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

both on what has happened so far at the restaurant next door? It’s not the fine cuisine that you two cosmopolitans are accustomed to in Rome, but it will do the job.”

“That sounds perfect,” said Betta, rising to her feet.

They walked down the hall toward the reception area. It was empty except for a woman dressed in jeans and a turtleneck sweater pacing in front of the desk, a cell phone pressed to her ear. She looked up when the three came through the hall door and walked quickly toward them, stuffing the phone into her pocket.

“Inspector DiMaio?” Her eyes moved between Rick and the policeman.

DiMaio looked past her at the sergeant, who shook his head helplessly. “And you are?”

“Laura Intini.” She pulled out a card and pressed it into his hand. “I have some questions about the death of the Spaniard. If you could give me a minute.”

DiMaio studied the card while Rick and Betta edged aside. “I put out a written statement this morning, which you should have received.”

“Yes, Inspector, of course we did. It was very brief, and we thought that you might have something to add to it. Surely there have been some developments since this morning. As you can understand, this is an important story, and our readers will be anxious to learn more.”

“I’m sure they will. Sorry, I have an important meeting now.”

She looked quickly at Rick and Betta. “Is it regarding the—”

“I have your card, Signora Intini. If something develops, you’ll be the first to know.” He walked toward the door with Rick and Betta in tow. “I hate journalists.”

The restaurant, only a few steps from the commissariato, gave the impression of being a police cafeteria. It was one large, noisy room, its tables mostly filled with men and women in blue uniforms. The ambient noise subsided slightly as the diners watched Inspector DiMaio enter with two strangers, their attention split between Betta’s slim figure and Rick’s cowboy boots. The room quickly returned to its normally high decibel level, made worse by the cement floor and bare ceiling. One of the waiters, carrying a plate of pasta in each hand, spotted the inspector and pointed with his chin to an empty table in one corner. They worked their way through the room and sat down.

“You come here often?” Rick asked as he looked around the room at all the cops.

“Your sense of humor is still evident, Riccardo.”

A waiter appeared balancing three menus, a bread basket, and a bottle of mineral water.

“Ciao, Mimo. Olive ascolane e un litro di rosso,” said DiMaio to the waiter, who nodded and disappeared toward the kitchen. “A local specialty, stuffed olives breaded and deep fried. I suggest the vincisgrassi for a primo—it’s another dish you’ll only find here in Le Marche, or if you do find it somewhere else in Italy, it won’t be as good.”

“That’s lasagna, isn’t it?” asked Rick.

DiMaio wagged a finger. “Don’t let anyone in Urbino hear you calling it lasagna, Riccardo.”

The wine appeared, a dark red in a ceramic pitcher. DiMaio ordered the pasta, filled their glasses, and offered a toast to old friends reunited. Right behind the wine waiter was one bearing a plate of olives with golden brown breading, still steaming like they had just been scooped out of the frying oil, rolled quickly in toweling, and rushed to the table. Betta spooned a couple of them onto her plate before Rick and Alfredo did the same. They exchanged wishes of buon appetito and picked up their knives and forks. The olives were already large, but the stuffing and breading brought them almost to golf ball size, each one yielding two crunchy bites. Betta and Rick agreed that their first taste of Marchigiana cooking was a success.

When the serving dish was almost empty, DiMaio took a long drink from his glass and leaned back. “Betta, now that the edge has been taken from our hunger, we can move on to the business part of this lunch. I will start at the beginning, as you requested. I was called just before eight this morning with the news that a body was found at the botanical gardens. Yes, Urbino has a very fine orto botanico, despite its size. The person who found the dead man was the chief gardener and knew the deceased well since he, the deceased, had donated funds and plants. So he told me immediately that it was Manuel Somonte, age seventy-one, a Spaniard with Italian dual citizenship, thanks to his Italian mother. I don’t think I need to tell you about Somonte, Betta, since you must have researched him for the event in Sansepolcro, where he was to donate the drawing that you are so interested in finding.”

Betta nodded but waited for DiMaio to continue. Rick took a sip of wine.

“When we got to the gardens we found Somonte’s body leaning against a plant that ironically he had donated. Our murderer apparently has a sense of humor. Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the chest, and the initial estimate of the time of death is late last night. The autopsy will narrow it down, but that may not help us much. It is certain that he was killed on the spot; there was no indication that the body had been carried or dragged to where he was found. There were no reports of a gunshot in the neighborhood, but the vegetation and high walls of the gardens must have kept the sound inside.”

“So he was either forced to go in because the gun was pointed at him, or he knew the person well and trusted him.”

“That was my conclusion as well, Riccardo.” DiMaio took a drink of the mineral water before continuing. “I couldn’t get much out of his wife and the executive assistant this morning since Signora Somonte was almost hysterical, and neither of them speaks Italian. But I did find out that the last time they saw him was at an early afternoon lunch.”

“They didn’t have