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

He lives in Todi, owns a ceramics shop there and one in Orvieto, both featuring his work.” He suddenly slapped his hands on his knees. “Gentlemen, I just realized that I have been remiss by not offering you something. When my wife was alive she would have seen to it. A bit of sherry, perhaps? Or I can make some coffee.”

LoGuercio slipped his notebook into his pocket along with the pen. “That’s very kind of you, Professor, but we must be on our way back to Orvieto. You have been very helpful.”

He got to his feet, followed by Rick and the host, but all three stood where they were and looked out over the water. The afternoon sun had come from behind a low cloud and was bouncing its rays off the water.

“Can you tell me what became of Rhonda after college?”

After a nod from LoGuercio, Rick answered. “She was a potter in Arizona and apparently was quite successful at it. Less successful in marriage, unfortunately; three of them ended in divorce. She came on this trip with her daughter and a friend who told us she wanted to see Italy one last time.”

The professor put his hands on the railing and stared toward a tiny island in the distance. “I can’t help wondering if she knew what awaited her in Orvieto.”

***

While Rick and LoGuercio drove back from Bolsena, Betta strolled the streets of Orvieto. The training period with the art police in Rome had offered her little time off during the day, so she welcomed the chance to walk through a shopping district when the businesses were actually open. Not that she needed anything; the only item in her mind was a postcard to send home to her father. In a country where national chains had not taken over completely, shops were unique from one city to the next, giving each town its own feel. Orvieto and Betta’s native Bassano were known for their ceramics, but here the emphasis was on a local style of pottery passed down through the centuries. It featured floral patterns, often with a green tint, and swirls of delicate animal figures, especially roosters. Lots of roosters. Interesting, she thought, but certainly not on the level of our artists in Bassano.

The street was near the Duomo, and as would be expected for such a location, most of its shops catered to the tourist trade—from day-trippers up from Rome to international travelers. It was a zona pedonale, allowing shoppers to wander freely from one store to the next without fear of being run down by cars or motorbikes. Betta walked slowly, admiring the colorful ceramic plates and masks decorating the doorways of the shops. She came to a tabaccaio, the establishment in Italy which traditionally sold not just tobacco products but postage stamps. Sheets of plastic cases holding postcards hung from this doorway, and she stopped to pick out one for her father. Most of them featured the Duomo from various angles, a few pictured the art inside the cathedral, others had shots of the city taken from below its cliffs. She pulled one showing a detail of the Luca Signorelli Last Judgment frescoes from its case and walked in for a stamp. Her father, who owned an art gallery, would appreciate seeing Signorelli’s masterpiece.

The inside, like most tobacconists in Italy, was small to begin with, and adding to that were shelves with magazines and smoking paraphernalia, making it positively cramped. A woman was standing near the counter, talking on her cell phone. Betta noticed more postcards on a low shelf and leaned down to see if she liked any of them better than the one she’d brought in from outside. She heard snatches of the woman’s conversation, something about when she’d be back, which would be soon. Talking with her husband, Betta assumed. The woman ended the call and started to put her cell phone in her purse when the man behind the counter spoke.

“There you are, Signora Aragona, that will be—”

Betta gasped and her shoulder jerked upward, catching the woman’s arm. The cell phone clattered to the floor and slid under the counter. Both women reached down to get it and their heads collided.

“I’m so sorry,” said Betta, rubbing her head. “Please let me get it.” She bent down, reached under the counter, and found the phone. After blowing off a bit of dust that had stuck to it, she handed it back to the woman.

“It’s quite all right, my dear, there isn’t much room in this place.” She turned to the man, who had watched the scene in horror. “You need a larger shop, Vito.”

He shook his head and was struggling to find a response when Betta spoke. “It was my fault, Signora. I hope your telefonino was not damaged.”

“I’ve dropped it before and it survived. But are you all right?” She looked at Betta’s head. “With that short hair you don’t have as much padding to your skull as I do.”

The woman, who was fighting valiantly to avoid turning fifty, appeared to have come directly from the beauty parlor, and not a cheap one. Her hair, dark with a few accents of blond, fell perfectly to the shoulders. The coiffure alone, leaving aside her expensive clothes, shouted high maintenance.

“I’m all right,” Betta said. “It was clumsy of me.”

“No harm done.” She paid the man and strolled out the door.

Betta threw down some euro coins for her postcard and followed.

***

The driver dropped Rick and LoGuercio at an intersection of the street where Bianca Cappello’s office was located. It was a pedestrian street, and even though the police car could have driven directly to the address, or anywhere else in town, LoGuercio preferred to walk the two blocks rather than squeeze through all the foot traffic. In addition, he and Rick were ready to stretch their legs, even if it was only for a few dozen meters, and LoGuercio wanted a cigarette. The store fronts on this street had more appeal to locals than