Return to Umbria by David Wagner (best book series to read .txt) 📕

any hurry to get home. She meandered along the street, her purse over one shoulder and the small bag from the tabbacaio swinging from the other hand. Every store window got her attention, though she spent more time in front of shoe stores and those selling jewelry. Betta hung back, keeping one eye on merchandise displays and the other on Tullia. As she did, she asked herself why she was following the woman. Perhaps she could gain some insight into what made her tick, and thereby help Rick resolve the Fabrizio problem. But maybe it was just the policewoman coming out in her, wanting to get involved. She watched the older woman disappear into a dress shop and realized it could be a long wait.

As it turned out, it only took ten minutes. She emerged from the shop carrying a small bag, likely not something that needed to be tried on, like a blouse or belt. The other smaller bag was not evident, so she must have stowed it inside the new one. Tullia checked her watch—its round, silver face so large that Betta could almost read it from a distance—and continued down the street. Her pace picked up. Betta followed a safe distance behind, helped in keeping inconspicuous by pedestrian traffic. After fifty meters the woman turned off the shopping street into a smaller one. When Betta got to the corner she could see that it was almost an alley, but it bent just past the corner. On a straight street, it would be almost impossible to stay hidden, but if there were more bends she could continue to follow without being noticed. When Tullia disappeared, Betta stepped onto the stones of the narrow street and followed. As it turned out, there were no more bends, but it didn’t matter.

Betta stopped and peered around the edge of the building where the street made a slight turn. Tullia stood in front of a tall metal gate facing a large man who Betta immediately recognized as the other man at the mayor’s lunch table. Vincenzo Aragona’s thick index finger repeatedly jabbed the air in front of his wife’s face as his voice rose in anger. Betta flattened herself against the stone of the building and watched through an opening between the stone. Even without seeing the two clearly, their voices were easy for her to understand.

“You’ve decided to come home? Why don’t you end this charade and just spend all your time in that little apartment?”

“And why don’t you just move into that room in the winery? You spend most of your time working anyway. It’s as if you don’t have a wife.”

He pointed at her shopping bag. “It’s my work which allows you to patronize the most expensive boutiques in Orvieto. You don’t seem to be complaining about that.”

“I’m surprised you noticed, Vincenzo.”

“You have to stop this…this arrangement. People are beginning to talk.”

“And your precious status in the community might be harmed.”

“You will regret this, Tullia.” His voiced was reduced to a growl.

“I’m going inside, you can stay out here and shout at yourself.”

She turned toward the gate and he grabbed her arm, pulling her roughly toward him before putting his face a few inches from hers. “I mean what I said, Tullia. I have enough to worry about at the moment, I don’t need something else.”

She peeled his fingers from her arm and rubbed it in pain. For the first time fear showed in her eyes.

Betta edged back from the corner and walked quickly away, stunned by the vicious edge to Aragona’s words. Tullia was in a situation any woman would dread and Betta wondered how she would cope. She knew, from recent personal experience, that it would not be easy.

Chapter Eight

It crossed Rick’s mind that all the ceramics stores on the street might be owned by the same person, and that person had saved money by hiring one decorator for all his shops. Every one had large pots stacked outside the doorways, plates hung on the sides of the doorways, and shelves stacked with smaller ceramic pieces to entice the shopper once inside. The designs of the ceramic decoration also varied little from one place to another. Apparently the tourists didn’t mind the similarity, or even liked it. They squeezed past the outdoor wares and poked through the shelves, sometimes emerging with some treasure inside a bag decorated in the same colorful design. There was one shop which proved the exception: Studio Crivelli. Apparently Crivelli styled himself as something of an avant garde artist, and a minimalist one at that. A simple sign was the only indication to passersby that something was being sold inside, its color and material hinting that it could be ceramics. At least there wasn’t a brass plate next to the door warning “by appointment only,” as Rick often saw outside galleries in Rome. The wood door was painted a bright turquoise, reminding him of the gates to adobe dwellings in New Mexico. It was open, and Rick followed LoGuercio through the door.

Inside, Studio Crivelli continued to revel in its contrast with the other ceramics stores. Rick counted a mere two dozen pieces, most of them on shelves and lit by tiny spots set in the ceiling. Larger ones, the size of umbrella stands, sat on the floor under the shelves, each with its own hidden lighting. None of the historic designs of the other shops here, thank you very much—Crivelli’s ceramics were starkly modern, with bright lines of color that swirled around the surfaces. Though each was different in the way it mixed its colors, the fundamental style was the same.

At the rear of the room a table made of an ebony plank sat on two equally dark sawhorses. After noting a pair of shapely legs under the table, Rick raised his eyes and saw that they belonged to a girl in a short dress with spiky blond hair. The only item on the table was a thin tablet, propped on its