To Die in Tuscany by David Wagner (uplifting books for women .txt) 📗

thing since we are always trying to get more visitors. Revenue is critical in keeping the gardens going, since they sit on some very valuable real estate.”

“Was there a chance the gate was left open yesterday after the gardens closed?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Inspector. I will check, but I’m sure they locked up as they always do.”

“I’ll need the names and contact information for those other people with keys.” He pulled out a card and stretched it over the cacti to Florio’s hand. “You can email it to me. That’s all of them?”

“Well, Somonte had his key, of course.”

DiMaio’s head jerked up. “Somonte?”

“Sorry, I was assuming you knew. It was given to him in that ceremony when he formally donated all the plants. It was the rector’s idea, like giving him the key to the city. Purely symbolic, of course, since I would let him into the gardens whenever he wanted, but he appreciated the gesture and carried it with him. It was a real key.”

“How many people knew he had that key?”

Florio shrugged. “All of us did, of course. But also anyone who had read the story in the newspaper or seen the report on TV. Wait, I can show you.” He went to another of the drawers behind the desk, found a tan file, and opened it on the desk. “Here it is.”

He passed a tattered newspaper clipping over the cacti to DiMaio. The picture at the top of the story showed Somonte, flanked by Florio and a well-dressed man the caption identified as the rector, the three standing in front of tall plants. Somonte was holding up his key, hanging from a ribbon. Everyone smiled.

DiMaio read through the story, passed it back to Florio, and rose to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Professor. If there’s anything else that comes to mind, you know how to reach me.”

“Of course. Here, let me show you to the door.” He squeezed around the desk. “I will also be revising my theories about this crime. Perhaps I can be of assistance.” He pointed to the wall. “Did you see this, Inspector?”

Having been overwhelmed by all the plants, DiMaio had not noticed the framed photograph. A balding, round-faced man sat at a restaurant table behind a plate of pasta, and leaning down over the man’s shoulder was a beaming Florio. The look on the man’s face said he was not pleased that his meal had been interrupted.

“Andrea Camilleri, of course,” said Florio. “I suggested a plot line he could use. He might have been planning to use it in his next book, but of course he passed away. Such a tragedy for mystery readers.”

* * *

The restaurant consisted of one room, rectangular and large, with high ceilings. All the tables were full, but despite the numbers of diners, the noise level was low. It may have been due to the roof design, pitched and strengthened with heavy crossbeams, but more likely it was due to the reluctance of the diners to raise their voices. The elegance of the place—white tablecloths and star-shaped glass chandeliers hanging from the beams—called for polite conversation. This was very different from the trattoria where Rick, Betta, and DiMaio had lunch. Adding to the difference was the presence of Pilar Somonte. She was as elegant as before, and DiMaio had shaved and changed into a better suit.

“When he’s not watering his plants, he reads mysteries,” said DiMaio after describing his encounter with Professor Florio.

Their wineglasses were half-filled with a ruby-tinted Rosso Cònero as they awaited the arrival of the first course. They had made it easy on the cook by all ordering the same dish, gnocchetti al ragu di cinghiale, which the waiter said was a specialty of the house. The red wine they’d chosen, he assured them, would be a perfect match for the rich wild boar sauce on the small gnocchi.

“So do I,” said Pilar. “Read mysteries, I mean, not water plants.”

“But you don’t presume to tell us police how to do our jobs because you’ve read every book by Andrea Camilleri.”

“I’m a big fan of Camilleri,” said Rick while taking a piece of bread from the basket in the middle of the table. “Except for how Montalbano refuses to talk during meals.”

Betta nodded. “I always found that a bit strange myself.”

DiMaio shook his head. “Why don’t we talk about something other than mystery books? Like Pilar’s work in the wool business.”

“That’s kind of you, Alfredo, but there isn’t that much to tell, really. I work mostly with our clients so that we produce the patterns they need in the right fabric texture. They plan ahead, so we’re now working on next spring’s fashions, mostly lightweight wools like this one.” She wore a beige sweater with a subtle blue stripe.

Betta looked at Rick and turned to Pilar. “Will you now have a larger role in the business? Perhaps I shouldn’t bring that up.”

“No, no, that’s all right. My father has left the business to me, which is what I assume you are asking. I haven’t talked to the family attorney since flying here, but it’s what my father told me a few years ago, after he remarried. That woman will get the house, as well as their summer home on Minorca, along with a sizable number of euros in the form of a trust. She will be able to live comfortably the rest of her life without having to stick her nose into the business. The mill is mine.”

Everyone noticed that her voice had hardened.

“It appears that your father didn’t leave any detail to chance,” said DiMaio. “In my experience, that is not always the case, and sometimes the fighting over an inheritance can go on for years. Even though you and your father were estranged, as you said this afternoon, you should be grateful to him for what he did to avoid such unpleasantness.”

“I suppose so, but I’m afraid it was more his need for control, even after he was gone.” The