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

another total renovation, and it was done in the neoclassical style popular at the time. The overriding impression of this renovation was mass rather than space, thanks to thick, square columns supplemented by Corinthian decoration and the same color—white—covering everything. Lighting was minimal, except for what illuminated the coffered cupola visible in the distance over the main altar. Rather than walk straight down the central nave, they started along the right aisle. Columns and arches ran along their left, the outer wall on their right. Opposite the arches were altars under tall paintings done in the style of the early nineteenth century, with dark figures and darker backgrounds. It was not Rick’s favorite. He could not help wondering what the Duke of Montefeltro’s church was like before the earthquake spelled its destruction.

As they stood before the first painting, raised voices echoed from the opposite side of the church. Rick squeezed Betta’s hand and held up a finger over his lips. The conversation reached their ears in disjointed words, but one thing was clear: the two people were speaking in Spanish. Rick guided Betta behind the nearest column.

“That’s Pilar’s voice,” whispered Betta after they had listened for a minute.

“And the man is Lucho Garcia, Somonte’s assistant.”

Rick held up his hand and strained to hear what they were saying, which was not easy since two rows of columns and the nave stood between them. The lack of ornamentation and the stone floor allowed sound to bounce off the surfaces, but it reached Rick’s ears only intermittently. What was clear, however, was that the two Spaniards were not having a friendly chat. As the moments passed, Pilar’s voice raised and Lucho’s was edged with anger.

“Can you get anything they’re saying?”

“Only a few words,” Rick answered. “The factory, her father, the inheritance—”

He was interrupted by Pilar’s raised voice, the unmistakable sound of a slap, and Pilar’s heels clicking on the stone as she hurried toward the door.

“What did she just say?”

“That, I heard. She called him a rude name. Just before hitting him.”

“You can’t stage a more dramatic exit than that. Do you think he followed her out?”

Rick peeked around the pillar. “I see him. He’s walking toward the door, very slowly, and rubbing his face. Let’s amble down toward the altar and wait a while. We don’t want to run into either of them outside.”

“Rick, do you think she’ll be at the restaurant?”

“I don’t see why not. Thanks to the confrontation, she’s probably worked up an appetite. But I doubt she’ll bring Lucho.”

They walked along the side aisle to the main altar, looking back to be sure the two Spaniards didn’t return, though there seemed little chance of that. Under the dome the altar was a simple stone table draped with a white cloth, a gold cross in the middle. Above it on the wall hung another dark painting, but larger than the others. They took the other aisle for their return to the door, and on reaching it, Rick peeked out. No sign of either Pilar or Lucho.

“We should tell Alfredo about this, Rick.” They stood outside at the top of the steps. In the small square between the church and the palace, three people studied the poster for the Raphael exhibit, then started down the hill.

“Let’s think about it. If I recall correctly, Pilar said that she was likely to keep Lucho on at the family wool mill. So it would make sense that she would want to talk to him about his position there. She had only talked to him on the phone since her father’s death and must have wanted a face-to-face meeting. I will admit that it did not appear they were exclusively discussing wool back there, but what do we really know, except that they were having an argument? It could have been about anything. Why don’t we wait to see if she says something at dinner? And if she doesn’t, to coax out what might be going on, I can ask her some seemingly innocent questions.”

“Such as, ‘Does your hand still hurt?’”

He laughed. “That would work.”

“Rick, what you’re really concerned about is Alfredo’s disappointment if he finds out that his new flame is a possible suspect. Pilar and Lucho could have planned the murder together. It’s even possible that the three of them could have done it. They all benefit from the old man’s death, and the animosity between the widow and the daughter could be an act.”

“If they were going to kill him, why do it in another country? It would have been less complicated if Somonte had met his fate in an accident at home, or at his wool mill. They could have simply pushed him into a vat of dye.” He put his fingers to his forehead. “Wait, it just occurred to me that the words in English for die and dye are homophones.”

“What?”

“Sorry. The musings of a professional translator. Why don’t we see what she says at dinner, and if she’s not there, we’ll tell Alfredo what happened. We can also tell him about my meeting with Signora Somonte.”

She took his arm and they started down the steps. “Agreed.”

Ten minutes later they came to the Ristorante La Balestra. It would have taken them five minutes, but it was difficult to find among the winding alleys of Urbino. One person they asked for help turned out to be a tourist, so Rick ducked into a bar where he got detailed instructions. Adding to the search time, only a small and dimly lit sign marked the entrance, and when they finally spotted it they realized they’d walked by it twice. After they passed through the door it became clear that the hidden location wasn’t an issue—the place was full and loud. The dining room was on a slightly lower level from the entrance, giving them a full view of the animated scene spread out below them. The decor went with the restaurant name: ancient crossbows decorated the walls, each mounted next to a collection