to chew.” He reached for her glass, half-full of red wine from a bottle beside the bread basket. “Mind?”

“Help yourself. It’s local-Barbacalo. Ever hear of it?”

“Nope.” He took a swallow, savored the surprisingly heavy, concentrated heat of it, and then had a second, longer swallow. He could feel it slither all the way down his gullet and sit in a warm, comforting pool in his stomach. “Hoo, boy, that’s better. Red wine and crusty Italian bread, nature’s perfect foods.” Grabbing another chunk of bread, he took the time to butter this one, bit gratefully into it, and relaxed with a sigh. “Well, I imagine you have a few questions.”

“A few thousand is more like it.”

“Okay, where do I start? Well, first, the reason we know it was Francesca is that they found Big Paolo, the guy that tried to strangle me and was also one of the kidnappers, and when Caravale interrogated him, Paolo was very clear about who hired him for both jobs: Francesca de Grazia; no one else. Vincenzo was to be kept in the dark. That came as a surprise to Caravale because he’d pretty much settled on Vincenzo in his mind. Me, too, for that matter. But you see, Francesca had been milking money from the company for years-”

“No, no, no, that’s all very interesting, but I want to know about Phil! Start with Phil. I mean, the day before yesterday he was simply good old Phil Boyajian, and then yesterday the two of you come back from Gignese with a story that he’s the illegitimate son of this bizarre woman who doesn’t even know his father’s name, and just when I start getting used to that, suddenly tonight, he’s the padrone of Isola de Grazia?”

“In a word… yes.”

“How did you come up with that? Was that your ‘crazy idea’?”

“That was part of it.”

Without being asked, the waiter had brought another glass, and Gideon poured himself some more wine. He was unwinding by the second. “But as to how I came up with it… you know, it’s always hard to trace your thought processes after the fact, but I think it was something like this.” He chewed his bread, sipped his wine, arranged his thoughts. “Do you remember my mentioning that the Gaetano Pini Institute came up at the consiglio? Dr. Luzzatto was talking about it.”

“Can’t say that I do, no.”

“Well, I probably forgot. There really wasn’t any reason to tell you at the time. But it stuck in my mind. Do you know what the Gaetano Pini Institute is?”

“Not a clue.”

“No, I ordered the risotto alla monzese, ” Gideon said in Italian to the waiter, who had just set an antipasto plate-salami, prosciutto, fried mozzarella, marinated vegetables-in front of him, along with some more bread.

The waiter shrugged. “The risotto, it takes a little while. You look hungry. You want me to take it back?”

“No!” Gideon said, making a grab for it before the man could follow through. “And thank you very much.”

He made a start on the sausage before continuing. “The Gaetano Pini Institute is an orthopedic clinic specializing in ambulatory joint diseases. It’s associated with the University of Milan, and the reason that I know about it is that this old professor of mine did a year of post-doc in the rheumatology department there and he had a wonderful set of slides from it that he used to show. Anyway, thinking about old O’Malley made me think about his work on Perthes disease-Legg-Calve-Perthes disease. You know what Perthes disease is?”

“Gideon, dear,” Julie said with a sweet smile, “could you possibly just explain without asking me questions you know I don’t know the answer to?”

“Was that what I was doing?”

“That’s what you always do. I think it’s a pedagogical technique. I’m sure it’s very effective in class.”

“Sorry about that,” he said, laughing. “Pedagogical habits die hard. Anyway, one of the things about Perthes disease-which, between us, I had completely forgotten-is that its effects can sometimes be confused with the aftereffects of a broken femoral neck. So what naturally jumped into my mind at that point was that-”

“-the injury you thought you’d found in Domenico’s hip-the reason for his walking with a limp-might not be an injury at all, but the result of Perthes disease.”

“Exactly. That’s why I wanted to go back and look at the bones again. Well, the bones had been sent off to Rome, but they had a good set of photographs, which I looked at, but I still wasn’t positive, so I sent them off to O’Malley for diagnosis.”

“And was it? Perthes disease?”

“Sure enough. The call I got at the villa was from him. Perthes disease for sure. And that settled it. That was what Francesca was afraid I’d find. That was why they tried to get rid of the bones. That was why they tried to get rid of me. It had nothing at all to do with the cause of death. Ahh,” he said as the steaming plate of risotto was set down in front of him.

The waiter had also brought Julie’s veal cutlet. Thoughtfully, while Gideon dug in, she picked up her knife and fork and began to cut off a piece of meat, but then shook her head and put the utensils down. “No. Wait a minute. What did it settle? What does all this have to do with Phil? What does it have to do with anything?”

“Patience,” he counseled between bites. “There’s some pretty intricate deduction involved here. What it has to do with is Phil’s limp.”

“His limp? I wouldn’t call that a limp. He just has a sort of a. .. snag to his walk.”

“What he has, not that I ever gave it much thought before, is a very mild form of what’s known as a Trendelenburg gait, or a gluteus medius lurch, which is what you get with inadequately functioning hip abductors in one leg. The affected leg tends to be held in an externally rotated posture and the joint itself is kept flexed-”

“Are you saying that Phil has Perthes disease too?”

“Yes. The operation apparently corrected it to the point where the limp is barely noticeable. But you’re getting ahead of me now. See, hearing that he had an operation when he was five got me thinking about what kind of condition he might have had, and one of the first things that naturally came to mind was Perthes disease.”

“Why ‘naturally’?”

“Because, even though it’s rare, it is the most common of the osteochondroses, and it usually shows up right around that age-five, six, seven-and unlike most other joint diseases, it’s unilateral more often than not-and Phil, like Domenico, is only affected on one side. Umm, this is really good risotto. Now, then: once Perthes disease started knocking around in my brain, it got me thinking about Vincenzo-”

“Vincenzo? Does Vincenzo have it too? I didn’t notice any kind of limp.”

“No, he doesn’t have one, and that’s what struck me.” Sated enough to take a breather now, he put down his own knife and fork, leaned forward, and told her what O’Malley had told him. “The genetics of Perthes disease are obscure and very complex, but in general it’s inherited, and if it shows up twice among close relatives, you can bet it’s inherited, so-”

“So if anybody had it, it should have been Vincenzo,” Julie said slowly, “not Phil. Only it’s the other way around.”

“Right. Ergo: it’s Phil who’s Domenico’s son, not Vincenzo.”

“Wow.” Mechanically, she started eating again. “But…” She chewed and swallowed. “Francesca is Domenico’s daughter, isn’t she? Why doesn’t she have it?”

“Because it doesn’t always show up, and when it does, it’s five to one in boys as opposed to girls.”

“Oh. No, wait, there’s a big problem here. What about that whole story that his so-called father told? About how Vincenzo was really Emma’s baby, and Phil was bought from that woman, that Gia, for five hundred dollars as a… a consolation prize?”

“The story was true. Only he reversed Phil and Vincenzo. Phil was the baby. Vincenzo was the consolation prize.”

“Gideon, the more you explain, the more confused I get. I am getting really frustrated here. What reason would Franco have to lie like that?”

The waiter came to take Gideon’s plate and to ask what he wanted for his second course. “I’ll have another plate of this,” Gideon told him, earning a tolerant shake of the waiter’s head. These Americans.

“He wasn’t lying, Julie. Emma fooled them both-Franco and Domenico. I’m doing a little surmising here, but what I figure is that her maternal hormones kicked in as she got into her pregnancy, and she didn’t want to give her own baby up-her own baby being Phil. So, overcome with remorse, she works out a plan with Gia, who’s also at about the same stage: a switch. When the babies are born, she’ll give Gia’s child-”

“Vincenzo?”

He nodded. “Vincenzo-to Domenico, leaving her own child-”

“Phil.”

“Yes, Phil-with Gia for the time being. Then she finesses Domenico into suggesting that she adopt a child-and paying for it-and she pretends to adopt Gia’s son… who’s really her own, her own and Domenico’s.”

“And how do you finesse someone into suggesting that you adopt a child?”

“That I don’t know, but I don’t doubt it’s possible.”

“Well, maybe… but wouldn’t Franco know-”

“Franco wasn’t there for the last month.”

“But the mother-the other mother, Gia- she seemed to think Phil was hers.”

“Julie, you didn’t get to meet this woman. She’s so zonked out she’d believe I was her kid if Franco told her so.”

Julie had eaten only half of her cotoletta, but with a shake of her head, she pushed the plate aside. “Well, I suppose it’s all possible, but ‘surmising’ is putting it mildly, wouldn’t you say? You’re taking quite a leap here.”

“No, I don’t think so. I haven’t told you yet about what happened when I went up to Gignese this afternoon to look at Luzzatto’s records.”

She laughed. “You’ve had yourself quite a day, haven’t you?”

Over his second helping of the risotto Gideon told her about Luzzatto’s journal, with its angst-ridden references to the mysterious “secret buried in my heart” that was kept from Domenico for twenty-seven years, and then finally revealed to him… two days before he was killed.

Julie listened, sipping her second glass of wine and nibbling at a cheese tray they’d ordered. “I think I finally see where you’re going. Luzzatto was in on the baby switch too, correct? That Vincenzo wasn’t the real son-that was the secret. And when he finally told Domenico, Francesca must have found out too, and to prevent him from disinheriting Vincenzo, she… No? I’m not right?” she said when she saw Gideon shaking his head.

“You’re almost right. That was the secret, all right, but Luzzatto wasn’t in on the switch. He only found out years later.”

“How can you possibly know that, if it wasn’t in the journal?”

“Luzzatto told me, or rather his medical records did. See, twenty-seven years ago wouldn’t have been when the babies were born. Twenty-seven years ago would have been 1966, five years after that. And in 1966, according to his files, he took five-year-old Filiberto Ungaretti in to the Gaetano Pini Institute for an operation to correct an incipient case of…” He waited.

“Perthes disease!” Julie said. “And since he was also Domenico’s doctor, he already knew that Domenico had it, so he came to the same conclusion you did: Emma had pulled a fast one to keep her own baby. Phil was really his son, not Vincenzo.”

“Now you’ve got it. He then kept it to himself all those years, but when he thought he was dying, he went to Domenico with it, and Domenico, with his unshakable belief in the importance of good blood, probably would have disinherited Vincenzo-”

“Hold on. So why didn’t Vincenzo kill him, then? No, I didn’t put that right. I meant, why would Francesca be the one to murder him over that? She was still his legitimate daughter, wasn’t she? It wouldn’t affect her. And for that matter, why was she skimming money? Why would she have had Achille kidnapped? Why did she need so much money anyway?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know which?”

“Any of it, any of the ‘whys.’ Neither does Caravale at this point. Francesca’s the only one who knows, and she wasn’t exactly forthcoming at the police station. She’s a pretty tough cookie, Julie. She just might never explain. We might never find out.”

They found out the following Sunday, four days later, back home in Port Angeles. Phil had come in from Italy on a red-eye at 7:50 A.M. and had driven straight out to Port Angeles, having promised to fill them in on everything. The idea had been to take a picnic brunch down to Dungeness Spit, the hump-backed, six-mile ribbon of sand and driftwood that angled out into the stormy strait like a sheltering arm, protecting the quiet waters of Dungeness Bay within its curve. It was Phil’s favorite spot on the Peninsula, and he thought the salt air, the sense of space, the cries of seals and gulls, and the grand, ever-present backdrop of the Olympics might help him decompress.

But Sunday, like the previous three days, came up rainy and glowering, a typical Pacific Northwest spring morning without a “sunbreak” in sight, and so they’d settled for a brunch of scrambled eggs, lox, bagels, and cream cheese at home instead. Phil had been taciturn and a little grumpy when he’d walked in, and Gideon’s greeting of “How goes it, padrone?” hadn’t helped matters. “This is nothing to joke about,” had been the querulous reply.

But a bagel sandwich of lox and cream cheese smeared with cherry jam (“That’s the way we Armenians like it,” he’d said defensively. “You want to make something of it?”) had helped him unwind, and with the pouring of his second cup of coffee, he began to open up.