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

plants donated by the wealthy Spaniard. The glass panes had been cleaned, but from where he stood, the plants appeared to be surrounded by fuzzy halos thanks to the humidity inside.

Nino noticed that the door to the greenhouse was slightly ajar and made a mental note to check its latch and hinges. He pushed it open and closed it carefully behind him, breathing in the earthy odor that was even stronger in the glass-enclosed environment. The yucca’s white flowers dangled over the tops of lower plants from its place of honor in the corner. He walked down the narrow gravel path and made a right turn. It was a hardy plant; the only care needed was pulling off any of the jagged leaves that might have turned brown and died. It had to be perfect for the visit of Somonte. Nino’s eyes moved from the topmost flowers down to the base when his chest tightened and a wave of nausea washed over him.

On the sandy soil sat the body of the plant’s donor, Manuel Somonte, dressed in a brown suit. He was propped against the plant, his head leaning to one side. His eyes were closed, as if sleeping, but the dark red stain on his shirt said otherwise. A small plaque noted that the yucca was a gift from the generous Spaniard. Above the plaque, written in larger letters, was the plant’s Latin botanical designation followed by its popular name: Spanish Dagger.

Chapter Two

Rick Montoya blinked open his eyes when the car left the tunnel and sunlight poured over his face. He rubbed his neck, sat up in the seat, and looked out at the scenery of eastern Tuscany. The terrain was similar to what they’d passed through north of Rome earlier that morning. The wooded hills of the Alpe di Poti, some of them almost a thousand meters high, formed a natural barrier until engineers had gouged through them to shorten the route between Arezzo and Sansepolcro. The road would soon be flatter as it swung north, skirting the border with Umbria before reaching the broad valley below Anghiari. He unsuccessfully stifled a yawn and glanced at Betta Innocenti, whose hands were lightly gripping the steering wheel.

In profile, her smooth neck drew his attention. Did she keep her dark hair short to accentuate the beauty of her neck? Knowing Betta as he did, he doubted it. The cut, almost boyish, was perfect for someone as busy as she, someone who didn’t want to spend time on her hair. Having perfect features and thick, healthy hair didn’t hurt, Rick thought. Today the earrings were, as always, understated: tiny dots of gold. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen anything dangling from those ears, and could not. He inclined his head toward her and caught a hint of her perfume. Dahlia Noir, the same she’d been wearing when they’d met in her home town of Bassano del Grappa more than a year ago.

She downshifted through a curve. “Back among the living, Signor Montoya? You’ve been dead to the world since we left the autostrada.”

He couldn’t help lightly stroking the back of her neck before stretching his arms toward the windshield. “I was up late last night finishing an extremely tedious translation so that I would be free to spend a few days with you, cara.”

“You could have skipped your morning run and slept in. I didn’t pick you up until eight thirty.”

“Miss my run? Not a chance. Are we there yet?”

A truck going back toward Arezzo passed them as they began climbing a hill into a grove of trees. Their car was a dark blue Fiat, standard issue from the Ministry of Culture where Betta worked at the office of cultural property in the section popularly known as the art cops.

“We are close.”

“Tell me about this guy Somonte. I may not have focused on details the other night when you invited me to tag along today.”

“You’re here to translate when needed, which is the way I justified it to my boss.”

“You told me that Somonte speaks Italian.”

“I forgot to mention that to my capo.”

Rick grinned. “Well, all I remember is that he’s a rich Spaniard.”

“Very rich. Self-made man who started out working in a wool mill and ended up owning it and many others.” She eased into a higher gear as the car came off the hill. “He’s from northern Spain, Asturias, where there are a lot of sheep.”

“I know about Asturias, Betta. I had a great uncle—a Puente, not a Montoya—whose ancestors came from there. It is a rough, mountainous region. I remember him telling me that Asturias was the only part of Spain that the Moors were unable to subjugate.”

“Because of the mountains?”

“No, because of the tough Asturianos, if you are to believe my uncle. So what else about Somonte?”

Betta pushed up her sunglasses, rubbed her eyes, and let them drop back on her nose. “Manuel Somonte. Father Spaniard, but his mother was Italian. His parents met when she was hiking the pilgrim trail that goes through northern Spain ending at Santiago de Compostela. Coincidentally, she was from Anghiari.”

“Coincidentally?”

Betta pointed across acres of flat fields to a town clinging to the side of the hill in the distance. “That’s Anghiari there. Which is why we’re driving to Sansepolcro, now just a few kilometers ahead. Manuel learned from his mother to love Italy and feels he has deep roots here as well as in Asturias.”

Rick looked, but his view was quickly cut off by the fence surrounding a long warehouse. They were entering an industrial area where factories, gas stations, and big-box stores lined both sides of the road. It was the same as in almost any Italian town, where space in the historic center was at a premium and commerce spread out like lava, taking over farmland in the name of progress.

“And his mother also taught him the Italian language that your boss wasn’t told about.”

“Precisely. He also got from her an appreciation for Italian art, which