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

by Piero.” He watched for any reaction from Pilar and detected none. “She said something that surprised me.” Still no reaction. “If the drawing is found, she is undecided about donating it to the museum in Sansepolcro. It would be hers to do with whatever she wishes, in her opinion.”

“Is that true?”

Betta considered Pilar’s question and shook her head. “I couldn’t say. It would depend on what kind of agreement the man had with the museum, and if his heirs are bound by it. Do you have any interest in the drawing?”

Pilar waved a finger before taking a drink of wine. It was a very Italian gesture, and Rick wondered whether it was one common in Spain as well. “Tell me, Pilar, have you decided yet if you’re going to retain Garcia at the mill? Last night you were leaning toward a yes.” He looked at Betta, who was carefully placing her fork at the top of her empty dish, avoiding his eye.

At that moment the waiter arrived, and they paused while he removed their pasta dishes. DiMaio tapped on the almost empty wine bottle, and the waiter gave him a confirming nod.

“I’m not sure, Riccardo. I talked with some of my section managers back in Spain this morning, and their reaction was mixed. It made me think that it might be time for a complete change in personnel. My father’s death was not something I was expecting, of course, so I hadn’t put any thought into what I would do differently if I became the owner. So as far as Lucho, I’m still leaning toward retaining him, but thinking about it.”

“If I were in his shoes,” said DiMaio, “I’d be worrying about my position and doing some lobbying with the new boss.” He glanced up. “But we should be trying to keep your mind off such decisions and get back to the important business of enjoying this meal. Our chicken has arrived.”

Like the first course, the second came on a large serving platter along with four plates. The chicken breasts, topped with thin slices of prosciutto and melted cheese, rested on pan drippings that had been swirled with cognac. The smells of the other flavors, rich as they were, played second fiddle to the shaved truffle sprinkled on the cheese. The waiter put a piece of chicken on each plate and spooned sauce over it before placing the plates in front of the four diners, who instinctively leaned forward and sniffed.

“Truffles can be overpowering,” said DiMaio, “but here they add just the right amount of flavor so that it works.” After initial tastes, they all agreed and became so engrossed in their enjoyment of the dish that they barely noticed the arrival of the second bottle of Bianchello del Metauro.

“When are you planning to return to Spain?”

Betta’s question prompted an exchange of looks between Pilar and DiMaio.

“I’m in no rush, really. The mill is in good hands, and, despite the reason for this visit, I have to admit that I’m enjoying being back in Italy.” She told them about her first experience, as a student in Florence, and how it had made her decide to pursue textile design as her life work. At the time she had considered staying in Italy, but her father had insisted she come home because of her mother’s illness. It had been the right thing to do. By the time her mother died, Pilar was making all the design decisions at the company and thoughts of living in Italy had disappeared, or at least been suppressed. Now they flowed back. “I’ll have to return to Spain. There is no alternative.”

“But not immediately, I hope.”

“No, Alfredo, not immediately.”

An awkward silence was broken by Rick. “We also went to Monterchi. Don’t you want to hear about that, Alfredo?”

“Oh, of course. How did that go?”

“The woman who found the drawing is no longer alive,” Betta said, “but we talked to her daughter. The way she described the transaction is what I would have expected, since we’ve seen this kind of thing before. Work of art found in an attic, art dealer contacted, art authenticated, art sold for a lot of money. The daughter didn’t know about it until the drawing was sold and her mother bought the house where the daughter is now living.”

“End of story.”

“Not exactly. We dropped in to see the Madonna del Parto and met the director. She turned out to be the Piero expert who verified the drawing as authentic. We had a pleasant lunch with her but didn’t learn anything more of interest.”

Pilar finished her last slice of truffled chicken. “What’s next for you, Betta?”

“I don’t know, Pilar. I need a break in the case. Something. Anything.”

DiMaio nodded. “You could say the same about my case.”

* * *

Rick and Betta looked up and down the street when the restaurant door closed behind them and took deep breaths of the cool evening air. It felt good on their faces after the wine and rich food.

“I should have dropped a trail of bread crumbs to find our way back,” Rick said.

But they easily made it out to the main street, helped by the occasional sign for the Palazzo Ducale. The square in front of the palace was brightly lit, a single spotlight trained on the banner for the exhibit opening the next night. Only a few people were about at this hour, groups of university students and the odd worker on his or her way home from the late shift. Betta held Rick’s arm as they looked at the massive outline of the building. She turned her face to the cathedral, also bathed in light.

“Rick, we’ll have to say something to Alfredo about what happened there earlier. It may be nothing, but it could have some bearing on the case. Alfredo has to be the judge of that.”

“Pilar certainly didn’t appear upset at the restaurant. She is either very good at recovering from unpleasant incidents, or it may not have been anything serious. That