A Few Drops of Blood by Jan Merete Weiss Read Free Book Online Page B

were the people Natalia had sworn to protect: alcoholic Valentino; Mr. Prava; the cobbler in his dim shop next door with a pile of broken shoes on his worktable; a couple hugging in the shadow of the church, the woman’s lilac-colored bodice stitched with tiny mirrors that pulsed shards of colored light where Natalia walked.
    What could she realistically do? The system had ruled since before she was born. Maybe Pino was correct in getting out before he ended up a cynic. Or worse: in a
camp ed coj
, “cabbage patch,” street slang for a grave.
    Natalia crossed the road. A baby, wearing pink ice cream on her face, sat in her father’s lap as he navigated their motorbike through traffic. An old lady yelled at them from the sidewalk. He braked, handed the baby to a woman who kissed it several times and got on the bike behind him, the babe in her lap as they sped off.
    Two nuns scurried into a liquor shop. A florist arranged a bucket of tuber roses as several pigeons swooped from St. Francis’s bronze shoulders and fluttered overhead. Finally, Natalia reached her destination and rang Stefano Grappi’s intercom bell.
    She surprised him, but he was gracious, inviting her up. He met her at the door and ushered her into his living room. She sat and opened her dog-eared notebook.
    “We’re pressed for time, Mr. Grappi. Do you mind if I just begin?”
    “Not at all. I’m kind of anxious to have the investigation over myself.”
    “Vincente and Carlo Bagnatti, were they having an affair? Do you know?”
    “They slept together briefly a long time ago, way before he and I were a couple. Vincente was experimenting, just coming out. Bagnatti was older, experienced—charming,as Vincente put it. Not the viper the public later came to know.”
    “You knew him?”
    “Only by reputation.”
    “There was nothing between them more recently?”
    Stefano closed his eyes momentarily. “I don’t know anymore.”
    “Did Vincente’s collection include firearms?” Natalia said.
    “Yes, several. I don’t know if they work. He was always buying war souvenirs on the Internet. A year ago he stopped showing me his acquisitions. They didn’t really interest me.”
    “Are any weapons missing from his collection?”
    “Not unless Vincente removed them himself. They should all be there. No one has entered the ‘War Room,’ as he called it. No one ever did without an invitation. Only Beatrice. I’m not even certain I know where he keeps—kept—the key.”
    “You didn’t find that odd? The locked room?”
    “Not really. Vincente is fastidious about his possessions—about everything. Plus, he does have some very valuable articles.”
    “Beatrice is?”
    “Beatrice Santini. She comes in to clean for him twice a month.”
    “I’ll need to speak with her.”
    “She lives in the Rione Mater Dei. I have a number somewhere. But you can find her at the Hotel Neapolis.”
    “On Via Giudice?”
    “She works there most days, yes.”
    The Neapolis Hotel was a floor of rooms within a grand old
palazzo
six stories high. Outside, a minuscule plaza held anantiquity: a Greek obelisk that daily drew visitors to the tiny square. Natalia took the stairs to the second floor and struggled against a heavy glass door to gain entry. The foyer was quiet, most guests being already out, traipsing through Pompeii or gasping at the art at the Capodimonte Museum.
    The desk clerk’s post at the front desk stood empty. A half-sandwich rested on a plate beside leather-bound menus for nearby restaurants. A case behind the counter held art books available for perusal or purchase.
    The clerk returned and directed Natalia down a hall, where she found Beatrice Santini folding and stacking towels on a housekeeping cart. A stunning woman, her taut face and chiseled features resembled Greta Garbo’s. The gravelly timbre of her voice, too, as they conversed in Italian.
    Had Stefano and Vincente seemed like a happy couple?
    “Happy?”
    “Did they argue a