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

table was silent, and Pilar quickly sensed the discomfort around her. “But to answer your question, Betta, I was not expecting my father to live much longer. And because of that I have put some thought into changes I might make when it happened.”

“You can make all the changes you like when you move into your father’s office,” said Rick.

Pilar picked up her glass and studied it. Light from the chandelier above the table rippled through the wine as she slowly swirled it. “I’m not sure I’ll take over the office. I quite enjoy my work now, and I may not have what is needed to manage the entire operation. It’s always wise to know one’s strengths as well as one’s limitations.”

“So you’ll hire a manager.”

“That’s one possibility, Riccardo.”

“I’m guessing you won’t keep Lucho Garcia on the payroll.”

She thought for a moment before answering. “Actually, Lucho is very good at what he does. He had to be, or my father would not have kept him as his assistant. If I hire a new general manager rather than take over the company myself, it would be wise to keep Lucho in place. At this point, he’s the institutional memory. But we’ll see.”

The pasta course arrived. With four plates, the gamey aroma of the wild boar and tomato dominated the air over the table. After exchanging wishes of buon appetito, they began eating.

“Perhaps Montalbano is correct,” said Rick, “and we should refrain from speaking while eating this dish.” The silence lasted only to the third bite.

“I had a call from Bruzzone,” said DiMaio. “Pilar, he’s the art dealer who sold your father the drawing. He wanted to know how the investigation was progressing and sounded very agitated.”

“He was quite shaken when I told him the news,” said Betta.

“My father gave him a lot of business, more than just the drawing. Every time he returned from here, he would show me what he’d acquired. It was one of the few interactions I had with him outside of discussing fabrics, since he knew I love Italy as much as he did. It’s understandable that Bruzzone would be upset, losing such a good client.”

“Did Bruzzone have anything new to add?” Rick asked.

“I didn’t talk with him very long. I set up a formal interview for tomorrow morning.”

Everyone was finishing their gnocchi when a chirping sound got their attention. Pilar pulled open the purse that hung from her chair back, pulled out her phone, and checked the number. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to take this.” She got to her feet and walked toward the door of the restaurant while putting the phone to her ear. Rick and DiMaio, who had stood up when she did, sat back in their chairs.

“Alfredo,” said Betta, “we were a bit surprised to see Pilar with you when we arrived here tonight.”

“You thought she would be in mourning and not want to come out?”

“No, no. Not that…”

“You think she’s a suspect, Betta? If I’m not mistaken, Pilar was in Spain when her father was killed.”

Rick noticed the edge in the policeman’s words. “Alfredo, it makes perfect sense to talk with Pilar in an informal setting rather than at the commissariato. She has already given us some insights into her father and his relationship with the others. You were right to include her this evening. And I’m certain the fact that she is a beautiful woman had nothing to do with inviting her.”

DiMaio smiled. “Of course it didn’t.” Rick was successful in breaking the tension. He and DiMaio rose to their feet as Pilar approached the table.

“Please excuse me,” she said as DiMaio helped her with the chair. “It was my chief designer. She had an issue about dealing with one of our customers who can be very demanding.” She replaced her napkin in her lap. “What do you recommend for a secondo here, Alfredo?”

* * *

Later, Rick and Betta emerged from a small street into the square in front of the duomo and the Palazzo Ducale. The cool night air felt good on their faces after the food and wine, and they were purposely taking a circuitous route back to their hotel. Arrow-shaped tourist signs for the city’s landmarks got them through the maze of alleys and passageways outside the restaurant to reach the heart of the city. They stood before the two buildings Rick had seen from their hotel room window, a rectangular piazza separating them. A long banner for the upcoming exhibit hung horizontally from the plain facade of the palace, lit by a spotlight. In contrast, the portico on the side of the church held only shadows and darkness. They stopped to take in the scene and enjoy the light breeze coming up from the streets below.

“You said you’ve been to the museum, Rick?”

“Yes, but a long time ago. In my youth.”

“You’ll enjoy it more now that you’re an old man.” She took his hand and after some silence spoke again. “Alfredo was somewhat defensive about having Pilar there tonight.”

“It was a bit strange to see her there, but I think he knows what he’s doing.”

She chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“I didn’t mean that, but you’re right, of course.” He put his arm over her shoulder. “I certainly can’t criticize Alfredo for wanting to be with a beautiful woman; that would be very hypocritical.”

Betta gave him a peck on the cheek. “You have a way with words.”

“It’s my job.”

“Did you also find it strange, Rick, that Pilar had to take that call during dinner? Why wouldn’t her assistant have called during the day? I think someone else was calling, and she didn’t want us to know who it was.”

“That never occurred to me. Perhaps you’ve been in the police so long that you suspect everyone.”

“Or I’ve been an Italian too long.”

An elderly couple dressed in wool coats walked slowly past them, speaking so that only they could hear each other’s words. Rick and Betta watched them shuffle along cobblestones made smooth by countless other pedestrians over decades