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

some of her mother’s inheritance. In addition, several years back there was some issue about a man they were both interested in.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Really? All the money wouldn’t all go to Gina?”

“She didn’t think so.”

“Both those revelations make this Francine woman a stronger suspect. But if the daughter gets most of the inheritance, she’s a suspect as well. And she has no alibi.”

“Nobody does; the murder happened in the middle of the night.”

The water and wine arrived, along with a basket of warm bread that the waiter proudly noted had just come out of the oven. They turned their attention to the menu and decided, since they made their own bread in the place, to start with the crostini di caccia, toasts with pâté made from various things hunted. It seemed like an appropriate dish for a cool autumn meal. Staying in the same seasonal mood, they both ordered the fettuccine al profumo di bosco. Rick guessed that the “scent of the forest” on the fresh pasta would include, at a minimum, some type of mushroom. After the pasta course they would decide what else they wanted, if anything. He poured each of them wine and they tapped glasses.

Rick was bringing the wine to his lips when he heard the familiar sound of the Lobo Fight Song. He put down his glass and pulled his phone from his pocket.

“It’s LoGuercio.”

Betta shrugged and sipped her wine.

“Si, Paolo…no, we’re outside Todi, having lunch…not at all, the food hasn’t arrived yet.” He looked at Betta, who was drumming her fingers on the table in what Rick interpreted as mock impatience. “Sure, I’ll come by when we get back, I have some things I wanted to tell you anyway, since I ran into one of the American women…yes, that should be perfect, see you then.” He closed the phone.

“Is there something new?”

“I don’t think so,” Rick answered. “He wants to go over where things are at this point. Right now he’s going to see Signora Vecchi.” He noted the puzzled frown on Betta’s face. “She’s the woman who ran the boardinghouse where our victim lived when she was a student here. I may not have mentioned her to you.”

“One of many things you hadn’t mentioned. But you can tell him what the daughter said.”

Rick pulled a crust of bread from the basket. It was still warm. “Exactly. But the other thing Gina said I need to think about a bit more to decide how to translate it into Italian for Paolo. I was about to tell you.”

“You weren’t going to keep it from me again?”

He ignored the jab. “She said something about Francine, the other woman, not really showing much grief. But if I understood correctly, she also insinuated that Francine is, well, fooling around.”

“Here? They just got to Italy a few days ago. Wait a minute. Do you mean…?”

“Exactly. The caretaker. Paolo’s hunch that young Donato could be doing more than cutting the grass may be correct.”

The waiter put empty plates before each of them and positioned the platter of crostini in the center of the table. Rick saw two kinds of pâté, a mushroom and tomato spread, and something else he didn’t recognize but looked very appetizing. He also counted them.

“Thank goodness,” he said as he motioned for her to take first pick. “It’s an even number. We won’t have to fight over the odd one.”

Chapter Eleven

LoGuercio was not surprised to find that Signora Vecchi lived a mere two blocks from the police station. The town was so small that several Orvietos could fit inside the walls of his native Ferrara. When he was growing up, his preferred mode of transportation had been the bicycle, as it still was in the city for young and old. Unlike the many Italian cities that had been built on hilltops, Ferrara was flat and spacious, its streets straight and often wide. In Orvieto there were few bike riders, in part because of the inclines of some of the streets, but mostly because everything was close enough to walk. That’s what LoGuercio had decided to do to reach the woman’s residence.

He stopped when he got to the door. The two-story building had a plain front painted dark yellow, and its entrance was marked by a marble slab: Casa San Bernardo—1948. It was one of a few retirement homes in the city, one that LoGuercio guessed had been built to house the many widows caused by the war. The design was bland and institutional, with no hint of the fascist architectural style popular less than a decade before the date on the plaque. He pushed open the door and entered a wide reception area. A nurse looked up from a desk on one side and eyed him with curiosity. He was not a family member she was used to seeing. Her expression turned to surprise when he showed her his identification and asked for Signora Vecchi. She had trouble forming her words.

“But, I don’t understand.”

“I said I’d like to speak with—”

“No, Inspector, I heard you. What I don’t understand is how Signora Vecchi knew you were coming. She told me this morning after breakfast that someone would show up to see her today. Since she has no relatives that I know of, I found it strange. And now you appear.” She gestured toward open double doors on the other side of the room. “She’s waiting for you in the visitors salon. She’s the woman wearing a bright red sweater.”

LoGuercio thanked her and walked to the doorway. The visitors salon was divided into a half dozen conversation areas, each with comfortable if shabby chairs. One was being used by two people who looked old enough to be residents, but they were chatting with a much older man who listened with a distracted smile. On the other side of the room, under a hanging light fixture that looked to be original to the building, Signora Vecchi sat on a wide couch. She looked up and smiled