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  “It’s LoGuercio.”

  Betta shrugged and sipped her wine.

  “Si, Paolo…no, we’re outside Todi, having lunch…not at all, the food hasn’t arrived yet.” He looked at Betta, who was drumming her fingers on the table in what Rick interpreted as mock impatience. “Sure, I’ll come by when we get back, I have some things I wanted to tell you anyway, since I ran into one of the American women…yes, that should be perfect, see you then.” He closed the phone.

  “Is there something new?”

  “I don’t think so,” Rick answered. “He wants to go over where things are at this point. Right now he’s going to see Signora Vecchi.” He noted the puzzled frown on Betta’s face. “She’s the woman who ran the boardinghouse where our victim lived when she was a student here. I may not have mentioned her to you.”

  “One of many things you hadn’t mentioned. But you can tell him what the daughter said.”

  Rick pulled a crust of bread from the basket. It was still warm. “Exactly. But the other thing Gina said I need to think about a bit more to decide how to translate it into Italian for Paolo. I was about to tell you.”

  “You weren’t going to keep it from me again?”

  He ignored the jab. “She said something about Francine, the other woman, not really showing much grief. But if I understood correctly, she also insinuated that Francine is, well, fooling around.”

  “Here? They just got to Italy a few days ago. Wait a minute. Do you mean…?”

  “Exactly. The caretaker. Paolo’s hunch that young Donato could be doing more than cutting the grass may be correct.”

  The waiter put empty plates before each of them and positioned the platter of crostini in the center of the table. Rick saw two kinds of pâté, a mushroom and tomato spread, and something else he didn’t recognize but looked very appetizing. He also counted them.

  “Thank goodness,” he said as he motioned for her to take first pick. “It’s an even number. We won’t have to fight over the odd one.”

  Chapter Eleven

  LoGuercio was not surprised to find that Signora Vecchi lived a mere two blocks from the police station. The town was so small that several Orvietos could fit inside the walls of his native Ferrara. When he was growing up, his preferred mode of transportation had been the bicycle, as it still was in the city for young and old. Unlike the many Italian cities that had been built on hilltops, Ferrara was flat and spacious, its streets straight and often wide. In Orvieto there were few bike riders, in part because of the inclines of some of the streets, but mostly because everything was close enough to walk. That’s what LoGuercio had decided to do to reach the woman’s residence.

  He stopped when he got to the door. The two-story building had a plain front painted dark yellow, and its entrance was marked by a marble slab: Casa San Bernardo—1948. It was one of a few retirement homes in the city, one that LoGuercio guessed had been built to house the many widows caused by the war. The design was bland and institutional, with no hint of the fascist architectural style popular less than a decade before the date on the plaque. He pushed open the door and entered a wide reception area. A nurse looked up from a desk on one side and eyed him with curiosity. He was not a family member she was used to seeing. Her expression turned to surprise when he showed her his identification and asked for Signora Vecchi. She had trouble forming her words.

  “But, I don’t understand.”

  “I said I’d like to speak with—”

  “No, Inspector, I heard you. What I don’t understand is how Signora Vecchi knew you were coming. She told me this morning after breakfast that someone would show up to see her today. Since she has no relatives that I know of, I found it strange. And now you appear.” She gestured toward open double doors on the other side of the room. “She’s waiting for you in the visitors salon. She’s the woman wearing a bright red sweater.”

  LoGuercio thanked her and walked to the doorway. The visitors salon was divided into a half dozen conversation areas, each with comfortable if shabby chairs. One was being used by two people who looked old enough to be residents, but they were chatting with a much older man who listened with a distracted smile. On the other side of the room, under a hanging light fixture that looked to be original to the building, Signora Vecchi sat on a wide couch. She looked up and smiled at the policeman. Besides the sweater, she wore a long black skirt, and her gray hair had been carefully put up in a bun. A hint of rouge shone from her cheeks below frameless glasses. LoGuercio walked over and took her hand in his.

  “I am Inspector LoGuercio, Signora, I understand you are expecting me.”

  She smiled, but her eyes squinted at him. “Aren’t you supposed to show me your badge or something?”

  “Of course, sorry.” He pulled his identification card from his wallet and she studied it, glancing from his face to the photo and back before returning it to him. He sat across from her.

  “It took you long enough to find me. When I saw in the paper before breakfast that the murdered woman had attended the program here, I expected to see you this morning.”

  Of course, the newspaper. The morning’s edition had run more details than he’d wanted to become public. Orvieto was small enough to walk everywhere, but the downside was that news often spread too fast.

  “We were interviewing other people who knew the victim then.”

  “The paper said she was Rhonda something, a name I didn’t recognize. But Rhonda wasn’t that common a name, so I assumed it was Rhonda Davis. Was I right?”

  “You were right, Signora.” Normally this was the point when he’d say that he was the one who was supposed to be asking the questions, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. This was not the doddering senior he had expected, the woman was sharper than his own grandmother.

  “So you remember Rhonda Davis. What can you tell me about her?”

  “She was one of a few of the girls that I remember quite well.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked past him into the distance. “The program was my whole life then, I’d just lost my husband and used what money he left me to buy the boardinghouse. It was my good fortune that right at that time the university started the exchange program and needed a place to put the girls. I don’t remember if Rhonda was here for that first year, but it was early on. She arrived already speaking decent Italian, unlike most of the girls. She’d been living somewhere else in Italy, I think.”

  “Milan.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Milan. So I was able to talk to her more than I could with the others.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Just about everything. Living in Orvieto, the history of the place. She was curious about what it was like during the war, when I was a little girl. And politics. She was fascinated by politics. As you might expect for an arts student, she was very much to the left politically. It was just at the time of the worst turmoil in Italy—the student uprisings, the shootings, the kidnappings.” She frowned and shook her head as if trying to shake the memory from her mind.

  “Do you remember any of her friends?”

  “Thought you might ask that. No, I can’t recall anyone specific. I don’t think she had a boyfriend in the program, but she had some Italian friends. Boys, I mean. Those girls didn’t think I knew what they were up to, but I did. Nothing in my house, though, I saw to that. I didn’t want the university to cancel the contract, so I was pretty strict about what went on there.”

  A middle-aged man in a dark suit and a frail woman walked slowly into the room and took seats near them. Signora Vecchi nodded at them.

  “That’s my friend Luisa,” she said to LoGuercio in a lower voice. “Her son visits her every day. I never had children.” Her sigh was short, a quick breath. “I suppose the American girls were like family to me. Who do you think did this, Inspector?”

  The question brought him back to the matter at hand. “
Unfortunately no obvious suspect has been identified. It could have been a random murder, but it would seem more likely there was some connection with the time she was here as a student.” It was more than he should have revealed, but he was too tired to care. “Which is why your help in remembering something—anything—could be critical.”

  She rubbed her hands together. “I’ve been thinking about it since I read the article in the paper. Perhaps something will come to me. I’ve been looking at the photos to try to jar my memory, but it hasn’t helped much.”

  “Photos?”

  He had noticed a white album on the table next to her, but assumed it belonged to Casa San Bernardo. She picked it up and put it in her lap. “Back then everyone had a camera, and a real one, not a telephone.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Come sit and I’ll show you.”

  He did as he was told, and she opened the album. The photos were mostly group shots, though some pictures had a much younger Signora Vecchi standing with one or two of the students. Most were taken in front of the same building, which he assumed was her boardinghouse. LoGuercio found it interesting that styles had not changed radically in forty years. The hair was different, longer on the girls’ heads and the boys’ faces, but the clothing was essentially unchanged, especially the jeans. A few of the tee-shirts had words written on them, but the shots were too wide to be able to read them easily.

  “I think this is Rhonda’s year,” she said after turning one of the thick, plastic pages. The inspector leaned closer. The photos were yellowed, like the earlier ones, but still clear. In one of the group photos Rhonda stood smiling in the front row. The next showed Signora Vecchi holding a pot, Rhonda next to her.

  “She gave me that pot.” She rubbed her finger over the plastic sheet of the album. “You know, I can’t remember what happened to it. I think when I moved in here it must have been left behind. What a shame, I could have found space for it in my room.”

  At the top of the next page was another photo of Rhonda. She stood next to a bearded male who looked vaguely familiar to LoGuercio. Her arm was entwined in his and they both smiled at the camera.

  “Who’s that?”

  “He was the pottery instructor, Crivelli. He had just been hired.”

  LoGuercio looked closer at the photo, recalling that Crivelli denied having any social contact with the students. One photo couldn’t prove him wrong, but it was curious nonetheless.

  She tapped on the photo. “Crivelli is still in Orvieto, I think. You should talk to him. The only other I can think of from that time would be Bianca.” Her finger was now over another picture, a group shot. Bianca Cappello and Rhonda stood together in the back row. “But I think she moved to Milan.”

  “She’s back in Orvieto, Signora. Runs a real estate business. I spoke with her yesterday.”

  “Yes. Yes of course. Now I remember. It’s hard to keep track of people if they don’t come by to see me.” She closed the album and placed it carefully on the table. “You’ll come back and tell me when you’ve solved the case, won’t you, Inspector?”

  “Of course, Signora.” He took out a card and put it in her hand. “But if you remember anything else, please call me. Even minor details can be helpful.” He stood up.

  She held the card between her thin fingers. “Of course I will.”

  LoGuercio bent down to shake her hand and thank her for her help. She watched him as he walked to the double doors and out into the reception area. Signora Vecchi’s friend, deep in conversation with her son, had never noticed the policeman.

  ***

  It was still early afternoon when Rick started to walk across Orvieto to the police station. He’d left Betta at the hotel with her book and received her blessing for his return to the murder case if he promised to stay away from terra cotta pots. Between his morning runs and walking to the interviews with LoGuercio, he was starting to feel like he knew his way around town, at least the main arteries. He found himself on the street he had walked with LoGuercio the previous day, recognizing the shoe store he had perused.

  He was mulling over his suspicions about Gina and Francine when a man and woman rushed out of a store and walked toward him, arm in arm. Bianca Cappello and Livio Morgante. She looked up and noticed Rick, a shocked expression on her face. Morgante saw him and smiled.

  “Riccardo, I think you’ve met Bianca Cappello?”

  “I have,” Rick answered. She nodded, but said nothing.

  “Are you feeling better today, Riccardo?” Morgante turned to Bianca. “I spoke with Inspector LoGuercio this morning and found that he and Riccardo were called to the villa where the murdered woman was staying. Possible break-in. But they didn’t find anyone, apparently.”

  “You’re well informed,” said Rick, not disguising his annoyance. “I didn’t realize that you two were friends.”

  “It’s no secret,” said Morgante, squeezing her hand.

  She smiled at the pharmacist, but to Rick the smile seemed forced. Or nervous. If their relationship was not a secret, what was her problem? Likely she didn’t want to be reminded of the death of her old friend, and Rick was that reminder. If Morgante and Cappello were in a relationship, which was obviously the case, they must have shared their information about Rhonda’s murder. Had Bianca not leveled with Morgante about how well she knew the victim, since that would make her a suspect?

  Finally Bianca spoke. “The owners of two properties outside town want to hire me to rent out and manage their villas, so I need to do an inspection.” She had assumed the tone of a businesswoman, though it didn’t match the flamboyant way she was dressed. “Livio has agreed to go along for the ride.”

  “She promised to buy me dinner at a wonderful little trattoria near the villas. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.” He patted her hand. “And have you and Betta been seeing the sights today?”

  “We drove to Todi this morning and had lunch.”

  Morgante appeared stunned, but Rick realized it was for dramatic effect.

  “Todi?” He swept out his hand. “With Orvieto at your disposal? I’m shocked. Well, tomorrow you will see our jewel. We are still confirmed for tomorrow morning at the cathedral, aren’t we?” He turned his head to Cappello. “Bianca, I invited Riccardo and his friend to join us at the tour tomorrow morning. Since he’s been so helpful to the police, I don’t think the mayor will mind that I invited him, do you?”

  “He’ll only be annoyed that he didn’t think to invite Riccardo himself,” she answered.

  “Betta and I are looking forward to it,” said Rick. “I must not keep you, and Inspector LoGuercio is waiting for me. Nice to see you both. Enjoy your dinner.”

  They exchanged goodbyes and went in different directions. Rick had mentioned his appointment with LoGuercio to see what Bianca’s reaction would be, but she betrayed nothing. The nervousness, or perhaps surprise, that she’d shown at first had been replaced by a studied calm. He put it out of his mind and continued on his way to the police station.

  It was getting close to the hour when offices were closing, and it appeared that some workers were already heading for home. They joined students hoping to hook up with friends, pensioners out for a stroll following their afternoon nap, and wives making last-minute purchases for the evening meal. It was one of Rick’s favorite times to walk the streets of an Italian city, when they were most full of life and movement. He passed the window of a salumaio, which was as inviting as the one he’d seen in Todi, though without any suckling pig. The place of honor in this shop was a basket almost overflowing with freshly made cheese tortellini. As he watched, a hand inside a white jacket sleeve reached down and scooped some of them into a small box. Rick wondered if they would be served that evening in broth or on a dish with a sauce. On he walked, coming to a toy store. It reminded him that it wasn’t too early to think about birthday gifts for his two nephews back in Albuquerque. This was one of the
advantages to having nephews: it gave him acceptable cover to browse toy stores and play with its wares. He looked at the display of toy cars and tried to recall what he’d given them last year. In his next e-mail to his sister he would have to ask; she would remember. He realized the time, reluctantly turned from the display, and continued to his destination.

  The final few hundred feet to the police station were on a gravel path through a small and beautifully manicured park. It was a miniature version of the Borghese Gardens in Rome, complete with the tall umbrella pines that inspired Respighi. The rays of the afternoon sun were broken by the lanky trunks, casting long shadows across the grass and gravel. He stepped onto the path from the sidewalk which circled the park.

  “Signor Montoya.”

  Luciano Pazzi, looking no different than the previous day, appeared out of one of the shadows.

  Rick did not try to hide his annoyance. “Signor Pazzi, if I had anything to say to you I would have called.”

  “I suspected you would be coming to see the police again,” the man said. “It is curious that they need the help of a foreigner to do their work.” Pine needles crunched under his shoes as he walked closer. He stopped under one of the pines close to the path and turned his head upward. “Beautiful trees, aren’t they, Signor Montoya? Legend says they were brought here by one of the popes when he passed through Orvieto. Homesick for Rome, perhaps.”

  “Listen, Pazzi—”

  “I listen to people all the time, that’s how I earn my living. But it is not a one-way street, I am often the source of information for others. Unfortunately I can’t think of how I could be helpful to you, a tourist passing through Orvieto, so I have to rely on your sense of—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. The crack of a gun sounded somewhere to Pazzi’s left, and simultaneously a bullet thudded into the tree next to him. The man froze, and his mouth dropped open to reveal a row of crooked teeth. Rick instinctively dropped flat to the ground.