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

It should get the rector off my back. Now, what were you saying, Inspector?”

“We found the case in which Somonte was holding the drawing. It was empty.” He pointed toward the back wall of the gardens. “On the street behind here, in a garbage bin.”

“That’s almost in front of my office.”

“I know. That’s why I’m bringing it up.”

“Do you think I threw it in there after killing Somonte?”

“You didn’t really have an alibi for the time of the murder, Professor.”

A grin spread across Florio’s face. “This is delicious. I am really a suspect in a murder? But tell me, Inspector, would I have tried to hide the case at a place so close to my office? Isn’t it obvious what happened here? Montalbano would have understood in an instant.”

“I’m not Montalbano, Professor. I’m not even Sicilian.”

“It’s clear that someone wanted to keep suspicion far from himself, which was why the body was dumped in my botanical gardens, and the case thrown in a trash can in front of my office.”

“So that you become a prime suspect, and the police are kept far off the trail of the kidnappers.”

“Exactly. It makes perfect sense.”

It made no sense at all to DiMaio, but something Florio had said would need checking. DiMaio tucked the thought into the back of his memory and turned to the priority at the moment: getting himself out of the humidity. A few minutes later he was out on the street in front of the gardens’ entrance near several dozen people who were milling around on the steps waiting to get in. As he breathed in the cleansing fresh air, he spotted the pool under the decorative fountain and walked to it. Cupping his hands, he scooped up the water and splashed his face before drying himself with his handkerchief. He suddenly remembered that he hadn’t asked Florio where he was earlier, at the time of the shooting. It was not important enough to brave the humidity, he decided. Florio was just not a serious suspect, and DiMaio had vowed never to enter the botanical gardens again.

At least there was one idea he got from interviewing the man. He pulled out his cell phone, took a breath, and hit a recently entered number. It was answered on the second ring.

“Ciao, Alfredo.”

Her voice almost made the phone feel cold. “Pilar, I can’t talk very long, but I have a question.”

“Another question? What is it this time?”

“Do you know if your father had an insurance policy on the drawing?”

“Knowing my father, my guess is that he looked into what it would cost and decided he’d take the risk instead. But he always used Seguros Suarez, a company in Madrid. If he had insured the drawing, it would be with them. On the business side, the company was fully covered since he could write it off. Against fire, disaster, that sort of thing, we were, and still are, highly insured.”

“What about life insurance?”

“When my mother was alive, he didn’t have any. Macho Spaniard that he was, he thought he would live forever, I suppose. He also knew his family would inherit the business, so money would not be a problem for us. It all changed when he married that woman. She insisted on it. Is that all you needed to ask me?”

“Yes. That’s very helpful. Thank you.” He quickly hung up.

Chapter Ten

The restaurant reminded Rick of a churrascaria where he had dined when he’d visited his parents in Rio. At the far side of the room, chicken, sausage, and various cuts of meat sizzled over the red embers of a grill, sending out waves of delicious scents. As he sniffed the air he realized that there had to be something primeval about the smell of meat on an open fire. When they were outside the restaurant and about to enter, DiMaio had mentioned that grilled meat was the place’s specialty. Thanks to the aroma, their minds had been made up even before they sat down: it would be mixed grill and salads for all three, no menus needed. The decor of the restaurant complemented the open grill: dark wood beams, barrel vault brick ceilings, and cave-like arched doorways separating the rooms. They grabbed a passing waiter and put in their order, including a Rosso Piceno from a nearby vineyard that was the house wine.

“I’m sorry Pilar couldn’t join us for lunch,” said Betta.

Rick regretted that he’d neglected to tell Betta about the awkward encounter with Pilar in the police station. But did it matter? He would tell her later, and it would be interesting to see how their friend reacted.

DiMaio shrugged. “It’s just as well. We can talk about the case openly.”

It might have seemed like an odd comment to Betta, given how tight Pilar and Alfredo had been just the previous day. Rick was now sure that something was amiss between Alfredo and the comely Spaniard, and from the look on Betta’s face, he suspected that she had an inkling of trouble. They watched the waiter return with the bottle, open it, and fill their glasses. Toasts were exchanged, and they took their first drinks of the dry, red wine.

“Why don’t you tell us about your conversation with the botanical gardens director,” said Rick. “I’m sure Florio figured out the murderer and motive, so we can spend the rest of lunch just enjoying the food.”

DiMaio allowed himself a tiny smile. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly, but he did have a theory involving a kidnapping gone bad. And he decided that the drawing case was found near his office in order to make him a prime suspect and divert attention from the kidnappers who were the real murderers.”

“That must have upset him, being on the suspects list.”

The inspector took another sip of wine. “Upset isn’t the way I would have described him, Betta. It was more like I’d told him he’d be making a cameo appearance in a Montalbano mystery.”

“Do you think—”

“No, Rick. My gut feeling is that there’s no way Florio