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

edge. He tried to identify the spices wafting from his plate, but they had merged too well in the cooking process. Cinnamon? Cloves? It didn’t matter; the combination was perfect. Conversation turned naturally to food and the specialties of the area, which, according to Tucci, were quite different from those of Urbino despite its proximity. Betta talked about the cooking in her native Veneto, and Tucci that of Turin, where she had been born and raised. By the time they returned to art, the plates were empty. They turned down the waiter’s suggestion of dessert and ordered coffee.

“I hope you are successful in finding the drawing,” said Tucci as they stood by their cars later outside the restaurant. “And Riccardo, good luck in finding the murderer. The man was Spanish, I understand. I saw his name on the invitation to the donation ceremony.”

“Yes, he was. We assume that if the drawing is found his widow will honor the donation and it will be given to Sansepolcro.”

Tucci laughed. “Perhaps she’ll decide to give it to my museum. Wouldn’t that be an interesting turn of events.”

They said their goodbyes and drove off to different destinations. They were barely out of the parking lot when Betta said, “That last comment was curious, don’t you think, Rick?”

“What was more curious was her reaction when you mentioned your invitation to see Morelli’s art collection this evening.”

* * *

It was late afternoon when Betta pulled the car into a space in front of the commissariato. They considered going in to brief DiMaio on meeting the two women in Monterchi, but Betta felt the need to call her office, and Rick wanted to check his emails. As they opened the doors, a dark blue car driven by a man in a suit and tie pulled up two spaces away. In back sat a lone passenger.

“Betta, go ahead to the hotel and make your calls. I may be needed here.”

The driver of the car had emerged from his seat and was coming around to open the door for his passenger. Betta noticed who it was, nodded to Rick, and started to trudge up the hill, glad to stretch her legs after spending so much time in the car. Rick walked a few steps to where a woman was getting out of the back seat and switched his brain to Spanish.

“Señora Somonte, can I be of assistance?”

She tried to conceal her surprise at seeing him, quickly replacing the initial startled look on her face with a smug smile. Her dress clung to her hips, and she smoothed it down, perhaps without realizing she was doing it. “Señor Montoya, your appearance at this moment is perfect. Now I won’t have to deal in two languages with that unpleasant policeman. I was going to express to him my annoyance that nothing has been done to find my husband’s murderer. Or if it has, I’ve been kept in the dark about it.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the car. Her driver had discreetly moved out of earshot.

“I just came back to town myself, Señora. If there is news about the case I’m not aware of it. I will be glad to express your concerns to Inspector DiMaio if you don’t wish to speak to him directly.” He could see that her mind was working and waited for a reply, likely something sharp and nasty to match the other two encounters he’d had with her.

She stared at him for a full minute before speaking. Her words were not what he expected.

“Señor Montoya, I loved my husband. People have always assumed otherwise, and that is understandable, given the difference in our ages and his wealth. I could see that same skepticism in the eyes of your inspector when you both came to the hotel. I know that look well, since I’ve been dealing with it for years in Spain. But I am a good judge of character, and I sense that you just might believe me.”

“I have no reason not to, Señora. But I can assure you that the police here are not judging you, and they’re doing everything in their power to find the person who killed your husband.”

She continued as if he had said nothing. “Manuel knew his health was not good and confided to me that this would likely be his last trip to Italy. The donation of the drawing was to be his tribute to his mother. That, along with paying for the opening of the Raphael exhibit, would be his final act of generosity to the art community here. He liked that people in Italy thought of him as a patron of fine art rather than just a wealthy factory owner, as he is known in Asturias. It was as if he had two separate lives.” She looked up at the castle where the late-afternoon sunlight reflected off the windows of the upper floors. “He was a different man when he came here, and he was in a bad mood for days after he returned to Spain. I must confess that I resented that. Can you understand?”

Rick nodded but said nothing. Why was she telling him this? It had to be that she had no one else to talk to about her feelings. Pilar wouldn’t speak to her, and Garcia was still an underling, even if there was something between them. Rick was available and perhaps would be a sympathetic listener. But the cynic in him—or was it his Italian side?—said that she was simply trying to soften her image with the police, since she knew that what she said to him would get back to DiMaio.

“I was hoping,” she continued, “that on this trip I would finally begin to see Italy the way he did, rather than as a rival for his affection. I was jealous and felt guilty for it. I was hoping that the jealousy would end.” She put her hands together as if in prayer and touched her fingers