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

Rick hoped that the autopsy was what had been on the policeman’s mind, not Betta’s decision to interview Bruzzone herself. “What information do you want to get out of the widow right now?”

DiMaio pulled the keys from the ignition. “I have a list, but we’ll have to be gentle given the shock of losing her husband. She was almost incoherent this morning. The assistant may be of more help.” He opened the door, stepped onto the street, and strode up the stairs of the hotel with Rick behind him.

In his travels around Italy on his interpreter jobs, Rick had observed that hotels usually fell into one of two categories. The first was the type where he and Betta were now staying, an aged, repurposed building. In it the rooms were of all sizes and shapes, no one like another, including the furniture, and the bathrooms were squeezed into corners or carved out of adjoining space. Those were the hotels he preferred because they always had uniqueness and charm. The Hotel Bella Vista was the other type: modern, usually built outside the historical center, and mostly of glass and cement except for decorative stone in the reception area. The rooms were American style, opening off a long hallway, alike in their rectangular shape with the bathroom just inside the door. Furnishings were exactly the same in every room. The new hotels were efficient to build and run, there was no doubt about that, but Rick would take old and quirky over new and boring any day. The hotel Somonte had chosen was new and boring, beginning with the reception and waiting area lit by a garish chandelier, its light bouncing off the polished floor. Rick’s eyes moved around the sterile space while DiMaio spoke to the clerk at the desk.

DiMaio turned back to Rick and jerked his thumb toward the far end of the room where two sets of doors opened to the restaurant and breakfast room. They walked past a clump of cushioned chairs and pushed open glass doors to enter the space where breakfast was served in the morning, coffee and other drinks the rest of the day. At the far end a long counter stood in front of a mirrored wall, with glasses, bottles, and the required espresso machine lined up neatly below it. All of the small tables with tablecloths were empty except one where Isabella Somonte and Lucho Garcia sat immersed in conversation. A clear glass tea mug rested next to a small pot in front of the woman. She was not what Rick expected.

The widow Somonte was, at the very least, twenty years younger than her late husband. Her features were sharp, with too much makeup for Rick’s tastes, especially since she had enough natural beauty to not need it. He had the feeling that holding on to her good looks as long as possible was the woman’s top priority. While she could not be faulted for not packing mourning clothes on the trip, he was surprised by the garish outfit she was wearing. Tall leather boots stopped just below her knees, a leopard-skin print skirt just above them. The high collar of a pea-green angora sweater came up to her dangling earrings, and everything was topped by long, blond hair. This was not an outfit, it was a getup.

Lucho Garcia was a contrast with his boss’s widow. To begin with, he was younger, probably in his late twenties, and his clothes were subdued to the point of drabness: white shirt with a conservative striped tie, blue blazer, gray slacks. He wore his hair long, just covering his ears, which, along with a clean-shaven face, accentuated his youthful looks.

As Rick sized up the two, he wondered, given the age of the deceased, if they shared something more than a connection with Manuel Somonte, and then berated himself for such cynicism. Señora Somonte looked up and noticed the two men coming to their table. She squinted at Rick, from which he concluded that she needed glasses but was too vain to wear them.

Rick introduced himself in Spanish, explaining that he was a professional interpreter and was there to help the inspector. Garcia asked if they wanted coffee or something else to drink. Rick and DiMaio declined and sat down. DiMaio took out his notebook and nodded to Rick.

“May I offer my deepest condolences, Señora,” Rick began, causing her to remove a tissue from her pocket. He expected it to go to her eyes, but instead she blew her nose and stuffed it back into the pocket. “The inspector knows this is a difficult time, but—“

“Has he found my husband’s murderer yet, or not?” The voice was hoarse, but he couldn’t tell if that was her normal way of speaking or caused by her cold.

“Not yet, Señora, which is why he wanted to talk to you again. He’s hoping you can help in the investigation.” Rick quickly translated the initial exchange for DiMaio and returned his attention to the woman. “Can you tell us about your husband’s activities after you arrived here from Spain? Who he might have met, where he went in Urbino?”

While they waited for an answer, she once again took out the handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her nose, all the while staring intently at Rick. He assumed she was gathering her thoughts for a long discourse. Instead, she rose to her feet. The other three men stood as well.

“I thought you were coming here to tell me who did this terrible act to my beloved husband. Instead you have done nothing and then you want to interrogate me. I will have none of it. Lucho can answer your questions. I am ill and will return to my room.” She took two steps, stopped, and turned. “It is that cursed drawing. If not for it, Manuel would be alive today.” She walked quickly to the doors, her boot heels clicking.

“It appears,” said DiMaio, “that Signora Somonte does not wish to