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  “Why would I murder my closest friend?” She took another sip from the glass. It was almost empty. “Gina had more of a reason to murder Rhonda, though I don’t think she had it in her to do it.” Her teasing smile was an invitation to Rick and he was forced to oblige.

  “What motive would Gina have?”

  “The obvious one, of course. She will now inherit a pile of money and won’t have to teach yoga anymore. But knowing her, she likely will stay with it. Calming, and all that.”

  The tone annoyed Rick. “What about you, Francine? Are you in the will?”

  His question surprised her but she composed herself quickly. “I never thought of that. I suppose I could be thrown a few crumbs, for all I’ve done for her over the years.” She looked at her wineglass, trying to decide whether it was time to pick it up again. “But knowing Rhonda, I doubt it. It will all go to her dear daughter. To assuage her guilt.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Rick, dear, you may have grown up in a loving family but Rhonda and Gina never got along very well once Gina became a teenager. In most mother-daughter relationships the kid grows out of it, but Gina never did, thanks to Rhonda. She was never cut out to be a mother. Not that I should talk. Even after the diagnosis, and on this trip, she treated her daughter the same. You saw a bit of that on the ride up into town yesterday.”

  “Gina seems to be reasonably stable, despite that.”

  Francine coughed, as if some of the wine had gone down the wrong pipe. “Gina has always been introverted, which may have helped her overlook her mother’s verbal abuse. Not to be a psychiatrist about this—though I’ve had considerable experience with shrinks—but Gina probably blamed herself for the way her mother was toward her.”

  “So both mother and daughter felt guilt for the way the mother treated the daughter?”

  “It is strange, isn’t it?” Francine shrugged. “Are you sure you won’t have something, Rick? But of course, you want to get back to your little friend. What’s her name?”

  “Betta.”

  “Cute name,” said Francine, and drained her glass. “Well, I’m going to have another wine and enjoy the atmosphere. Rhonda would have wanted it that way.”

  Rick decided there was nothing more she was going to reveal, and he could think of nothing else to ask. He said goodbye and started across the square. After a signal to the waiter, Francine pulled her shawl from the other chair and draped it over her shoulders.

  ***

  The phone call with the Phoenix police got them nothing. Rick spoke with a detective named Rede who promised to check the fingerprint sent earlier against their records. While Rick was on the line the detective did a quick computer check on Rhonda Van Fleet and found nothing more than a few parking and speeding tickets. Francine Linwood’s only offense in their system was a DWI a few years earlier that had been dismissed by the judge when the arresting officer did not appear for the hearing. Rick thanked him and hung up.

  LoGuercio was not impressed with Francine’s story about Gina’s relationship with her mother, assuming such things went on all the time in America. Rick chalked it up to the influence of American movies and TV shows and left the station frustrated. He’d wasted his time talking with Francine, and again on his phone call to the States, when he could have seen the cathedral with Betta. In addition, LoGuercio was becoming more and more frustrated with the lack of leads in the case, and held out little hope the autopsy would reveal anything helpful. Rick was somewhat cheered by a call from Morgante, who didn’t appear to be at all annoyed by Rick canceling the tour of the cathedral, inviting him and Betta to have a glass of wine before dinner. Rick was looking forward to spending some time alone with Betta, but decided courtesy required that he accept. Also, there could be a way to find out why Morgante was going into Bianca Capello’s office.

  The walk back from the police station took Rick along the side of the cathedral into the square in front of it. The last rays of the afternoon sun lit the top tier of the facade, and he couldn’t help stopping to admire it. He recalled the Sandia Peak east of Albuquerque, where the angle of the sun was constantly changing the hues and patterns viewed from below. It was the same way with the shapes and colors on Orvieto’s cathedral.

  Rick was walking the final meters to the hotel when a short man leaning against the wall stubbed out a cigarette and came toward him. With long dirty hair and a rumpled suit, he looked vaguely familiar. He gave Rick a yellowed grin and extended his hand.

  “Signor Montoya.”

  “Yes,” said Rick, unable to avoid the handshake. “And who would you be?”

  “Luciano Pazzi. I am a journalist. I expected that you would be staying in one of our best hotels, and inside they confirmed it. They also said you were out, so I decided to wait.”

  Rick now remembered. Pazzi was the man in the police station talking with Morgante when he’d come out of LoGuercio’s office. He was the man everyone knew and disliked, and just from looking at him Rick could understand the dislike. Had LoGuercio given the journalist his name? He doubted it, but Pazzi looked like the kind of reporter who would have other contacts inside the police who would tell him what he needed.

  “Why would you want to see me, Signor Pazzi?”

  The smile returned. “It is my understanding, Signor Montoya, that you are assisting in the investigation of the murder of the American woman. As an American, you will, I’m certain, understand the importance of the press in finding out the truth. The public has a right to know. I have some questions about the crime and the police’s response to it. If you would be so kind.”

  Rick looked down at the man, unsure whether it was the hair or face that was more in need of soap. “Your concern for the public is admirable, Signor Pazzi, but I don’t think I can be of any assistance. I know little of the investigation, and even if I did, the inspector would not be pleased if I shared it with the press. And my main concern at this moment is seeing all that Orvieto has to offer.”

  “There is more to this city than the churches and museums, Signor Montoya. Once you scratch below the surface you can find the most curious activities. You wouldn’t believe what goes on in this town.”

  “That is your specialty, Signor Pazzi?”

  “I suppose one could say that.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a frayed card. “If you change your mind, please call me. I could make it worth your while.”

  He gave the card to Rick, turned, and walked toward the cathedral. Rick watched him go, then mounted the steps of the hotel, went through the door, and walked across the lobby to the reception desk. He was deciding whether to ring the bell or just go back and pick up his key himself when he heard Betta’s voice.

  “I’m in here, Rick.”

  He waved and went in her direction. “Ciao, bella.”

  The sitting room across from the desk was cozy, furnished with soft chairs arranged to seat several small conversation groups each with a floor lamp covered by a chintz shade. Betta sat at the far end, the same paperback book she’d been reading open on her lap. Rick walked past a foreign couple who eyed him with bewildered looks. From their dress and hairstyles Rick concluded they were British.

  He leaned down and kissed Betta on the cheek before collapsing onto the sofa next to her. “Those people over there are confused. A guy walks in wearing cowboy boots and starts talking Italian with a beautiful young woman who calls him Rick, clearly not an Italian name. They’ll spend the rest of the evening trying to figure it out.”

  Betta glanced at the couple and back at Rick. “How did it go with the woman? Did she confess to the murder?”

  Rick sighed. “I’m afraid not. It was a bit of a waste of time since she really wanted to ask me what was happening in the investigation more than give information herself.”

  “She wanted to know if you are getting close to finding out that she was the one who did it. Surely you c
ould see that. Did she try to work her charms on you?”

  “Hardly,” he said. “It was a waste of time.” He pointed his finger toward the hotel entrance. “But just now, in front of the hotel, I had a curious encounter with a journalist. He was in the police station this morning and LoGuercio warned me that he can’t be trusted. After a quick exchange with the man, I’d agree.” He tried to come up with a good Italian equivalent to “sleazy,” but all he could think of was squallido, which didn’t do justice to Pazzi.

  “How did he find you?”

  “I suspect someone in the station leaked my name.”

  “He is probing into the murder investigation?”

  “Exactly. Needless to say, I didn’t bite. But I should be asking how your afternoon went.”

  “Me? Nothing of great interest. Did some shopping but didn’t buy anything except a postcard. That’s all.”

  Rick looked into her green eyes. It was six months ago that they’d met in her native Bassano, and a few months since she’d moved to Rome to join the art squad at the ministry. He’d helped her find an apartment, shown her the city, spent evenings and weekends with her, shared countless meals. He’d come to know her better than any woman in his life other than his mother and sister. So he was quite sure that she now had something to tell him and wanted to be coaxed to reveal it.

  “All right, what happened?”

  “I went into a little store to buy postcards, and overheard the clerk addressing a woman there as Signora Aragona. I figured it had to be her.”

  Rick’s eyes widened. “What’s she like?”

  “Attractive. Takes care of herself. I think she was coming from the beauty parlor when I met her. A bit brash. I could sense she would not be ashamed about having a young amante, even proud of it.”

  Rick sighed. “Too bad you couldn’t have talked to her in that store. You could have convinced her to give up a relationship with a young man based purely on physical attraction.”

  “That would be a bit hypocritical on my part, wouldn’t it?”

  Rick opted to ignore her humor. “What happened next?”

  “I followed her.”

  Betta described in detail where Tullia had gone, ending with what she had seen on the street in front of the Aragona palazzo. When she finished she was clutching Rick’s hand.

  “Rick, this is a violent man. I suspect—no, I’m sure—this is not the first time he’s been this way with his wife. There’s no telling what he’s capable of.”

  Both of them thought of Betta’s abusive ex-fiancé, but neither voiced their thoughts. By mutual consent, Carlo was someone they hadn’t spoken of since she’d moved to Rome.

  “Fabrizio doesn’t know what he might have gotten himself into,” Rick said. “I wonder what Aragona meant with that last thing he said to her.”

  “You mean that he had enough to worry about without needing his wife having an affair?”

  “Right. He’s probably having problems at the office, like every other businessman in Italy. I think Piero would have told me if he knew anything unusual about Aragona, but I’d better call him.” He unlocked his hand from hers and pulled out his cell phone. After dialing he waited while it rang.

  “Salve, Riccardo. Good news?”

  “I’m afraid not, Uncle, but some news none the less.” He briefly recounted what Betta had said about the encounter with the Aragonas. “Besides letting you know what just happened, I wondered if you have anything on Aragona himself. Not necessarily criminal record, but just—”

  “I understand. Let me see what I can find out. I suspect the issues for the man are the usual ones, domestic and otherwise, and nothing will turn up, but I’ll check.”

  “And I’ll contact Fabrizio again. I’m not sure what I’ll tell him, but I’ll think of something.”

  “Please do. I have to go, I’ll get back to you if I find anything on Aragona.”

  Rick looked at an ornate clock on the wall. “I haven’t told you. Morgante invited us for a drink, we’re supposed to meet him in about a half hour. He suggested dinner but I told him we had plans. We don’t, but I really just wanted to have you to myself.”

  “And I’d like to have you to myself, to find out what’s happening in the case. I’m ready; do you need to change?” She held out the room key.

  “Just my shirt. I’ll be right down.”

  He got up and walked toward the hallway, noticing that the British woman who had watched him enter was now sitting alone. Her husband must have needed to change his shirt as well. As he walked by, he touched the tip of an imaginary Stetson and slipped into his best Texas accent.

  “Howdy ma’am. Mighty fine hotel they have here.”

  She was still staring when he reached the stairs.

  Chapter Nine

  Being the chief of tourism for the city had its perks, and one was access to places that would normally cost a tourist large sums of euros. This included a top floor hotel suite that overlooked the Piazza del Popolo. As Morgante led him and Betta out to the balcony, Rick wondered if the man was given a list of the city’s hotel vacancies every morning, and if so, whether this one was at the top. The balcony was more of a terrace, complete with table and chairs, a pair of chaise lounges, and lemon trees in colorful ceramic pots. Anyone staying here would be tempted to have all their meals out here and never leave the suite. The three stood at the railing and looked at the Palazzo del Popolo at the other end of the square, its gray stone turned a faint yellow by artificial illumination. The area in front of it, unlike when the art students sat and sketched, was empty. A few locals crossed the square, oblivious to the ancient building, more interested in getting home in time for dinner and their favorite TV show.

  “The cathedral may be the soul of Orvieto,” Morgante said, “but this square is the heart. Over the centuries, in time of crisis or celebration, the Orvietani have come together here, and they still do. Now the space is also the stage for music and theater, bringing in visitors from around the world. You must return next year during the season; we have already scheduled some wonderful concerts.” He tapped his hands on the railing. “But we can’t get ahead of ourselves. Tell me what you have seen already on your first day here.”

  Betta answered. “Since Rick has been helping out with the case, we haven’t seen much more than a quick look at the inside of the cathedral and the Palazzo del Popolo. What would you recommend?”

  “There is so much to see, of course, starting with the Duomo. And speaking of that, I still would like to show it to you personally. By chance, the day after tomorrow I will be doing a VIP tour of it for our local chamber of commerce. Next year the city is hosting a tourism convention and we need all our civic leaders to be well versed on our monuments so we can put our best face on Orvieto. If you can, please join us. It will be about nine in the morning.”

  Rick and Betta exchanged glances and nods. “We’d love to,” said Rick. “We don’t have to return to Rome until the afternoon.”

  “Excellent,” Morgante said. “And you can mix with Orvieto’s elites, such as they are.”

  Rick suspected the line was an indirect reference to his political rival, Mayor Boscoli.

  “Now for other things to see in Orvieto,” the man continued. “Besides the Duomo, there are more churches well worth visiting. San Andrea is built on the ruins of an Etruscan temple, so lots of history there. San Giovanale, at the far end of town, dates to the start of the eleventh century and has a wonderful feel to it, as does San Agostino across the square from it. But you must visit the Pozzo di San Patrizio, the well built by Pope Clement VII when he fled Rome during the sack of the city in 1527. And there are many fascinating museums, of course. I always recommend the Museo Civico Archeologico, because the subject is a particular interest of mine.”

  “You are very proud of the city,” said Betta. “I assume you were born here?”


  They were interrupted by the arrival of a waiter. His tray held a bottle of wine in an ice bucket, three glasses, and a small plate of canapés. While they watched, he opened the bottle, poured a splash of its yellow liquid into one glass, and passed it to Morgante. After getting a nod, the waiter poured wine into the other two glasses, served Betta and Rick, and filled the third before retiring.

  Morgante raised his glass. “Benvenuti a Orvieto. And what better way to welcome you than with a glass of Orvieto Classico.” Rick and Betta expressed their thanks before their host answered Betta’s question.

  “I was born in a small town just outside Orvieto, so I can’t claim to be a true native, but I moved here at an early age and I feel like one. The only time I spent away was to go to the university to study pharmacology, and even then I lived at home and commuted into Rome. I worked at the pharmacy, and after a few years the owner retired and I had a chance to buy him out. Fortunately I had money saved up and was able to make him an offer. Orvieto has been good to me over the years. When my wife died, half the city was there, including most of my customers at the pharmacy.” His eyes wandered out across the piazza before coming back to Rick and Betta. “And you two? You have moved from your native cities.”

  Rick and Betta gave Morgante an abbreviated account of their backgrounds, Rick’s more abbreviated due to his more complicated bi-cultural life to date. Then their host steered the conversation to the investigation.

  “I have heard that you are helping the inspector beyond just interpreting when he questioned the two American women. I thank you for that. Do you think he’s getting closer to finding the perpetrator of this terrible crime?”

  The three had taken seats at the table where the wine bottle, covered with a white napkin, rested in an ice bucket. They adjusted their chairs to enjoy the view. Rick wondered how much Paolo had told Morgante about the investigation. The man was clearly probing, so perhaps he hadn’t gotten much from him.

  “Inspector LoGuercio has not shared his conclusions with me, but I know he is gathering evidence and interviewing people who may have known the victim.” He decided not to remind Morgante that fewer than twenty-four hours had lapsed since finding the body.