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

their hotel, the place was not much wider than the window and door that faced the street, but went back deeply into the building. Behind the bar that ran along the right wall, two women in long white aprons served up wine and small plates of food to go with it. The clientele was young and casually dressed, likely university students, making Rick feel aged in his jacket and tie. The air was filled with animated conversation and the smell of what in Spain would be called tapas. The largest tables could accommodate four people, but most of them held only two. One had just emptied, and Betta took possession of it while Rick turned to the bar.

“After that prosecco, I’m ready for something red,” she called to him as she sat down. The height of the table was matched by stools with sturdy backs. Rick asked the barmaid for two glasses of a local red of her choice, and returned to the table holding a scribbled card with the evening’s fare. He passed it to Betta.

“It may be the aromas in this place,” said Rick, “but all of a sudden I’m hungry.” He looked at the plates at other tables.

“After that big lunch we had, you’re hungry again?”

“We didn’t have pasta at lunch.”

“Did you always have pasta at lunch when you lived in America?”

“This isn’t America.”

She shook her head and moved her eyes over the menu card. “Some bruschetta, for sure. Oh, and look at this: formaggio di fossa. That’s a local specialty. I remember having it years ago when I came here with my parents. I thought it was a funny name. If those two aren’t enough we can order something else.”

She passed the menu back to Rick, who perused it quickly. “Cave cheese?”

“It’s semisoft, made with sheep or cows’ milk, and has a sharp flavor. According to tradition, the cheese was stored in pits inside caves to keep marauding armies from discovering it. But they still let it mature in them today to give it the unique taste.”

“Sounds like a gimmick.” He walked to the bar and put in their order. The wine had been poured so he brought the two glasses back to the table. “She said this is a Rosso Piceno from a vineyard owned by her brother-in-law. We’d better tell her it’s wonderful even if it isn’t.” They tapped glasses and sipped. “Fortunately, it’s good.”

They didn’t talk for a few minutes until Betta broke the silence.

“We have to admit it; this investigation is going nowhere. The Piero drawing could be in someone’s suitcase halfway to China, for all we know. If it never goes on the market, it’s gone forever, or at least for our lifetimes. The only result of this investigation is that it will show up as a negative report in my personnel file.”

“Not every case ends successfully, Betta. They can’t hold this against you.”

Her lips formed a bitter smile. “I work in a bureaucracy. Anyone who wants to get past me on the promotions list will be sure the system remembers that Betta Innocenti was the one who lost the Piero drawing. I can easily name a few who are watching this case very closely, ready to pounce.”

This line of conversation would not go anywhere, he knew. Better to get her mind on something other than the backstabbers in her office. “Why don’t we go over the various players in this affair, Betta? Maybe something will jump out. That’s what they do in the crime novels.”

She laughed, but it was not a happy laugh. “We should be consulting with Florio…he’s the expert on crime novels.” She took another drink of the rosso, which seemed to help her attitude. “You’re right. Then let’s start with our museum director. We just found out that he has also made some trips to Spain, and you have insinuated that he may have been interested as much in Pilar as her father.”

“Just a thought.”

“They did seem pretty cozy tonight when she came in. If we take your line of thinking to its logical conclusion, Pilar didn’t get along with her father and wanted to take over the business, and Vitellozzi wanted the drawing for the museum, thinking he could talk the widow into changing the donation.”

Rick nodded. “The drawing conveniently turns up, he gets the widow’s ear, and it ends up in Urbino’s Palazzo Ducale, after all. Of course she could sell it again. That would be what I’d expect of the woman. Probably sell it to another Spaniard.”

A young man wearing a white apron appeared at their table carrying two dishes that he put between them. He looked so much like one of the women behind the bar that he had to be her brother. From the apron pocket he extracted silverware wrapped in napkins, placed them next to the plates, and wished them a buon appetito. The bruschetta was what Rick expected: a meaty paté spread over toasted slices of crusty bread. The other plate was different, and they both leaned closer to take in the arrangement of items. Pieces of the same crusty toast overlapped each other on one side, a white slab of the cheese was in the middle, and a small cup of what looked to be fruit preserves sat on the other side. Betta explained that a slice of the cheese went on the toast, and then a bit of the preserves—which they realized were cherry—would be spread lightly over the cheese. The sweetness of the fruit, she assured him, would be a needed contrast to the tartness of the cheese.

Rick followed the directions and found that she was exactly right. “What about Florio?” he asked after his second bite. “I know he’s difficult to take seriously, but the murder did take place in his gardens, and he is definitely milking it to the maximum.”

“Not to mention that he knows all about planning a murder from reading mysteries.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“No, Rick, I’m not. Let’s move on to Morelli.”

He tried