Return to Umbria by David Wagner (13 ebook reader txt) 📗

never met a destitute lawyer. Who is the guy having lunch with the mayor? One of his political allies?”

“If someone’s having lunch with the mayor he likely wants something from the city.” LoGuercio glanced quickly at the other table where the two men were deep in conversation. “A local businessman named Vincenzo Aragona.”

LoGuercio didn’t notice the exchange of looks between Rick and Betta.

“What kind of business?” Betta asked.

“Wine. He owns the Sonnomonte Vineyards east of town. Not Orvieto Classico but some other grape, apparently he exports a lot of it. He’s very active in the chamber of commerce, which is probably why he’s lunching with our illustrious mayor.”

Rick turned and tried to surreptitiously size up Aragona. His suit was as well cut as the mayor’s, but unlike his dining partner he had a craggy face which may have come from spending time outside. It was difficult to picture the man picking grapes, but riding a horse through the fields could work. Large hands and a serious bulk went along with the image. Rick had not pictured Tullia Aragona’s husband to be small and weak, but neither did he expect a bruiser like this man. He did not follow the scripted image of the cuckolded spouse.

The sorbetto arrived; white, orange, and red spheres in porcelain dishes. After serving them, the waiter positioned a small plate of thin sugar cookies in the middle of the table.

“Paolo,” said Betta after her first bite of the sorbet, “have you contacted the police in the woman’s hometown in America?”

“I sent a fax this morning, written by one of my sergeants who claims to have good English skills, with the basic facts of the case as we knew them then. Hadn’t heard back when I left to come here, but it’s early in the morning in Arizona.”

Rick was trying to decide whether to finish off one flavor before starting on the next, or taking a spoonful from each in a circle until it was all gone. He opted for the latter.

“Paolo, if it would help, I can call the authorities there and explain what’s happened. They may have some ideas, though I doubt it.”

“Certainly. We can do that after we go see Professor Tansillo.”

Betta had finished the lemon and was starting on peach. “You didn’t mention the fingerprint to the mayor, Paolo. It might have made him happy that some progress has been made.”

LoGuercio shrugged. “I suppose I could have. But we really should keep that kind of detail within the investigation. Boscoli knows everyone in town, and he might be tempted to share the news, and it would spread quickly. The murderer might hear that we have the print and disappear.”

“If he hasn’t already,” Betta added, before finishing her sorbet.

Chapter Seven

Twenty kilometers from Orvieto, the small historic center of Bolsena sat on a hill overlooking the volcanic lake that shared its name. The tranquility of the clear water, broken only by the occasional sailboat, gave no hint to the violent eruption that had formed its bowl in prehistory. Today the shore was dotted with small hotels and restaurants, their Roman clientele less bellicose than the legions which millennia earlier had camped along its waters on their way to Gaul. The culinary draw was the same then as now: a variety of freshwater fish which quickly went from net to grill. Unfortunately, Rick and LoGuercio were not going to Bolsena in search of the catch of the day; their fishing would be inside the memory of Professor Luigi Tansillo.

The police car carrying them had survived the difficult part of the drive, a series of cutbacks taking them over the escarpment just west of the Orvieto. The road mercifully smoothed out at that point, winding over hills before starting a slow descent to the lake. Just after they crossed from Umbria into Lazio its water appeared briefly in the distance before disappearing as the car swung behind a hill. A few kilometers later the view was unbroken, the lake spreading majestically before them as they drove closer to the town. The driver slowed as the road narrowed and space between buildings grew smaller. They passed an ancient church and the ruins of a castle built there for its panoramic defensive view of the lake. According to a banner hanging from the stone ramparts, the fortification now served as a museum.

The car drove slowly down through the town before reaching the street running along the lake shore. In season it would have been bumper to bumper, especially in the evening. Parking areas allowed visitors to leave their cars and stroll along the water, but the lakeside path was now empty, save for a few elderly couples taking an afternoon walk. The driver checked the numbers on the buildings, passing deserted restaurants and hotels before reaching a two-story duplex built close to the pavement. A balcony on the second floor offered a view of the lake.

“This should be it, Sir.” The car came to a stop at the curb in front of the building.

Rick and LoGuercio got out of the backseat and walked to the fence, beyond which ran a thin strip of grass between it and the building. Each of the duplexes had its own gate that opened to a path of slate stones leading to a door. They found the one with the name Tansillo and rang the bell. Rick expected a voice from the inside asking who was there, but instead the gate buzzed open almost immediately. As they made the short walk to the door it was opened by a gaunt man with thick white hair. He wore a shirt with a tie, under a sleeveless, brown sweater. A thin wrist and hand reached out to LoGuercio.

“You must be the inspector.” The voice was raspy, that of a man who had spent years of his life smoking. The lines on his face confirmed it. “And this gentleman?”

“Signor Montoya, who is assisting in the investigation.”

The wrinkled smile that Tansillo had given to LoGuercio was extended