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

“What are you going to do now, Lucho? I mean, when you return to Spain. From what you said it does not appear that Pilar is going to retain you in the business.”

“Ah, but she may have to. Her father wrote down as little as possible about how the mill runs, but he confided in me. This may be the twenty-first century, but for commerce in northern Spain it’s sometimes still the Middle Ages. I know the secrets about our employees, not to mention suppliers and buyers. Her father wove a web of relationships based on those secrets and I’m the only one who can navigate through it for her. Pilar isn’t happy with the situation, but if she fires me she’ll regret it, and she knows it.”

“When you were spying—to use your term—you didn’t describe this web?”

“I always found ways to avoid passing those details to her. At the time I was trying to be loyal to my employer, but now I think I was just planning for this day and didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

“What would you like me to do, Lucho?”

“You’ve already been a great help, just by listening to me rant, but I’m afraid it won’t help find Somonte’s murderer. If there were some way I could help, believe me, I would. He was not a perfect person, by any means, but he was like a second father to me. His killer must be found and punished.”

The best Rick could do to reassure him was to say that Inspector DiMaio was an excellent police officer. Garcia stood and shook Rick’s hand.

“I have to get back. Isabella is having her hair and nails done for the event this evening, and she doesn’t know I’m here.”

Rick suddenly remembered that he was supposed to check alibis for the time of the shooting. How could he do it tactfully? “There is a salon right at the hotel?”

“And a spa. She’s been there since early this morning.”

“Which gives you some time to relax. Have you been able to walk around the city at all?”

“I did, this morning.” He checked his watch. “I really have to go. Thank you for letting me talk to you, Ricardo.”

* * *

The gardens were twenty degrees warmer than on the street, turning a cool day into summer and adding weight to an atmosphere that was already heavy with the rich scent of plants. A trickle of sweat inched its way down DiMaio’s neck and seeped into his collar, but more annoying was that Florio did not seem the least bothered by the humidity. On the contrary, the man thrived in it, happily pointing out every plant they passed by, noting its scientific name. It was like being back in high school Latin class, taught by a priest who taunted the young DiMaio mercilessly when he couldn’t recite his verb tenses correctly. He should have asked the professor to meet him out on the street. Finally, Florio realized that the policeman was not there for a botany lesson.

“But I suppose you are not here for a botany lesson, Inspector.”

DiMaio took out his handkerchief and dried his palms. “No, Professor. What I wanted—”

“Before you get to it, I must tell you that I have another theory about the death of Signor Somonte. It came to me early this morning when I was watering the plants in my office. I always get to work early so I can do it unrushed, being sure that each one is sufficiently moist, except for the cacti, of course, which are on a separate schedule. I was also meeting one of my students, a brilliant young woman from Padova who is writing her thesis on phototropism in the aloe plant. But I am digressing.”

“Yes, you are, Professor.”

Florio gathered his thoughts, and DiMaio waited, none too patiently, hoping this wasn’t another wacky idea from the pages of a murder mystery. He was disappointed.

“I recalled a quandary that Montalbano was in when Fazio insisted that the murdered doctor was the victim of a mafia vendetta. It seemed logical, since the man had recently stopped paying protection money to the leading crime family.”

“Professor, we don’t have any mafia presence here in Urbino.”

“Exactly. Anyway, Montalbano knew something wasn’t right; he could feel it in his bones. Being an experienced policeman, he knew that when something didn’t smell right, there had to be a reason why.”

DiMaio spotted an open sack of fertilizer and tried to breathe through his mouth. “I know how that is.”

“Montalbano decided to go in the opposite direction from where the evidence was pushing him. Forget the mafia; someone was using it to throw him off the real track, which involved an insurance policy. I think that may be the situation in this investigation. Everything here says that Somonte was killed for the drawing, am I right?”

“For the sake of argument, let’s say you are.”

“Well, it could just be a ruse to keep you from focusing on the real motive.”

“Which is?”

“The ransom.”

“Ransom?”

“Absolutely. Somonte was kidnapped, and before they could send a ransom note, he tried to escape and was killed.” Florio held out his hands, palms up, to show how obvious was his conclusion.

“Hmm. Very ingenious, Professor. A botched kidnapping. But before I follow that hypothesis, I must first tie up any loose ends on the one regarding the stolen drawing. Which is the reason I wanted to talk to you.”

A large group of people were trying to squeeze past them on the narrow path between the plants. One of them looked at Florio and stopped. “Do you work here? We’re looking for the place where the body was found.”

“Just around that corner. The Spanish dagger. Very rare, but of course we have an excellent collection of rare plants.” The group shuffled ahead and disappeared around the corner of the path. Florio returned his attention to DiMaio. “It’s astounding how our attendance has shot up since the, uh, incident. I won’t have to worry about my budget for this quarter.