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

toward Sansepolcro, Betta continued straight, following the signs for Monterchi and crossing under the expressway that connected Rimini on the coast with Perugia.

The fertility of the soil in the valley was evident, not just from the vast fields starting to sprout crops but in the agro-business buildings and warehouses that appeared regularly along the straight road. Betta slowed as they entered the town of Petrino. Change the sign at the edge of town, Rick thought, and it could be any of a hundred small agriculture-based cities in northern Italy. Two-story residences appeared as soon as the fields ended, along with the occasional gas station. Then, once into the center, a church, shops, a park, a school, and the inevitable pizzeria. The sequence reversed and they were out into the fields again. For a brief few kilometers they drove through the northern bump of Umbria that pushed against Tuscany, before the car crossed the border. The people of Monterchi were Tuscan rather than Umbrian by a scant kilometer.

Like so many other towns in Italy, Monterchi was built on a hill, the better to fortify and protect its inhabitants when danger threatened. As hills went in Tuscany, this was a small one, but high enough to offer a view of the valley and spot anyone approaching, be it friend or foe. A large parking area lay between the town and the road, set up for tourists who were prohibited from driving up the narrow streets to the old part of town. Along with cars, a few buses sat waiting for the people who had walked the final few meters up to the centro storico. Betta spotted a traffic policeman, pulled in, and rolled down her window. The cop, who had been issuing tickets, noticed and walked a few steps to the car.

“We’re looking for Via San Frediano,” she said.

“Right there,” he answered, pointing with his pen to a street directly on the other side of the parking area. “You could leave your car here and walk, if you’d like. Just get a ticket from the machine and put in on your dashboard where I can see it.”

She thanked him and pushed the button to roll up the window. “He probably gets paid from the fines he writes.” They pulled to the edge of the lot, waited for a break in the traffic, and crossed over the road to enter Via San Frediano. After only twenty meters she slowed, checked out the number on one of the buildings, and pulled over to park. “This should be it.”

The house looked like the one next to it and the two across the street, as if they had all been projects of the same geometra and put up at the same time, which Rick estimated to be at least a half century earlier. It was two stories and essentially a single long box with shuttered windows, all the same size. Stucco had chipped off in a few places, exposing the cement block underneath, but the overall impression was neatness. Washing hung from a wire running between two of the second-floor windows, and two satellite dishes aimed skyward from positions on the slightly pitched roof. Set precisely between the bottom windows was the plain, wood door. Rick and Betta got out of the car and walked to it.

Two doorbells were lined up at eye level on one side of the door, neither of which had the name that Betta expected to see. She looked above the door at the number.

“This is the address Bruzzone gave me, but I don’t see a Spadini. Well, we’ve come this far—let’s see what we can find out. Pick one, Rick.”

“Sinistra.”

Betta rang the left bell for a few seconds and they waited. “I think I hear some movement.”

A few moments later fumbling was heard inside, and the door creaked open. From down near the floor a small head peeked out. Betta smiled down at it. “Hi. We would like to speak with Signora Spadini. Is she here?”

The face belonged to a boy of about five. He looked up at Betta with wide eyes, then switched them to Rick, who smiled and waved. The boy was still staring at the two visitors when a female voice came from deep in the house.

“Who is it, Giorgio?”

Giorgio looked behind him toward the voice, then back at Betta, before slowly closing the door.

“The lad needs to work on his greeting routine,” Rick said. “He’s got the door opening part down pretty well, but after that, it’s definitely lacking.”

They could hear the sound of footsteps approaching quickly from inside, and the door was opened by a woman wearing an apron over slacks and a baggy sweatshirt. She gave them a puzzled look. “May I help you?” Giorgio was wrapped around one leg, staring up at Betta.

“Signora Spadini?” said Betta. “We’re with the police. Can we speak with you a moment?”

The woman’s face froze. “I…I am not Signora Spadini. She lived here until she died, but that was six months ago.” She made no move to open the door more than half way. “I am her daughter, Egle Camozzo.”

“Our condolences, Signora. Obviously we were not aware of your mother’s passing. I am with the art police in Rome, and we are investigating a missing drawing that your mother first discovered.”

The words had the effect of calming the woman, and she opened the door fully. “I saw something on the news about that. The Spanish man who was murdered? Please come in. Giorgio, let go of my leg.”

They were in a small hallway with two doors. The boy released his grip on his mother and pressed himself against the wall, still keeping his eye on Betta. She and Rick followed the woman through one of the doors into a sitting room, its floor strewn with plastic blocks. A flat-screen TV was propped on a side table, faced by chairs where the three adults sat after maneuvering through the minefield of blocks. Giorgio hung back in the doorway. After Betta