To Die in Tuscany by David Wagner (novels for teenagers .txt) 📕

Also by David P. Wagner

The Rick Montoya Italian Mysteries

Cold Tuscan Stone

Death in the Dolomites

Murder Most Unfortunate

Return to Umbria

A Funeral in Mantova

Roman Count Down

Copyright © 2021 by David P. Wagner

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Wagner, David P., author.

Title: To die in Tuscany / David P Wagner.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2021] | Series: A

Rick Montoya Italian mystery; book 7

Identifiers: LCCN 2020029979 (trade paperback) | (epub) |

Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3623.A35623 T6 2021 (print) | LCC PS3623.A35623

(ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020029979

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

The Wine and Food

Author’s Note

About the Author

Back Cover

This book is for Maria Luz Puente Garcia Somonte Cabeza Wagner, who passed to her sons a proud Asturian heritage.

“Drawing is not what you see, but what you must make others see.”

—EDGAR DEGAS

Chapter One

“Buon giorno, Nino.”

Giving a serious nod in keeping with his position, Nino Fantozzi acknowledged the greeting of the woman at the cash register. It was, after all, his botanical gardens that drew no small number of tourists away from the more famous attractions of Urbino to this narrow street. Many of those same visitors found their way into this bar before or after a delightful visit with nature, his green oasis dropped in the midst of stone buildings and cobbled streets.

Who did the real work of keeping the plants healthy and everything in order? He did, of course, not those botany professors who were more interested in counting leaves than keeping the place neat. Without his gardens, this would only be a neighborhood bar, like so many others in odd corners of the city. Not that all the visitors to Urbino put the gardens high on their list of sites, going straight there after seeing the collection of masterpieces at the Palazzo Ducale. Far from it. But it did bring in a certain type of tourist. Lovers of natural beauty was the way Fantozzi characterized those who paid the one-euro entrance fee. In addition, the gardens drew botany students, but they needed only to show their credentials to get in without paying. Nino’s boss, Professor Florio, had just yesterday reviewed the attendance numbers, which were considerable. Even those who didn’t pay to get in the gardens added to the foot traffic on the street. How many of those people came into this bar?

They really should offer me a discount.

He paid and moved sideways where a man behind the counter in a white shirt and black tie nodded a silent buon giorno before beginning the noisy process of producing Nino’s cappuccino. He had toyed with the idea of having a pastry to go with it but, after glancing down at his stomach, decided against it. The barman placed the steaming cup in front of him and pushed over the sugar bowl. Three times, the long sugar spoon traveled to the cup before Nino picked up his smaller one, stirred the granules into the foam, and took a sip. It was his second caffeine jolt of the morning, the first, prepared at home by his wife, a caffe latte, accompanied by two pieces of dried toast. This coffee was considerably better, but he wouldn’t say that to his wife.

He drained the cup and patted his lips with a small paper napkin. A moment later he was out on the street, pulling a cream-colored handkerchief from his pocket and cleaning his glasses. Returning them to his nose, he breathed in the early spring air and looked to the sky. It hadn’t rained in several days. Perhaps the clouds he saw could bring some needed showers, both cleaning the air and giving his beloved plants the natural moisture they preferred. Urbino’s city water was adequate, but it was not the same as rain. Nino walked up the street to a fountain set into the wall just below the entrance to the botanical gardens. The stone papal shield of Benedict XIII hung high above the pool, a reminder to anyone using the fountain who ran this part of Italy in the early eighteenth century. Nino dipped his fingers in the water and dried them on the handkerchief from his pocket.

From another pocket he pulled a large key as he glanced up at the metal letters—Orto Botanico—attached to the brick above the entrance. The tall metal door creaked open and then banged shut behind him once he was inside and the key returned to his pocket. The heavy scent of plant life wafted over him as he emerged from the entranceway into the gardens themselves. He cast a critical eye over the path through the greenery with leaves dangling above it on both sides. It would need another sweeping before Manuel Somonte’s visit the next day. Nino’s boss had insisted that everything be in perfect order for one of the orto’s most loyal benefactors, especially noted for the yucca gloriosa that Somonte had donated two years earlier. Nino approached the greenhouse where that magnificent plant was housed with other semi-tropical