The Kitchen Affair

I was dining at La Perla Rosa, on the cusp of sticking a fork into my fileja alla Tropeana, when I heard an argument erupt. At first I thought it might just be a lively exchange such as you might hear anywhere while passing any kitchen, bar or piazza in Southern Italy—perhaps just a vigorous exchange of witticisms? It soon became apparent, though, that this was something more serious. All the waiters had abandoned their posts and were heading into the kitchen to see what was up.

A raspy woman’s voice burst out, “Well, why don’t you do it yourself then?”

Another voice, thin and querulous, said something unintelligible.

Other voices joined in in support of the thin voice.

The woman’s voice then bellowed, “I’ve had it! You can all go straight to hell!”

An impressive figure rocketed out into the dining area. She was a thick, muscular type with a shaved head and a lion’s head tattoo on the back of her neck. Her expression was thunderous. As she walked, she tore her white apron off and threw it on the floor.

Another woman rushed after her. I recognized her as my waitress. She must have been about thirty but wore thick glasses, had a big gap between her front teeth and had a softness that gave her a vulnerable, childlike appearance. The only thing contradicting this impression was the tattoo on her forearm, the same lion’s head that was on the back of the cook’s neck. The waitress stumbled over a chair and fell, then got up, picked up the discarded apron and went as far as the door of the restaurant, looking wistfully out into the night, after the disappearing cook.

The next person to emerge from the kitchen was a woman who looked like the archetypal Southern nonna: black dress, string of pearls, and neatly set curly white hair. Her lips were tightly pressed together and her arms folded in front of her chest. She had the proud, mask-like face of a matriarch. Next to her, practically hanging on her apron strings, was an elderly man—her husband?--who looked pained and confused. From behind them both came a man in a waiter’s uniform of about forty—short and thick-set with a squashed face that exuded arrogance and menace. With his head down, he strode quickly over to the waitress, said something blunt to her in dialect and shoved a menu into her hand.

Observing the drama all from a corner of the restaurant was yet another waitress. She had plum-red hair and bore no likeness at all to the rest of the staff: while they had features that were quite blunt and broad, her eyes glittered darkly in a sallow complexion, her nose and chin were sharp. Although she stood very still in the shadows, my eye was drawn to her immediately. I think it must have been due to the extraordinary expression on her face. What was it? Contempt? Exultation?

The scene was not, on the face of it, very surprising. In summer in this resort town, restaurant staff work long hours in close proximity with a small group of people. This was September, the end of a busy tourist season so no wonder tempers were frayed. And yet, for some reason, the scene troubled me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had witnessed something out of the ordinary, something really troubling. The cook’s face as she stormed out, the intense emotional reactions of the two waitresses, the violence of the man…I felt a shiver of apprehension.

Unfortunately, what I initially dismissed as my over-active imagination turned out to be prescience. Two days later, in the regional gazette, I read the following sensational article:

CALLOUS CUCINA KILLING

Elderly woman brutally murdered: ex-employee arrested.

Vicenza Piselli (70) was found dead on the kitchen floor of her popular trattoria early Sunday morning. It appeared that she had been bludgeoned to death. The lady is survived by her widower Mimmo Torreno, their son Enzo (42) and daughter Maria (32), all of whom worked at the trattoria. A funeral service will take place at the duomo this Saturday etc.

I’m a fan of crime shows and the fact that I’d actually witnessed the prelude to a murder inspired me to do some sleuthing.

The first thing I did was talk to my aunt Pia at breakfast. She’s a tiny woman as bronze as a Greek statue, thin as an anchovy and tough as a Calabrian pinetree. She talks nonstop and knows everyone in town so I figured she’d have some inside gossip. Sure enough, she told me she and the women at her shop had been expecting something like this for a while.

“What do you mean zia?” I asked.

“The son, Enzo, is a no-good stronsone.”

“The son? I thought the cook must have done it!”

“Fiorella? Well, we have a saying here in Calabria: ‘Never fall in love with a woman on Holy Sunday or with a donkey in May’[i]. In other words, don’t judge things by your first impressions.’ That loser never met a crooked deal that he didn’t like. The cops raided his apartment a few years looking for cocaine. They didn’t find it but not because it wasn’t there. He owes a lot of money. He had a house built last year at Capo Vaticano—half of the construction workers haven’t been paid. Some of them are ‘Ndragheta. They aren’t so forgiving of debts if you see my point…”

“You think he killed his mother to get her money and pay off his debts? But was she so rich?”

“The restaurant did well—Vincenza was rolling in it. And she was so stingy she never coughed up a penny. I think she had two dresses total—one she wore everyday, one for church. She expected her husband and children to live that way too. Mimmo dreamed of retiring to Sicily but she wouldn’t hear of it. It was hard on Maria too; the time she got a little tattoo Vincenza stopped paying her wages for a week. Yes, Vincenza had a nice nest egg saved up, for all the good it did her. Now it’ll all go to Enzo. He’s a real mammone. She’ll certainly have left him the restaurant. Mark my words, if that’s the case then the restaurant will be up for sale soon. That boy never had any conscience. It’s a real sin.”

“She wouldn’t have left it to Maria?”

“Oh no, she despised her daughter as much as she loved her son. She’s a nice kid but not all there.” My aunt tapped her temple meaningfully “As a waitress you ask for spaghetti and she brings you eggplant—you think she’d make a good businesswoman? Forget it! Besides, she was the victim of the family. Vincenza and Enzo used to bully her mercilessly.”

“Vincenza wouldn’t expect her husband to carry on?”

“Mimmo? Oh no. She despised him as much as she did Maria. Besides, he had a stroke a couple of years ago and was never the same afterwards. You know, it changed his personality—he started having moodswings. One minute he’ll be sitting around gentle as a lamb, next minute he’s chasing kids for stealing a couple of oranges. The time he went for a customer Vincenza had to put him back in the kitchen. It was hard on Vicenza having to care for him and run the restaurant but one thing you have to say for her: she didn’t mind hard work.”

I told my aunt how upset Maria was when the cook stormed out, and how Vincenza had looked very disapproving. Zia nodded grimly.

“Fiorella was probably the first person to have a kind word for the poor girl. And had the guts to stand up to Vicenza. No wonder Maria worshipped her.”

“But you don’t think Fiorella murdered Vincenza?”

“No, I don’t,” my aunt shook her head.

“Why not?”

She shrugged.

“When I heard Vicenza had died, my first thought was that it was Enzo. First of all, he has a reason. Secondly, he’s that type of guy. I don’t know Fiorella well but for all her tough-girl act she doesn’t seem like someone who’d beat an old lady to death.” She threw her arms in the air. “It doesn’t make any sense. That’s just my opinion. Anyway, if you want to hear more about it you should talk to Gianni. He’ll be here for dinner. I’ve gotta go get dinner ready.”

My cousin Gianni is a cop. He usually works at Vibo Valentia but he was assigned to this case in Tropea because his mom lives here. He’s a cool guy but I think the main reason he became a cop was to show off his biceps to girls while wearing a uniform. He had zero qualms about telling me about the case.

“Is it an investigation like the ones you see on TV?”

He snorted contemptuously.

“Nothing like it.”

“But you have the time of death and statements from witnesses and stuff like that?”

“Of course.”

“So tell me everything! I bet I can figure out what happened.”

“Chiara, dear, this isn’t one of your dumb Netflix shows. There isn’t any mystery. It’s clear. That butch cook Fiorella had a fight with Signora Piselli, went back to her apartment and worked herself up into a murderous fury—her neighbor said she came home early and was slamming doors and playing loud music for hours. Sometime after the restaurant closed, Fiorella must have gone back and killed the old lady.”

“But how do you know? What were the others doing?”

“The son went to a bar up the street and watched a football match—the barkeep and his friends vouch for him. Though they did say something strange—that he went out for an hour and when he came back he’d changed into new clothes.”

“What time?”

“They said he left about midnight and came back about one o’clock. He told a friend that he’d spilled some beer or something on his pants and decided to go and change since his house is only five minutes’ walk from the bar.”

“That’s quite suspicious don’t you think?” I said.

“Not really. You’re going to tell me he ran to his mother’s house, bashed her on the head, walked back out onto the tourist-filled street in clothes that were probably bloody, disposed of the murder weapon along the way, waltzed to his house, cleaned himself up, changed clothes, then walked back to the bar and enjoyed the football?”

“Well, why not?”

“It’s possible but I don’t think he’s that much of a psycho, that’s all. If you saw him you’d know he’s really upset about his mom’s death.”

“Well, what were the others doing?”

“One of the waitresses, Rita, went back to her house, a few blocks from the restaurant. She got home at 11.15. Her boyfriend confirms that.”

“Is she the one with the yellowish skin and pointy face?”

“You could say that. She’s an Albanian girl. Only been working in the restaurant for a month. Her boyfriend knows Enzo, which is how she got the job.”

“That was my impression too. What about Maria and Signore Piselli?”

“Maria says they went upstairs, to the family’s apartment at eleven-thirty. Signora Vicenza stayed downstairs counting up the night’s profits. The restaurant was locked up at that point so Fiorella must have let herself into the restaurant, snuck up behind the Signora and hit her on the back of her head.”

“What was the murder weapon?”

“We don’t know.”

“What about the money Signora Piselli was counting? Was it stolen?”

Gianni shook his head.

“It was all there.”

“So it wasn’t a robbery then. Who found the body?”

“Her son Enzo, he called about ten o’clock the next morning.”

“What was he like? How did he react?”

“He was shaken up. I never saw him look so scared. He told us he’s been getting death threats lately. He thinks the ’Ndragheta killed his mother to get back at him.”

“Well, isn’t it possible?”

“I know you Americans think everything around here is the ’Ndragheta, but this is small-time stuff. Besides, just between us, he’s been paying them in installments on the basis of his being a pretty effective dealer.”

“How do you know that?” I said, my eyebrows shooting up.

He tapped his nose.

“We have our sources. The point is, he’s more useful to them alive. Also, this thing wasn’t a break-in. The door to the restaurant was still locked, and there was no way to leave without breaking a window or door. Proving that the murderer had a key.”

“Did Fiorella have a key?”

“She must have had. Maybe Maria gave her an extra one.”

“Well, there’s a simpler explanation.”

“What would that be?”

“That it was someone in the family who did it.”

***

Over the next week, Gianni kept me updated on the investigation.

He told me that it had come out that the case against Fiorella was shaping up. She had been a wild child in her native Milan. Convicted of vandalizing cars, selling drugs and shoplifting, she’d gone to a school for juvenile delinquents. That’s where she’d learned to cook. It turned out she had a gift for it and had actually won a scholarship to work as apprentice in one of the most prestigious fusion kitchens in Milan. She’d come to Tropea for the summer to get experience cooking with Calabrian flavours. Apparently she’d been having daily arguments with Vincenza about how to cook pasta. According to Gianni, the stress of having to conform to Calabrian cooking methods had been too much and Fiorella had obviously picked up bad old habits again and reverted to type.

“As we say in these parts, ‘U lupo cangia u pila ma non u viziu’!” He shook his head wisely.

“Which means?”

“The wolf changes his coat but not his…how you say? ‘character’.”

The following day, he had some dramatic news to report about Rita the Albanian waitress. Her boyfriend had shown up at the police station wanting to take back his testimony. He’d been out at a party all night. He’d lied to protect her.

“What changed?” I asked.

“Well, he no longer wants to protect her. Because he found out what Rita was doing that night.”

“What was she doing?”

“Entertaining Enzo.”

“No! I thought she hated him?”

“Apparently not. Part of the reason he hired her at the restaurant was so he could get to know her better. As you know, he has access to some high quality cocaine, which probably sweetened the deal. Anyway, this morning Rita’s boyfriend happened to look through her phone messages and found something he didn’t like. At 11.50pm on Friday she sent Enzo a text saying, ‘Let’s party’. So I think that may explain the reason for his hour-long absence from the bar.”

“And the change of clothes,” I added. “But, wait a minute Gianni!” I clutched his arm. “Maybe ‘Let’s Party’ was code. Maybe it was the cue to go and do the murder?”

“You have a really over-active imagination,” he said, disentangling his arm from my grip.
“Isn’t it clear that Fiorella did it?”

My aunt Pia, who was walking through with a basket of laundry in her arms, blew a scornful raspberry.

“Women,” Gianni sighed. “You all stick together.”

On Thursday, though, everything was turned on its head.

“Turns out you were right, Chiara,” Gianni shook his head.

“How so?” I asked.

“It was a family member after all. Our forensic guys found a box in the restaurant’s garbage—Maria’s shirt spattered with blood, a rolling pin and results from the lab show that a bloody fingerprint on one of the door knobs is hers. We confronted her with it today and she broke down, confessed everything.”

“Maria?” I was shocked. “But why?”

“I guess it was because she was in love with the cook, like you thought. She was angry at her mother for firing Fiorella and retaliated. I mean, like my mother says, Vincenza had been bullying Maria for years, so she must have finally snapped.”

“You don’t think Fiorella did it and Maria is protecting her somehow?”

“Oh, that was the other thing,” Gianni said glumly. “It turns out that Fiorella ordered a pizza at midnight Friday. She was too drunk to remember having done it but the delivery guy remembered and called us up when he saw her on the news. He said she couldn’t have done it, she was dead drunk. She managed to open the door but passed out while he was there so he had to take money out of the wallet in her hand. He also turned the music off, so the neighbors have him to thank for that.”

So, that was that. Fiorella had an alibi and Maria had confessed. That being the case, along with the evidence that put her on the scene of the crime, then it was all over. But somehow I wasn’t happy. Nor was Gianni, nor was my aunt Pia. The three of us ate our alici marinate al limone in moody silence.

That evening I took a walk along the lungomare to watch the dramatic orange sunset. The path runs along the bottom of a giant cliff and you can look out to see the slightly threatening silhouette of Stromboli. The wind had came, as it always does in September, and the sea was choppy and restless. It was like looking at a 3-D representation of my state of mind at that moment. I was struggling to reconcile myself with the idea that Maria, that soft and slightly stupid girl, could have done something so brutal and violent. Did that mean anyone was capable of murder? How much pressure would she have to have been under to attack her own mother with such savagery?

“Dopo la pioggia, arriva il sole. Ciao cara. Mom told me I’d find you here.”

I looked up in surprise and saw a familiar face.

“Giusy!! Da quanto tempo!”

“I just got back from university in Naples,” she grinned, “And I had to see you.”

We hugged and kissed a greeting. I looked at my younger cousin with pleasure. She was plump and tanned with curly black hair with a violet plait on the side. She wore a ‘Smash the Patriarchy’ T-shirt and high-waisted rainbow jeans.

“What’s up? Why the long face?” she asked.

“I’ve been trying to figure out a local murder case. An old lady got beaten to death this week.”

She shrugged.

“Here in Italy it’s normal,” she sighed.

“What’s normal?” I said.

“Domestic violence. We have a problem with feminicide. Statistics say women are more likely to be killed by an intimate partner than anyone else.”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s not like—” then I stopped myself. “Wait a second. Giusy…I think you might actually have hit the nail on the head.”

***

“So you’re saying, what, you think Mimmo did it?” My aunt zia threw her arms up in exasperation.

“Yup. Here’s the thing. What do we know about Maria? That she’s been the victim of the family all her life. And what do we know about Mimmo? He had a stroke last year and his personality changed. You said he started having big moodswings. Something about Mimmo chasing some kids, he even lost it with customers once. So what I think happened is that Mimmo suddenly got mad at Vincenza and attacked. Maria rushed to help but was too late—she got bloody trying to help her mother. She pulled her father away, cleaned him up, then hid the rolling pin and the clothes at the back of the restaurant. She was too loyal to her father to tell anyone the truth. She was probably relieved when Fiorella was suspected because it meant the truth wouldn’t come out. But then, when Fiorella was cleared, Maria still felt she had to protect her father. So she decided to take the blame instead.”

At that moment Gianni came home from work.

“Listen, Gianni,” she said after he kissed her on the cheek. “Your cousin has a new theory about the murder. Now she thinks the husband did it!”

Gianni’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“How did you know that?” he asked.

“What are you saying?” Zia asked, amazed.

“We had fingerprints taken on the rolling pin handle. They were all Mimmo’s. Maria had picked it up on the roller part and then hadn’t thought to wipe it clean. That’s why her fingers were bloody enough to leave prints on the doorhandle. We talked to her again and she admitted it, once we told her her dad probably wouldn’t do prison time if she tells the truth in court—he’s not exactly in command of his own actions. He had a great bruise on his arm, I suppose from where Maria grabbed him to stop the blows. I must say, Chiara, I’m really impressed.”

“Actually, I’m the one who figured it out,” said Giusy.

“Yeah, sure you were,” Gianni rolled his eyes.

“But now, what will happen to those two poor souls?” my aunt said sadly.

“Well,” said Gianni, “It’s a funny thing, but you know that posh restaurant Fiorella worked at?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Well the owner of that wants to buy a restaurant in Tropea and he’s made Enzo an offer on it. Enzo’s eager to sell and accepted, with the condition that Maria is listed as an employee and that Mimmo has enough to pay for the best care. If the restaurant is as popular here as it is in Milan then Maria will be earning enough to live on very well.”

“So Enzo had some family feeling after all,” my aunt said, surprised.

“Well, not exactly,” said  Gianni. “You might say that we exerted some influence, seeing as his dealings haven’t always been entirely above the law. During our search of his apartment there was quite a large amount of cocaine…and there have been other dealings that he wished to keep quiet. We reached a satisfactory agreement.”

[i] ‘Nte namuraru e fimmine u Jiuvu Santu o ciucci e u mise e Maiu’