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

“She was all sweetness?”

“Not exactly. She asked me to light a fire under Alfredo to find the murderer. And her last comment insinuated that he should not just be looking at Italians when making his suspects list.”

“Meaning Pilar or Lucho.”

Rick held up two fingers. “Or both of them. But it could just be the bitter and grieving widow talking, without any real basis for her suspicions.”

“Or Pilar is, in fact, behind the murder, even if she didn’t pull the trigger herself. And now, after this gesture from her father in his will, she’s feeling remorse.” They both thought about that possibility for a few moments before Betta asked, “Did you tell Alfredo what Signora Somonte said?”

“I was going to, but he wasn’t there. We’ll let him know about our meetings with the Somonte women next time we see him.”

Once in the room, Betta sat at the small desk and dialed her cell phone. Rick turned on his laptop, kicked off his boots, and propped himself up on the bed. Getting his emails was worth the effort: a message confirming that a check was on the way for a translation he’d done, and a request for his interpreting services. The interpreting job sounded interesting—an international seminar at a think tank in Rome on the long-term consequences of Brexit for Italy. Well, it would be interesting if not dominated by economist-speak, which was not much fun for the interpreters.

Betta’s phone call with her boss was less satisfying.

“He’s not happy with the lack of progress,” she said after pulling off her shoes. “I’m not pleased either, but they can’t expect this to be resolved in twenty-four hours. I know what they’re thinking, though. It’s like the murder investigation is for Alfredo. Every day that goes by without finding the murderer, the chances of solving the case decrease exponentially. Same with finding the drawing. We need to catch a break.”

Rick got off the bed and walked over to stand behind the chair. He placed his hands on her shoulders and kneaded them lightly. “You’re too tense, Betta, and all that driving didn’t help. You need to relax.”

“That feels good. Don’t stop.”

“It’s the way I always show appreciation to my chauffeur.”

“I will have to drive you around more often.” She closed her eyes and moved her head from one side to the other as his hands moved over her neck and shoulders. “This is wonderful, but with all the driving today, I think I should get more than a neck rub.”

“Perhaps that can be arranged.”

* * *

The temperature was cooling when they left the Botticelli for the home of Cosimo Morelli. While Betta was taking a phone call, Rick had asked directions at the front desk and was given a map with assurance that it was an easy walk. As expected, the route started with an uphill climb. Like so many other Italian cities, Urbino was crisscrossed by main arteries that offered enough width to accommodate large carts when they were laid out and now cars and small delivery trucks. Splaying off these wider streets was a matrix of smaller ones, in some cases virtual alleys barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Fortunately the map from the hotel was detailed enough to cover everything in the web that was Urbino’s municipal grid. The desk clerk had drawn the route with his pen, like a line through the maze on the puzzle page in a newspaper. It was initially the same streets Betta had walked on her way to the art gallery of Signor Bruzzone, up Via Mazzini and then a steeper climb on Via Raffaello. Every Italian town of a certain size had a street named for Giuseppe Mazzini, who had helped create a united Italy, but very few honored Urbino’s most beloved artist. The lights were on in Bruzzone’s art gallery, and Betta toyed with the idea of dropping in to introduce Rick. Instead they continued up the hill past the house of Raphael.

“Morelli’s name came up when I talked to my boss,” said Betta. “I told him we were going to see his collection, and he asked me to observe closely and let him know if there’s anything suspicious.”

“How will you know?”

“Good question. If Morelli has anything questionable it will be the Greek vases, and I am hardly an expert on things Greek. Not to mention that the man is not going to show me anything questionable since he knows where I work. I told my boss I’d keep my eyes open.”

“I will too, Betta. Two eyes are better than one.”

“What?”

“Something my Tía Luz in New Mexico used to say. Now all the Montoyas use the expression.” They came to a corner, and Rick looked up before consulting his map. As in most Italian cities, the street name was inscribed on a stone plaque cemented to the corner building. “We turn here.”

The new street was half the width of Via Raffaello, had no commercial activity, and had no incline as it followed the horizontal contour of the hill. The buildings were solid stone, two and three stories tall, with tiny windows and narrow, uninviting doors. The flat walk ended at the next corner when they turned once again up the incline. Rick stopped.

“We’re almost there. Look at that.” A metal arrow indicated that if they were to continue on that street, the botanical gardens were a hundred meters ahead. “Interesting. On the way to Morelli’s house we pass close to the scene of the murder.”

Betta took his arm. “In Italian hill towns, Rick, everything inside the walls is close to everything else.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He checked the stone number on the first doorway. “This is the street—his place should be just ahead if the numbers run in the right sequence.”

“Don’t count on that.”

The sequence was correct, and their destination appeared on their right. It looked like every other building on the block, except wider. The street had steepened so much that a