The Heart of Mid-Lothian, Volume 1 by Walter Scott (first color ebook reader .TXT) 📕

to the lobby. Outside the night chill remained, and he was glad he wore a sweat shirt over his usual tee. He crossed the street, put his leg up on the wall, and began his stretches, causing his head to throb slightly. A bit of pain wasn’t going to keep him from his morning run. Rick finished his warm-up with jumps and twists before starting off down the street. A street light looked down at the running figure and created a long shadow, its last duty before ending the shift and shutting itself off. He started up the street, away from the cathedral, and then turned in an alley to work his way to the edge of the town. The street ran parallel to the walls, offering a view of the valleys below. Tufts of fog drifted between the hills as if searching for a hiding place from the sun which would soon appear over the eastern horizon.

The morning run had been a part of Rick’s routine since his college days. Its benefits were mental as well as physical, allowing him to go over the events of the previous day as well as look ahead to those of the next. This morning his thoughts were stuck on the problems at hand, but as he had done in the past, he tried so push them from his mind and replace them with something else. Betta? That made him smile. Might as well concentrate on the surroundings, in this case Orvieto. He never got into the “zone” that athletes claim comes over them, he always looked around as he ran and tried to notice the small things. Like all Italian cities, there were many small things here to notice. As if on cue, a black-and-white cat skittered across his path.

Rick had found the previous morning’s route a good one. It skirted the edge of the town, giving him sprawling views of the valley, then cut into the city itself through some narrow streets until reaching a main thoroughfare. The few souls he passed were workers on their way to a morning coffee, or those who would man the machines to make it. He continued his loping stride through the middle of Orvieto, bending left and picking up speed as the route went on a slight decline toward the funicular station. This would be the furthest point before turning back on a loop that loosely followed the ciabatta shape of the city itself. As he had done the previous morning, Rick slowed and ran through a stone gate to enter the fourteenth-century Fortezza which guarded the southern cliff of the city. In a few hours it would be filled with children and mothers, and at this hour it offered Rick one of the few flat patches of grass on his run. He paused at the edge of the rampart to enjoy the valley view and catch his breath before starting back. As always on his morning runs, even in Rome, he enjoyed the peace of the hour. Here the bonus was seeing the sun start to glow behind the hills to the east. After running lightly in place to keep his leg muscles limber, he turned from the wall and took his first stride of the return run. Unfortunately, thanks to the incline, it would be the more difficult part.

The route brought him out at the plaza they had walked through the first evening after dinner. His legs enjoyed the first level ground since he’d begun his climb near the funicular station, and he slowed to a trot while passing the building which housed the city government.

“Signor Montoya.”

Rick stopped and looked at a man who had emerged from the glass doors.

“Mayor Boscoli, buon giorno.”

Boscoli looked at the streaks in Rick’s sweat shirt. “You appear to be at the end of your run. Can I offer you a coffee?”

“That’s kind of you. Perhaps a juice instead.”

“There is a bar across the street that all the city employees use.”

They entered the bar and the mayor ordered a spremuta for Rick and a coffee for himself. The man behind the counter greeted the mayor with deference and gave Rick a quick glance without reacting to the outfit. Perhaps Boscoli brought joggers in with him every morning. Like in many such establishments in Italy, there was nowhere to sit, but it was early enough so that they had the counter to themselves. The barista worked quickly, dividing his efforts between squeezing Rick’s orange juice and making the coffee.

“I understand you are visiting from Rome, Signor Montoya.” The neon lights of the bar gleamed off the mayor’s head.

“That’s correct, we’re up here for a few days to see the sights.”

“I hope this investigation has not taken you away from your enjoyment of the city.”

“We’ve been able to do both.” Rick remembered LoGuercio’s comment about the mayor being a political adversary of the cultural commissioner. “Signor Morgante, who I met in LoGuercio’s office, has kindly suggested things to see.”

Boscoli at first only nodded his head. “Yes, Morgante,” he said after a few moments. “Did he suggest you eat at Lucia’s Restaurant? He usually does that with visitors. His cousin owns the place. You might instead want to consult the guidebooks when it’s time for lunch.”

The coffee and juice arrived and sugar was added to both.

Rick had heard enough about Morgante. “How long have you been mayor?”

“Three years. I’m up for re-election in the spring. Unless the coalition dissolves, and that is always a possibility in Italian politics. I trust you follow Italian politics, even though you are American?”

“How did you know about my American nationality? Is my accent that noticeable?”

The mayor shrugged. “You are virtually without an accent.” He downed his coffee in one gulp and patted the whiskers around his mouth with a paper napkin. “Do you think the inspector is close to solving this murder, Mister Montoya?”

Rick tried to read the face of the mayor. The use of “Mister” instead of “Signor” had an intimidating edge to