To Die in Tuscany, David Wagner [best novel books to read .TXT] 📗

Le Marche. He could see for miles, which was exactly the reason the city’s battlements had been built there. Some of the hills and valleys were thick with forest, while others showed patches of open fields. Here and there a tiny building broke up the green with a block of earthen brown. The street now changed names to Via Matteotti, honoring the anti-fascist politician murdered by Mussolini’s thugs in 1922. Rick recalled reading about the case in an Italian history class. Unlike Somonte, Giacomo Matteotti had been stabbed to death.

Rick was beginning to get winded and recalled that Urbino’s elevation was a mere fifteen hundred feet. After Albuquerque’s mile-high trails, such elevation was nothing—was all this time in the lower altitude of Rome taking its toll on his endurance? He hoped not. Passing a grassy ravelin and rounding the rampart, he kept his eyes on the undulating terrain. It was made up of hills, not mountains, but farming must have always been difficult for the people of the region. Which may have been one reason why Federico da Montefeltro made his fortune as a soldier of fortune rather than a farmer.

Following the signs for the Porta Lavagine as the clerk had suggested, Rick began climbing the narrower Via delle Mura, which ran along the top of another layer of Urbino’s wall system. He passed the Hotel Bonconte, which looked very pleasant, its windows facing the views below the walls. Too bad Alfredo didn’t suggest they stay there; it looked like a winner. He stopped next to the wall and took out his map to pinpoint the hotel’s location, noticing as he scanned it that the street running parallel below was the Via dei Morti. Why hadn’t Somonte’s body been dumped there? Shaking off the macabre thought, he put away the map and continued his run. The street was descending now, but he knew there would be another climb before he got back to the hotel, and it came at the Porta Lavagine, a narrow city gate where Via Battisti began the ascent to the city center.

Except for the window planters, the greenery was gone, and Rick was once again immersed in medieval stone and wood, or modern stucco and glass. But at least a few pedestrians now added a human feel to the street, making their way to a coffee bar, shopping for the pick of the best vegetables, or hurrying to an early appointment. A few glanced at him as he puffed past. Apparently early morning runners were not a rarity, perhaps thanks to the college students. At the top of the climb he found himself back at the intersection where he’d begun, a large loop complete. He considered but quickly rejected a final grind up Via Raffaello and back, instead loping down to the Botticelli.

Betta was coming out of their room when he was a few steps from the door.

“A good run, Rick?” She looked at the sweat stains and took a step back. “It appears so. I’ll see you in the breakfast room. Enjoy the shower.”

“And you look especially lovely,” he called as she disappeared down the hall.

Twenty minutes later he sat downstairs with Betta enjoying a second cup of strong coffee with hot milk and peeling the rind off a Sicilian blood orange. Crumbs from the first part of his breakfast littered the plate. He glanced around the room, noting two tables of aging British tourists, or at least whom he thought to be British given the tea they were drinking and their shoes. Shoes, at least on older generations, were a giveaway for spotting Brits.

“Was Pilar here earlier?”

“I didn’t see her. She may have had other sleeping arrangements last night.”

Rick feigned shock. “I hope she simply got back late and slept in.” He split his orange into pieces and popped one in his mouth. “Mmm; this orange is excellent. Have a slice.”

Betta reached across the table but stopped when she heard her phone ringing. She took it from the table and checked the number. “Alfredo. Or Pilar using his phone. Hello?”

The smile disappeared as she listened. Rick could hear the voice of DiMaio but was unable to make out the words.

“We’ll be right there.” She hit a button to end the call. “It’s Bruzzone, the art dealer. Someone tried to kill him.”

Chapter Nine

When Rick and Betta turned the corner, it was déjà vu from the previous evening. Two police cars, engines running and lights flashing, lined up in front of Bruzzone’s art gallery. A uniformed policeman at the corner kept other vehicles from entering the street, while another standing next to the police cars ordered pedestrians to stay away from the gallery door and keep moving. As they approached, Rick remembered that he had considered extending his run up this street. Could he have missed the chance to be a witness to the attempt? Betta showed her identification to the policeman outside the door, and he waved her and Rick inside.

DiMaio stood next to the display case talking on his cell phone, but the action was inside the tiny office at the back of the shop. There Bruzzone, dressed in his same business suit, was bent over in the one visitor’s chair squeezed into the space. He held a bloodstained cotton handkerchief to his forehead and stared at the floor. Behind him, between the still-cluttered desk and the wall, a policeman wearing rubber gloves worked a knife blade into a hole next to the bulletin board. DiMaio ended his conversation and slipped the phone in his pocket.

“This doesn’t look good,” Betta said.

The inspector glanced back at Bruzzone, whose chalky face contrasted with the red on the handkerchief. “No, it doesn’t. He had just come in and was sitting at his desk checking emails when someone burst into the shop, raised a pistol, and aimed it at him. He hadn’t turned on the lights in this room yet, so he didn’t get a good look at the person. When he saw the gun, he ducked