Free A Few Drops of Blood by Jan Merete Weiss Page A

the church was still damp. Natalia smoothed her curls and opened the small passage cut into the much larger chapel door. Stefano Grappi stood just inside, next to a confessional, eyes brimming and red. His thin wrists protruded from the too-large mourning suit. Greeting Natalia, he thanked her for coming. Either the suit was borrowed or he was losing weight drastically, as the griefstricken often did. Natalia surveyed the crowd, astonished by a young woman in a loud orange dress. Unthinkable to wear such a bright color at such a somber event. In the while since Natalia had attended a funeral, it looked like things had changed. Someone came in behind her. “
Scuzzi
.”
    Director Garducci, the consummate gentleman, greeting people, kissing women’s cheeks. He at least was wearing the appropriate black suit for his lover’s funeral and an obsidian and gold earring.
    The thick walls kept the interior cool. Vincente Lattaruzzo’s open coffin rested on a wooden bier near the altar. Beside it, his photograph on an easel. Several people gathered around the coffin. A few knelt in the pews, praying quietly. Others milled about, waiting for the mass to begin. Stefano joined an elderly couple in the front pew. Lattaruzzo’s parents? Probably. She checked the sparsely occupied pews but didn’t recognize anyone among the young professionals—no doubt colleagues of the deceased. Most prominent among the mourners were elderly women in black, alone or in pairs, who likely hadnever known the deceased but regularly attended everyone’s funeral, lonely women happy to break the solitude of their days. A few were, perhaps, simply ghoulish or seeking distraction. Most attended out of altruism. Their prayers, they believed, helped speed souls out of purgatory. Their prayers for the departed, they hoped, would be reciprocated by others when their time came. The grief displayed raised the family’s standing in the community, and the departed might finally have the respect he deserved in life but hadn’t gained until the moment of his eulogy.
    Funerals, like weddings, were important social affairs. The wealthy splurged on lavish caskets. The poor on an “uncle from Rome,” usually an elderly resident of a nearby
rione
or district brought in to pose as a well-off relative from the north. Or a woman who, as the service progressed, would wail and scratch her face bloody. These actors only cost the family of the deceased the rental of a suit or dress, a few euros for their enthusiasm and a glass or two of
marsala
at the wake and a plate of food.
    Vincente’s funeral was in no way lavish. Mercifully, the family had not resorted to professional mourners. Vincente Lattaruzzo reclined in a tasteful black casket with silver handles—neither the pine of the indigent nor the gold of the well heeled. Stefano had kept the proceedings tasteful.
    Angelina, sitting down beside Natalia, leaned over and whispered. “Do you plan to confront him soon about being the beneficiary of Bagnatti’s will, after Vincente?”
    “Yes,” Natalia replied, “but not today.”
    The official period of mourning for close family was seven years, during which black was the color traditionally worn. Many widows still observed this, but Natalia couldn’t imagine Stefano would for that long. Unlike Natalia’s
zia
Clementina, who, when her beloved mate passed away, never wore a spot of color until the day she herself died twenty years later.
    Camorra widows were another story. Often they were left widows while still young. The black might hold for a year, even two. Then color crept back. Five years later the only vestige of their grief might be a black handkerchief carried dutifully in a Chanel bag.
    Old Mother Scavullo stood at the back. What was she doing there? Unlikely she and Lattaruzzo had ever crossed paths. Then again, you never knew. Renata Scavullo managed a modest criminal empire. Did she own artifacts or consult art experts about stolen pieces in the hands of