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  LoGuercio leaned toward Rick’s ear. “Besides being the city counselor with the tourism portfolio, Signor Livio Morgante, the taller man, is a successful businessman. He owns a pharmacy on one of Orvieto’s main streets.”

  “Everyone needs aspirin,” said Rick.

  “And as if I didn’t have enough trouble, the man with him is Luciano Pazzi, a so-called journalist. He is here to see me, I’m willing to bet, but now that he’s run into Morgante he’ll try to pump him for gossip on something else. Probably some local scandal, real or created inside the mind of Pazzi. The man is a menace.”

  The pharmacist raised his arm in a gesture Italians use to indicate that they’d heard enough. He strode toward Rick and LoGuercio, leaving Pazzi standing with a smirk on his face.

  Morgante sported unfashionably long hair for someone who Rick guessed to be in his late fifties. The length and the dye job spoke of a man who’d decided his hair was a key factor in keeping him young. A wide smile and good looks added to the carefully cultivated aura of vitality, which was also the aura of a politician.

  “Inspector LoGuercio, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.” He looked from the policeman to Rick.

  “Not at all. Signor Montoya was just leaving. May I present Riccardo Montoya, who may be able to help with the investigation. I trust you are here about the murder, Signor Morgante?”

  The pharmacist gave LoGuercio a pained assent before shaking hands with Rick. “Just visiting Orvieto, Signor Montoya? I see you are an American, is there a chance you knew the victim?”

  Rick and LoGuercio exchanged puzzled looks. “Why do you think I’m American? I hadn’t said a word, so it couldn’t have been my accent.”

  The man flashed what must have been a practiced campaign grin. “Your Italian is flawless, so I wouldn’t have known anyway. No, it was the name Montoya, which I suspected was Spanish, at least in origin. But knowing there are many Spanish names in America, I saw your footwear and came to the conclusion that you are from that country. Did I guess correctly?”

  “The cowboy boots have blown my cover before. But in fact I proudly share both American and Italian nationalities and live in Rome. I’m up here for a few days. To do some tourism, which Paolo tells me is your specialty.”

  “It is the specialty of Orvieto, Signor Montoya. There is much to see.”

  “So I should be off to see it and allow you gentlemen to talk.” Rick shook hands with both men and walked to the door.

  His departure was followed closely by Luciano Pazzi. The journalist was now sitting in one of the metal chairs at the side of the room. Waiting patiently.

  ***

  Betta looked up at the cathedral from her place on the long, stone bench, its surface indented and shined by decades of tourist posteriors. Other early-risers, in twos and threes, were glad to have the seating, as hard as it might be. She studied the multicolored facade through a set of small binoculars and chatted with an elderly couple next to her. Noticing Rick walking into the far end of the piazza, she waved to get his eye. He returned the wave and walked to her.

  “I didn’t know you’d brought binoculars, Betta.”

  “I didn’t, these nice people let me use theirs. It really helps to appreciate all the detail.”

  She gave the binoculars to the gray-haired man and thanked him before getting up to take Rick’s arm. The couple smiled, as if recalling a fond memory, when Rick and Betta went toward the doors of the church. As they walked she listened carefully as he recounted his meeting at the police station. The square was not crowded; it was much too early for the Roman tour buses, and the tourists staying in the city’s hotels were still enjoying their second cup of morning coffee. Afternoons, when sunlight bathed the west-facing front of the cathedral, was the best time to enjoy the spectacular facade. At this hour, shadow covered the steps they climbed to reach the entrance. Inside was even darker. Both dipped their hands lightly in the font inside the door and crossed themselves. As the architect had intended, their eyes were drawn the length of the nave to a tall, arched window where light poured down through the stained glass, covering the altar.

  “I can’t believe you actually knew this policeman. No, now that I think about it, perhaps I can believe it. Why don’t you become a cop and be done with it?”

  “You sound like my uncle,” Rick said, his eyes taking in the space.

  The total lack of pews made a bare interior appear even larger. The only obstructions between the side walls were rows of thick columns that separated the nave from the two side aisles. Unadorned wood beams crisscrossed in support of the high roof above the nave before reaching the more ornate transept. Stone was the main material in this main part of the church—unadorned, cold, and permanent—in alternating black and white stripes. The layered pattern continued on the columns themselves, giving them the look of stacked Oreo cookies, though Rick opted not to share such a sacrilegious image with Betta. They were on their way to the Madonna di San Brizio chapel to see frescoes by Luca Signorelli, which she told him were among the great masterpieces of the Renaissance.

  “You’re going to interpret for the inspector when he interviews the other two women?”

  “Once he tracks them down.”

  “That should be easy. Mannaggia.”

  Rick’s eyes jumped from the ornate transept ceiling down to Betta. “What’s the matter?”

  She pointed at a sign perched on a wooden easel. “We need tickets from the tourist office across the piazza to get into the chapel. It would have been nice to put the sign at the entry door.” She turned.

  “I’ll get them, Betta. You stay here and read your guidebook so we know what we’re looking at.”

  She waved her hand. “You paid for the funicular tickets, Rick. It’s my turn. We agreed.”

  They walked back to the door and into the sunlight where more tourists had appeared and were peering up at the spires. Rick watched five old men, dressed in coats and ties, who stood in a circle listening to a sixth. Some important point, likely political, was being made by both word and gesture. Was there a town square in Italy that didn’t have its own regular group of pensioners? Perhaps they were assigned their spots by the local authorities.

  A small white car with the city coat of arms, the sole vehicle in the pedestrian-only square, almost blocked the steps into the tourist office. As they walked around it a man stepped from the door and called out.

  “Mi scusi, I should not have parked so close, let me—Oh, it’s you, Riccardo.”

  Rick introduced Betta to Livio Morgante, the man he’d just met in the police station. Morgante repeated his request to be excused for his parking job. “And you are starting your day of tourism in the shadow of our masterpiece.” Their eyes moved with his to the cathedral. “It took over three hundred years to complete, if a cathedral can ever be called finished, under the hands of several architects. The mix of mosaics, sculpture, and architectural elements in the facade is unlike any other church in Italy, perhaps the world. But it is spectacular inside as well. Scholars come from all over the world to study the frescoes, though one does not need to be a scholar to appreciate them.” They were words expected of the tourism chief, but despite the biased view, Rick and Betta nodded in agreement.

  Morgante suddenly turned serious. “It causes me great sadness that a visitor who comes here to see such beauty, as this American woman did, could find such ugliness.”

  “Crime can and does happen anywhere, Signor Morgante.”

  “That may be true, Riccardo. We want all our visitors, without exception, to have an experience filled with beauty, whether they are staying here in town, renting villas in the countryside, or passing through.”

  “That will be the case with us, I’m sure,” said Betta, trying to reassure the man. It appeared to work, for a smile returned to his face.

  “But you two must let me give you a tour of the cathe
dral. I don’t get to show off Orvieto often enough to visitors, I leave that to our professional guides. And it would be a small way to show my appreciation for the assistance you’re giving to our police.”

  Rick held up a hand in protest but Morgante waved it off. “No, I insist. Purtroppo, I cannot be your guide at this moment, I have to get to my pharmacy. But I could do it today at, let’s say, six o’clock? Would that work for you?”

  Rick and Betta exchanged nods. “That would be much appreciated,” Rick answered. “Let me give you my cell phone number in case something comes up.”

  Rick handed him his card, got one in return, and Morgante bade them goodbye before slipping into the city car and driving off, carefully avoiding the tourists. Rick and Betta watched the Fiat disappear into a side street.

  “I can see why he is concerned about the murder, Rick. He’s very passionate about his city.”

  Rick was looking at the card, which had the same Orvieto coat of arms as what was on Morgante’s car and the building they’d passed the previous night. “Yes, you’re right. But I noticed you neglected to complain about having to walk all the way back here to get tickets for the chapel.”

  “Next time, when I get to know him better.”

  They were interrupted by the muffled sound of the Lobo Fight Song, and Rick fumbled in his pocket to get his phone. It was not a number he recognized. “Montoya…Si, Paolo… ah, that’s good…right now?” His face turned sheepish. Betta rolled her eyes, nodding her head. “Of course…we’re in front of the cathedral…fine, see you then.” He snapped the phone closed. “That was Paolo LoGuercio. They just tracked down the other two women to a rental villa north of Orvieto.”

  Rick looked at the phone, still in his hand. There was a frown on his face.

  “What’s the matter?” Betta asked.

  He put the phone away and looked at her. “I may be getting too suspicious.”

  “If you’re going to help out with this investigation, being suspicious is a good thing, Rick. What is it?”

  “Paolo just called to say that the women rented a villa, and Morgante mentioned tourists in villas. Strange coincidence.”

  “He talked about all tourists, no matter where they are staying. You are right, you may be getting too suspicious. Besides, LoGuercio probably told him.”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  “So the inspector wants you to help him interrogate the two women?”

  “Interview is a better term; interrogate sounds like we will be using blunt instruments.”

  “You won’t?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. Can you see the sights on your own for a couple hours? I should be back for lunch, but I’ll call you.”

  She patted his chest. “I’ll be fine. Go do your civic duty.”

  From the distance came the distinctive sound of a police siren, its pulsing different, to the Italian ear, from those of a fire truck or ambulance. A few moments later the blue sedan burst into the square, slowing down immediately to a crawl to work its way through the pedestrians. Rick raised a hand and it drove to the spot where Morgante’s car had been parked. LoGuercio unfolded from the front passenger seat and smiled at Betta before turning to Rick.

  “Riccardo, now I really feel guilty for stealing your free time.”

  “Betta, this is Inspector Paolo LoGuercio. Paolo, Betta Innocenti.”

  LoGuercio bowed gallantly as he took her hand in both his. “It is indeed a pleasure, Betta.” He inclined his head toward Rick and spoke in a stage whisper. “Riccardo, explain to me how such a woman as this would waste her time with some bumbling foreigner.”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  Betta laughed. “You two had better be on your way. The first few hours are always the most critical in a criminal investigation.” Tourists who had been gazing at the church now watched the three people standing next to the idling police car. “I think these people are hoping you’re about to push Rick down on the hood and put handcuffs on him.”

  “Ah, and she is also familiar with police work.”

  “She works for the art cops, Paolo. You have to agree that they do police work.”

  The inspector’s tired eyes widened. “The art police. Well, we certainly know about them, don’t we Riccardo? But she is correct, we should be off.” He extended his hand. “Betta, it has been my great pleasure. We shall see each other soon, I trust. Unfortunately it will include Riccardo’s company, but there is nothing I can do about that.”

  A few minutes later the car was flying down road to the valley, lights flashing. Each time a car appeared in its lane, the uniformed driver would send out a short yowl from the siren and roar past it. Rick and LoGuercio sat in the backseat, holding tightly to the handles above the doors.

  The policeman fumbled with the cigarette pack in his pocket but left it there. “She’s certainly different from Erica.”

  “Your powers of observation have not diminished, Paolo.”

  Chapter Five

  Villa Felicità was the ironic name of the renovated stone farmhouse Rhonda Van Fleet had rented for herself, her daughter, Gina, and her friend Francine. Its foundation was dug into a sloping hill so that windows on both the upper floor and one side of the lower level looked out over the valley below. Wood and glass doors on the lower floor opened to a patio covered by a pergola woven with grape vines, their wide leaves shading the brick pavement from the afternoon sun. Beyond the patio stretched a rectangular pool, just big enough to do laps if the renters decided to abandon temporarily the bel far niente to engage in a bit of physical activity. It was a difficult choice, given the comfortable chairs on the patio and the view they afforded of the Umbrian countryside.

  Though Rick and Inspector LoGuercio didn’t realize it, the villa was visible, high in the distance, from several bends in the road. The driver had brought the speed down to what would be normal for an Italian driver on a deserted country road, making it easier for the two men in the back to converse. LoGuercio told Rick what he knew about the two women, which was no more or less than the basics required for the registration forms: names and passport information. Francine Linwood was the victim’s friend. As Rick expected, the daughter had a different last name than her mother. Either she was married or had been, or even more likely, her father was a husband pre-dating Mister Van Fleet. They would find out more when the women were questioned.

  “We’re almost there,” LoGuercio said. “The spot where the body was found is just around this bend. We can stop and look at it on the way back if you’d like. If we’re fortunate, something these women tell us may give us reason to examine the scene again.”

  Crime tape, tied to bushes at the side of the road and poles stuck into the ground next to the pavement, delineated where the body had been found. A lone, young policeman watched the car approach and then raised his hand in a loose salute when he recognized it. The driver waved as he drove past. LoGuercio pointed at a sign a few meters from the crime scene.

  “That’s the bus stop for the line that goes between Orvieto and Acquapendente. It would be the one they would use.”

  The car slowed as the driver scanned the road ahead. “Here it is, sir.” The Fiat turned off the pavement onto a gravel road and began a climb through tightly packed pine trees before bursting into open fields. At that point the driveway could have gone directly to the villa, but instead, perhaps for dramatic effect, it meandered through a few more slow curves. The gravel widened into a parking area in front of the house where a silver Mercedes was parked next to a police vehicle. A uniformed policeman standing between them looked up and walked toward the new arrivals.

  “They’re inside, Sir,” said the policeman after LoGuercio and Rick emerged from the backseat of their car. “My English is not very good, but I think they understood. As you ordered, I only told them that their companion was found dead and that you were c
oming to talk to them.”

  The two women were sitting opposite each other in the living room, both dressed in exercise suits and sandals. The one with short gray hair who Gina had told Rick was named Francine, sat staring into the void, a glass of red wine close to hand. Gina sat cross-legged on the soft chair, her eyes closed, and Rick realized that she was meditating. It was a strange way to deal with the death of one’s mother, but perhaps it worked for some people. The two looked up when the men entered the room. Both were visibly surprised to see Rick, Gina more than Francine.

  The living room was what one would expect after seeing the quaint outside of the villa. The floors were brick and the walls white stucco with patches where the stone and mortar from the outside peeked through to the interior. A low ceiling was criss-crossed with dark wood beams, likely the originals, but one could never be sure in Italy. The rustic style of the structure continued with the furniture—simple yet comfortable, mostly natural wood with seats and backs covered by stuffed cushions.

  “Gina, my sincere condolences for your loss.”

  She looked up at Rick, confusion on her face.

  He turned to Francine. “Ms. Linwood, my name is Rick Montoya, I—”

  “You were in the funicular yesterday.” The gray-haired woman’s comment matched her puzzled face. Her head snapped toward Gina. “You know him?”

  “We talked on the street yesterday while you were having a drink. Before dinner.”

  “I’m completely confused,” said the older woman. “Are you a policeman?”

  “No, ma’am, this is Inspector LoGuercio, who is in charge of this investigation. He has asked me to help him ask you some questions, since his English is not perfect.”

  LoGuercio stepped forward and shook hands stiffly with both women, who were now on their feet. “I extend my condolences,” he said in somber and heavily accented English before giving Rick a look which indicated that would be his limit.