Shallow Graves

and fire escape landings, large terra-cotta flowerpots squatted, new blossoms on the plants. The air was full of that warm, heavy smell of Italian cooking, the spices you knew by scent if not by name. I wondered if any were the ones that Claudette Danucci had learned to use.
    Zuppone didn’t have to use a key on the metal fire door. Inside the doorway, the building took on a different character. Another dingy brick four-story from the outside, the interior staircase led up a half flight of stairs to a majestic door, mahogany from where I stood. The runner on the staircase was a Persian that looked brand new and a thousand years old, all at the same time.
    Primo led the way up the steps, knocking on the wooden door in a staccato sequence I thought might be code. This time he waited to enter. Within ten seconds, I heard the sound of a bolt and chain from the other side.
    The man opening the door was somewhere between seventy and eighty. Five ten, he seemed thin but wiry beneath the block-patch sweater, creased wool slacks, and spit-shined loafers. The hair was white, a pronounced widow’s peak, but just a bit long over the ears and combed back. He was clean-shaven, the skin still pretty taut except at the throat, where it dangled a little against the cords of his neck. His eyes were gray but unclouded, like two baby spots positioned to highlight the long, hooked nose. The eyes of an old man who still didn’t really expect to die in bed.
    Our host said, “Mr. Detective. Thomas Danucci. You’re welcome in my home.“
    There was still an edge of accent on some of the words. Danucci gave no indication he intended to shake hands with me or Zuppone. We walked into a minimalist foyer, where Primo took my trenchcoat and hung it and his leather coat in a closet. Then we followed Danucci into a maximalist living room. Pedestal furniture that looked like it could support an elephant. Persian and Indian rugs that dwarfed the staircase runner. Oil paintings of Madonna and Child, the Gift of the Magi, and other biblical scenes in museum mountings with tiny lamps that reminded me of the old man’s eyes. Molding around the intersection of wall and ceiling mimicked a bouquet of roses, a motif repeated every linear foot.
    Danucci motioned in a master of ceremonies way at the dining room, endowed with pieces from the same massive period and illuminated by an icicle chandelier. There were more religious paintings around the walls, punctuated with a low cabinet against one wall and a tall china cabinet against another. The tall cabinet had glass panes and interior shelving that supported ornate serving platters and a large rosewood case. I counted chairs for ten but settings for only two, the head of the table and the chair to its left. The plates were pewter or silver, with similar chalices where you’d expect wineglasses.
    Danucci said, “Primo tells me my family, they kept you from your dinner. How’s about you join me in mine, eh?“
    “Thank you.“
    The old man said, “Primo.“
    Zuppone pulled out the side chair for me. I sat in it, the cushion soft, the wood carving digging into the back of my knees. Then Zuppone pulled out the head chair, with its armrests and higher back, the head of a raging lion at the top above the back cushion. Danucci sat in it, lowering himself carefully with his palms on the chiseled claws that made up the ends of the chair’s arms. He hunched forward as Zuppone pushed the chair and him in toward the table.
    Danucci pinged the chalice in front of him. “White or red?“
    “Whatever you recommend.“
    A pleased smile. “I like a man knows how to be a good guest.“ He said, “Primo,“ then a string of Italian.
    Zuppone crossed to the low cabinet, taking a cut crystal decanter from it. Lifting the crystal stopper gently, he crossed back to me, pouring ruby-colored wine into my chalice, jewels embedded in geometric patterns on both its bowl and stem. When Primo finished with me, he did the same for Danucci.
    The old man raised his chalice, closed his eyes, and intoned something that sounded more like Latin from the Old Mass than Italian from the old country.
    Danucci opened his eyes. “That was, ‘With thanks to God and to good health.’ You get a little older, you go back to the things from when you’re a kid. Even start believing in them again, eh?“
    He gave a curt nod, and we drank together. The wine was spectacular, a mix of a dozen flavors that tumbled around the mouth before