The Sudden Disappearance of the Worker Bees Read online

  THE SUDDEN

  DISAPPEARANCE

  OF THE WORKER BEES

  THE SUDDEN

  DISAPPEARANCE

  OF THE WORKER BEES

  A Commissario Simona Tavianello Mystery

  SERGE QUADRUPPANI

  Translated from the Italian

  by Delia Casa

  Arcade Publishing • New York

  Copyright © 2011, Éditions du Masque, département des éditions Jean-Claude Lattès

  English-language translation copyright © 2013 by Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Arcade Publishing® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.arcadepub.com.

  Originally published under the title La disparition soudaine des ouvrieres in 2010 by Éditions du Masque in France.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file. ISBN: 978-1-61145-840-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  CHAPTER 1

  “ARE YOU GOING TO TELL ME WHY YOU’RE SULKING?”

  “I’m not sulking. I’m annoyed.”

  “Ah, and what’s the difference?”

  “Sulking means putting on a disagreeable expression and not talking. I, on the other hand, am perfectly willing to explain any annoyance I may express.”

  Commissario Simona Tavianello took her eyes off the mountain road they were driving on to observe her husband, retired police chief Marco Tavianello, his face in profile. The thin wrinkles at the corners of his light blue eyes were more accentuated than usual, the rim of his lower lip protruding and tensed. No doubt about it—he was sulking. What’s more, his answer demonstrated a strongly contentious attitude. She sighed and redirected her attention to the approaching turn in the road, a tight curve flanked by long-branched, visibility-reducing Douglas pines. When she had gotten past it, she asked:

  “Fine, so are you going to tell me why you’re ticked off?”

  “I’m sick of you always throwing your bag in my lap when you’re driving. I’ve told you a thousand times that it hurts. And it makes me look like a dick.”

  Simona glanced at the rearview mirror, then huffed:

  “Is that all? Is that why you’ve been sulking since we left the hotel?”

  “I’m sick of you always racing straight ahead, eyes on the road in front of you, never taking my feelings into account.”

  “On this, the first real morning of spring, with the sun shining and not a cloud in the sky after the eight days of rain that effectively ruined the first week of my vacation, il signore decides to sulk, deforming his expertly seductive mouth, all because I set my bag down on his muscular thighs and he finds it emasculating?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s thoughtless on your part. You don’t want to put your bag on the floor, apparently because you don’t want to get it dirty. And you know perfectly well that I get a pain in my shoulders every time I have to turn around to put it on the backseat. On top of that, no sooner do I set it down than I hear something ringing inside and I’ve got to pick it up again to fish around for a cell phone that stops ringing the second I find it.”

  “So basically you’re saying that life with me is hell, and after thirty years you’ve decided to fight back?”

  As she said this she had started to slow down; they had reached a driveway, at the end of which stood a one- story house made of wood, its roof blanketed with flowering vegetation. As she maneuvered around the sandy terrain where some slabs of slate marked a parking spot, he retorted:

  “You’re making fun of me so you don’t have to respond.”

  “Respond to what?” she asked, retrieving a large ethnic bag overflowing with countless objects from her husband’s lap. “Respond to the accusation that I don’t take your feelings into account? Why do you think we’re here anyway?”

  She pointed to the sign in front of which she had parked: MINONCELLI: HONEY, HONEY DESSERTS, POLLEN, HONEY ESSENCES, MOUNTAIN PLANTS.

  “Oh, you’re so full of it . . . You’re the one who suggested it this morning!” Marco erupted as he opened the door. “You wanted to spend our last morning buying honey instead of taking a walk.”

  “You’re the one who’s full of it!” rejoined Simona, slamming the car door and locking it. “You’ve been saying that you wanted to buy honey for days, and we’ve either got to do it now or we’re not doing it at all. Let me remind you that we came to Piedmont because il signore prefers the mountains to the sea, whereas I would’ve rather spent my entire vacation in the Aeolian Islands.”

  “Oh, you’ll be in the Aeolian Islands tomorrow anyway. And I know someone who will be happy to see you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Come on, don’t play dumb. You know perfectly well what I mean . . . What’s his name, the owner of the pension. . . Michele?”

  “Yeah, Michele. So?”

  “You think I didn’t see him drooling over you when you were tanning by the pool last year?”

  Simona burst out laughing and shook her head, hurrying to catch up with her husband as he walked swiftly in the direction of the cabin.

  “I can’t believe this!” she exclaimed at Marco’s back, which remained in front of her, rigid in his linen suit. “Now you’re putting on a jealous-husband act for me? What’s going on? Did you sleep badly?”

  Three steps led up to a wooden terrace, which time and the weather had turned gray. As he climbed the steps one by one, she caught up to him with a hop and grabbed him by the arm. He turned around. “Are you being serious?” she pressed.

  And seeing that the masculine face maintained its stony expression, she assumed a gentler tone.

  “Come on, Marco, have you seen me? I’m fifty-seven years old and twenty pounds overweight.”

  “So what? You’re still very attractive. And that pig fat you were smearing on yourself made your tits glow. And you’re right, I didn’t sleep well, because this is what I was dreaming about last night. I know, it’s ridiculous—it was a year ago. But it still pisses me off.”

  With one hand Simona brushed a wisp of her bountiful ivory-colored hair out of her eyes, and with the other she took Marco’s neck.

  “Kiss me,” she said, trying to draw him toward her. “You haven’t kissed me yet today.”

  “Stop it,” he said, resisting, but with his lips folded in a smile that brought the light back to his face. “What will people think . . . two old people kissing?”

  In one fluid and sprightly motion, she positioned herself at his side, pushed him with her shoulder, and walked toward the door.

  “You’re the old one!” she said.

  She paused on the threshold of the wood-and-mortar building, with its narrow, double-paned windows, the scent of hay and flowers wafting down from the roof. The door was just slightly ajar.

  “Are you sure it’s not too early?” Marco asked her from behind.

  “Too earl
y? It’s almost ten. And let’s get one thing straight,” she added with a decisive tone. “If you want to have a good time today, you’d better get it into your head that I’ve had enough of you talking about our ages. Yours and mine.”

  Marco sighed.

  “Fine, but to return to the subject at hand: maybe it’s nine, maybe it’s not. If you hadn’t been in such a rush to leave, I would’ve gone back up to our room to get my watch and my phone, and right now we’d know exactly what time it is. But you’ve always got to be the boss.”

  Simona knocked loudly on the door, waited a few moments, then opened it.

  “Is anyone home?”

  When no one answered, she gave the door another push—but something kept her from opening it all the way.

  “What are you doing?” Marco asked at her back. “Wait a second . . .”

  But she had already stepped inside.

  “Wait.” Marco sighed again. “You always have to rush in. Instead of simplifying things, you make them more complicated . . .”

  “Marco.” Simona turned to face him. “There’s a body on the ground.”

  “Right,” Marco said. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “A man with a hole in his head.”

  “Right,” Marco repeated. “That’s all we need right now.”

  It was the voice of a man who had given up.

  * * *

  Iris, bellflower, honeysuckle, daisies . . .

  As Maresciallo Calabonda finished taking down Marco’s observations in a notebook—she had let him lead the investigation from the moment they discovered the body—Simona was reading from the informational poster stuck to one of the beams overhead, directly above the long wooden table where they were seated in the rear of the house. The text explained the benefits of a “flowering roof” and listed the varieties of wildflower present on the roof of the cottage. A fragrant breeze from above carried with it a faint, constant buzzing—a noise that they hadn’t detected as they approached the house upwind. From where they were sitting they could make out a field that sloped up gently for about a hundred yards to reach the foot of a pine forest, where dozens of man-made beehives were arranged side by side. It seemed the bees preferred the orchids that proliferated on the roof of the house belonging to Giovanni Minoncelli, the beekeeper.

  “No, this man is not Giovanni,” the maresciallo responded to one of Marco’s questions. “I know him. I’ve dealt with him more than once.”

  “You mean he’s run into trouble before?”

  “He’s a militant environmentalist. A leader. We’ve picked him up for unlawful occupation of property, unauthorized demonstrations, obstructing traffic . . . basically your first-rate pain in the ass. He’ll have to explain why there’s a dead body behind his door when we bring him in.”

  The maresciallo closed his notebook, tucked it away in a worn leather briefcase, and peered at his two interlocutors through his sunglasses, which, along with his cap, his tanned skin, and his dark mustache, made him look like he had just stepped out of an army recruitment poster.

  “To sum things up, when you discovered the body, the only thing you did was to enter and make a telephone call, because neither one of you had your cell phone. You walked to the telephone; you picked it up, holding the handset with a tissue, and you returned outside to wait for us; and during this time, your wife remained outside. Is that correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Good. Thank you, Chief. Really. You made every effort not to alter the crime scene. But of course coming from you that does not surprise me. It is a pleasure and an honor to work with such a true professional. I am sorry that your vacation has been ruined by a trivial piece of rural crime.”

  “Where murder is concerned, the crime is never trivial.”

  The maresciallo ran a hand over his mustache with an expression that was difficult to interpret.

  “You’re right,” he said. “One last question . . . Did you notice anything on the table when you made the phone call?”

  Marco furrowed his brow. Several seconds passed. He shook his head.

  “No. There was a pile of papers scattered on the table but I didn’t look at them closely. As I told you, I did not try to examine the scene. It was not my place to do so.”

  Calabonda pulled a transparent plastic envelope out of his briefcase and showed it to Marco. It contained a single sheet of paper and bore an official seal.

  “You didn’t notice this sheet of paper on the table?”

  The police chief stared at the evidence. There were four words on the page, written in marker in large letters: THE WORKER BEE REVOLUTION. He shook his head.

  “No.”

  Calabonda sighed, returning the envelope to his briefcase.

  “We found it three feet from the body,” he explained.

  “Seeing as a window was open and there was a good breeze, what I would really like to know is whether this sheet of paper was originally on the table or on the body. In the latter case, it could be a sort of claim of responsibility.”

  Marco nodded.

  “And Signora . . . Commissario. I take it you didn’t notice this paper when you pushed the door open?” Calabonda asked Simona.

  Torn from her contemplation of the mountain pastures—the rays of the sun, which had suddenly risen from behind the peak, had enveloped the fields in a golden fog—the commissario said in a whisper:

  “No, I didn’t see it. But, as we’ve already explained to you, sir, I went back outside immediately. I didn’t have time to see what lay around the body.”

  “Well, thank you,” the maresciallo said, standing with his hands resting on the wooden table. “I’ll get in touch with you at the Hôtel des Roches before your departure,” he made clear as he got out of the chair sideways, one leg at a time. “You’ll be here for another week, is that right?”

  “Yes, at the very most,” Simona said, as her face entered the crosshairs of a gun sight.

  The maresciallo got to his feet and his face in turn entered the crosshairs, his temple positioned right at the intersection of the two lines at the center of the circle.

  Marco stood up as well, and his profile joined the maresciallo’s in the scope as he extended his hand for a shake.

  So the two officers went to retrieve their vehicle and the maresciallo went to talk to the head of Forensics, who had men in white jumpsuits combing the house for evidence. The camouflaged man who had captured each of the three law enforcers’ heads in his gun sight brushed off the pine needles that had stuck to his jumpsuit, slung the gun over his shoulder, and disappeared into the darkness of the forest.

  * * *

  A half hour later on the terrace of the Hôtel des Roches, against a backdrop of steep slopes, trails of mud and debris, waterfalls, and towering rocks that alternated sharply with rounded, grass-covered ones, Giuseppe Felice, a local reporter with fire-red hair, ordered a second cappuccino that he had no interest in drinking. For him it was only a matter of waiting for the right moment to stand up and make his way across the terrace, weaving between the pine-wood tables where families in brightly colored clothes sat noisily consuming their breakfasts, to the spot where a tanned and elegant sixty-something man and a white-haired woman were having an animated discussion. He waited, because as soon as he had gotten close enough he would have to ask whether Signore and Signora Tavianello would perhaps consider honoring him with an exclusive interview for his newspaper, Il Quotidiano delle Valli. He waited, that is, because Giuseppe Felice suffered from an extremely unpleasant condition for a reporter: he was shy.

  The truth is that he didn’t have any trouble when it came to interviewing one of the small-time valley businessmen who made their fortunes by having undocumented immigrants work ten hours a day to produce shoes or metal parts, and whose sons got their kicks driving around in their SUVs and harassing those very same immigrants by night. All he had to do was turn on the tape recorder and then transcribe their monologues on the virtues of their
own companies and of the Northern League, the right- wing political party known for its conservative stance on immigration, among other things.

  This defect was even less of an issue when he was performing his usual work of transcribing the press releases of local politicians—adjusting a comma here and there—and reporting on the town festivals and folk celebrations, marriages and births among the local notables, and hunters’ association gatherings. But when it happened that a national celebrity passed through San Giorgio al Monte and the editor in chief, the honorable Dottore Signorelli, called him up demanding that he get an exclusive interview—those were, as they say in Italian, bitter cabbages, and he just had to grin and bear it.

  Nevertheless, he knew how to arrange these meetings perfectly. Giuseppe Felice had gifts unknown to his employer, gifts that, in another corner of the world and with the right contacts, would have allowed him to add a few zeros to his pitiful monthly salary. Among these gifts was his ability to unearth a startling amount of information online, even breaching network security if necessary. But he didn’t have to dig deep to find information on the couple who had discovered the body of an unidentified man at Minoncelli’s house. A simple Internet search returned 420,000 results for Simona Tavianello and 372,000 for her husband. The higher number of hits for the woman was surely due to the fact that she worked for the National Antimafia Commission and had participated in various media investigations, which had resulted in numerous invitations to academic conferences. Marco Tavianello had also had a brilliant career—though more low-key—in the fight against drug trafficking. Many members of the press had made malicious comments with regard to his early retirement, seeing it as evidence of his doubts about the political influences operating in his field. But the former police chief had not expressed himself in this regard, as he was generally very reluctant to be interviewed.

  Giuseppe Felice set his cup down as though he had realized in a flash how perverse it was to put milk in coffee, since it denatured the taste and rendered it indigestible. He remembered the day that, hoping to interview a famous Italian actress known for playing neurotic, middle-bourgeois characters, he had hesitated so long and so nervously broken with his natural shyness that he ended up spilling a glass of highly tannic—and therefore particularly red—valley wine all over the signora’s elegant and expensive dress.