A Few Drops of Blood by Jan Merete Weiss Page A

desk.
    “Pietro Fabretti.”
    “Relation to the deceased?”
    “An old friend—one of his only friends, needless to say. The price of being a gossip columnist.”
    “Is there next of kin?”
    “Carlo was an only child.”
    “Is there an estate?”
    “Yes. Not huge but quite enough to keep a person carefree for some time. I’m the executor.”
    “May I know the beneficiary?”
    “Sure. Vincente Lattaruzzo.”
    “Hmm. Pity. That’s not going to benefit him now.”
    “No.”
    “And next, after the late Mr. Lattaruzzo?”
    “One beneficiary: Stefano Grappi.”
    Natalia made an effort not to reveal her surprise.
    “How much is he inheriting?”
    “I hesitate to say before the testament is probated and my appointment confirmed.”
    “Under the circumstances, I’m afraid I have to insist,” Natalia said.
    “Seven hundred thousand euros, a small apartment in Rome, his two-year-old Mercedes convertible.”
    “How long have you known the victim?”
    “Twenty years? He was seventeen when he announced himself queer. His parents disowned him. Carlo lived on the street for nearly a year. I brought him food occasionally. We started to talk. I was training to be a ballet dancer. He was curious, so one day I brought him along to a class. Turned out he had talent. Not the conventional dancer’s body, but strong.”
    “He took up dance with you?”
    “Did he ever. We lived that life for several years. But it’s such a monolithic existence. And the body grows tired, even the young one. Carlo got a job in a restaurant. Out of boredom he started to observe the patrons: who was with whom, what they were saying. One thing led to another.”
    “He took up gossip writing.”
    “Not right off. He called himself a journalist at first, and then—but you know about the rest already. His star rose when he outed that Berlusconi minister. We went our separate ways, more or less. Eventually I opened a music store. Not so much tear on the body. He and I remained friends.”
    “Were you lovers?”
    “We shared a room when we attended the ballet academy, but no. Not really.” He looked away. “Do you have any idea who did this vicious thing?”
    “Do you?”
    “He annoyed many people, obviously. That was the idea of the job really, and he was good at it. Once or twice he became the story when people retaliated. I warned him on occasion. You know what he said?” Pietro Fabretti smiled,remembering. “ ‘Darling, these celebrities are not the Camorra, they are pussies.’ ”
    “Did he ever give you the impression he was blackmailing someone?”
    Pietro made a face. “Not his style.”
    “Any idea of what particular gossip item he may have been working on most recently that could have provoked something like this?”
    Pietro shifted uncomfortably. “Hard to tell.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means I like my life. Good wine. Good food. Breathing.”
    “If you withhold information in a murder investigation,” Natalia said, “you may find yourself enjoying the good life in the cells of Poggio Reale. Trust me. The wine list isn’t up to your standards. Nor the food.”
    “No doubt true. I am not greedy, but I like my luxuries. In fact, if I had been born in another era, born to another fate, I could imagine myself as a worshipper of luxury. I would have belonged to the cult in Naples that copied from Roman customs of excess. But on the other hand, maybe not. Did you know that during the Second World War—and I mean the worst of it—when typhoid and smallpox were rampant, when people could not find even a scrap of food, there were still women of noble birth indulging in milk baths?”
    “I didn’t know.”
    “Carlo did a column on Prince Pignatelli. When the Allies liberated his
palazzo
, they found cupboards of silk stockings and flagons of Chanel perfume. He’d hoarded them to pay any girl he could lure to his rooms. Quite sordid.”
    For the remainder of the interview Pietro Fabretti remained evasive