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

introduced herself and Rick, they were offered and politely declined something to drink.

“I saw the story on TV but didn’t know that it was my mother’s drawing. That’s what you’re saying, that it was her drawing that’s missing?”

“It was,” answered Betta. “We got her address, this address, from the man who bought it from her. Had you met Signor Bruzzone?”

“Bruzzone? No, this is the first I’ve heard the name. You see, my mother didn’t tell me about finding the drawing until after it was sold. My husband and I were living in Città di Castello at the time, and my mother was renting this house. I should say this half of the house since it’s a duplex and there’s another family on the other side. With the money from the drawing she was able to buy it, and when she died it was bequeathed to me. We were paying rent in Città di Castello so it made sense to move here, since my husband can easily drive back to his work. It was also larger, so Giorgio has more room to play, and his sister loves the school here.”

The boy took the mention of his name as a cue and walked over to pick up a pair of the plastic blocks. He looked at the two visitors before walking to Rick. “My blocks.”

“Those are nice blocks,” said Rick. “Can I see them?”

Giorgio put the two blocks in Rick’s hand and bent down for more.

“You have made a friend, Signor Montoya,” said Signora Camozzo.

“I am honored.” Rick put the blocks on the coffee table in front of him and started to arrange them into walls, while Giorgio picked more off the floor and brought them to him. “Don’t let us interrupt the conversation.”

Betta looked at Rick and the boy for a moment before turning back to Giorgio’s mother. “Did your mother tell you where she found the drawing?”

“Not exactly. She mentioned an old trunk. But for several years, even before that, she had been starting to show her age. I was never sure if what she was saying was something that had really happened or if it had been remembered from years before. It wasn’t dementia; she was still very sharp, but there were occasional lapses. I’m sure she simply didn’t want to share the details with me.”

“Why would that be?” Betta asked.

Signora Camozzo took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she decided how to answer. “She resented that we lived so far away and she couldn’t see her grandchildren every day.”

“Città di Castello couldn’t be more than a dozen kilometers from here,” said Betta.

“That’s true, but my mother didn’t have a car—not that she knew how to drive if she’d had one—and she hated getting on the bus since it stopped several blocks from our house. Because of that she only saw us on weekends when we would come here for lunch, or pick her up to drive her back to our house.” She shook her head with the memory. “In her mind we might as well have been living in Perugia or Florence, and my husband was to blame. Because of that she never wanted to tell me things because she didn’t want him to know anything. It was spiteful and childish, but that’s the way she was.”

Rick listened to the exchange while stacking blocks.

“Fortunately,” the woman continued, “the children didn’t know what was going on between their grandmother and their parents, and Mamma was very good with them. Perhaps I’m making too much of it all. Are you sure you won’t have some coffee? It won’t take me but a minute to prepare it.”

Betta assured her that they were fine. Rick and Giorgio had built a foundation and were leaving spaces for the windows, so that it was starting to look like the house where they all were sitting.

“How did your mother die?” Betta asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“The doctor said her heart gave out. She had been ill for several years with heart problems, so it wasn’t a shock. I’m an only child, and since my father died years ago, I was the one to look after her. During the week I would drop my husband at his office, our daughter at school, and Giorgio and I would come here to Monterchi. After lunch we’d drive back to Città di Castello in time for school letting out.”

“I’m sure your mother appreciated your efforts.”

Signora Camozzo shrugged and looked at her son. “She enjoyed seeing Giorgio.”

Later Rick and Betta stood on the street outside. It was warmer than when they had entered the Camozzo residence thanks to the rays of late-morning sun that struck the front of the building and bounced onto the street. A brown tabby cat, oblivious to their presence, apricated on one of the stone windowsills, his tail hanging limply over the edge.

“You and Giorgio were bonding well in there. I was not aware that you have such a way with children.”

“I’ve had plenty of experience working on Legos with my two nephews, Betta. They had a huge bin of the things, and along with my brother-in-law we would spend hours constructing stuff. It’s something I miss about not living in Albuquerque. That and green chile cheeseburgers. Speaking of which, where are we going to have lunch?”

“It’s only noon, Rick. I thought we would first stop in to see the Madonna del Parto while we’re here. It’s the most famous work of art in the town.”

“The only work of art in the town.”

“You could say that.”

They walked to the car and Rick opened the driver’s side door. “Did you get anything useful from Signora Camozzo?”

She got in and waited for him to come around to the passenger seat. “As much as anything I was curious about how and where her mother found the drawing. Provenance is something my office is always interested in, especially with stolen pieces.” She turned the key and started the engine. “In this case it likely has