Return to Umbria David Wagner (english novels for students TXT) 📖

“Please come in. My wife passed away several years ago, and with her went the neatness that characterized our home, so you will have to forgive me. The most pleasant place to receive visitors is on the terrace upstairs. The temperature today is relatively benign, and you can enjoy the view.” He extended his arm in the direction of a stairway.

“That would be fine, Professor,” said LoGuercio, and he and Rick followed behind the man as he climbed.

The room in the front of the second floor held enough books to start a community library. Three of its sides—the fourth being the windows and door facing the lake—were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling. A chair and ottoman, their leather cracked with age, sat in one corner. A metal lamp curled over the back of the chair, and next to it was a battered wood table, on which an open book was spread, pages down. Wedged in another corner was a desk, most of its surface covered with books. The only items not made of paper on the desk were a goose-neck lamp, a telephone, and some writing instruments, all of which dated from the previous century. The professor smiled when he saw Rick staring at the rows of books.

“My field probes into a rather obscure niche of Italian literature, Signor Montoya, sixteenth-century literary Mannerism.”

“I’ve always thought of Mannerism as a movement in art and architecture.”

Tansillo nodded. “Most people do. Shall we go outside?” Before opening the door he took a heavy cardigan sweater off the back of the desk chair and slipped it on.

A few leaves had wedged themselves into the corners of the square patio, but otherwise it was swept clean. Four metal chairs with plastic cushions angled toward the lake, its surface visible over the low balcony. Two trees on the other side of the street would have partially blocked the lake view in the summer, but now patches of silver could be seen between the branches. A light breeze blowing off the water carried the musty smell of dead leaves.

The professor pulled his chair around so that his guests could continue to enjoy the view. “What I was told over the phone did not have much detail, Inspector. You wanted to ask me about a former student in our program?”

LoGuercio cleared his throat. “That’s correct. The body of a woman was found early this morning, and we believe her death to be a homicide. The woman, an American named Rhonda Van Fleet, was in your program in 1980.”

Tansillo closed his eyes in thought. “I don’t recall anyone named Van Fleet.”

“She was Rhonda Davis then, Professor,” Rick said.

The man stiffened. “Good God, Rhonda Davis? Of course I remember her. She was murdered? Who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what we’re endeavoring to find out, Sir,” said LoGuercio. “What can you tell us about her?”

The professor turned his head and stared out at the lake, as if this would help him remember. “She came into the program late, in October or November. I recall that because there was some question as to whether we should let her in. She’d been doing some kind of internship—in some other city—that didn’t work out. But someone had left early, so we had an opening.” He shook his head. “Strange how I can remember that, but couldn’t tell you what I had for lunch yesterday.”

“What kind of a student was she?”

“One of the best from those early years. Pottery was her field, and she immersed herself in it completely. Always seemed to have clay on her hands. Turned out some beautiful pieces.”

“So all work and no play?” Rick asked.

“No, no. I didn’t mean to give that impression. She was very much into the nightlife in Orvieto. Of that class, probably the most active.”

“I realize it has been many years,” LoGuercio said, “but do you recall any enemies, people she didn’t get along with?

Tansillo frowned. “Why would—ah, of course. Someone who could have done this. No, I don’t remember anything like that. Rhonda had a strong personality, overbearing at times, but her friends accepted her for what she was.” He tilted his head toward LoGuercio. “But surely you don’t suspect that one of her fellow students from that year would come over here and murder her.”

“No, sir. But she must have had Italian friends. Can you recall anyone?”

A gust blew in from the water, stirring up the leaves on the terrace. The professor pulled his sweater tighter around his neck as he concentrated.

“Bianca Capello. Yes, Bianca was in Orvieto at that time, before going off to Milan to study at the Bocconi. Wanted to go into banking. Her English was very good, so she would help with orientation when new groups arrived. I’m almost certain that one of the years Bianca worked for us was Rhonda’s.”

“She is in Orvieto now?” LoGuercio had scribbled the name on his pad.

“I believe so, Inspector. She worked for a bank somewhere in the north for years, but moved back here and started a real estate business. It was right about the time I retired from the program.”

“Is there anyone else from that time still in Orvieto?”

“Signora Vecchi, but I’m not sure if she would remember much.” He grinned, showing an uneven line of teeth. “She is even older than I, gentlemen. She ran a boardinghouse where the female students lived. At that time we separated the women students from the males, not that it made any difference.”

“We’ll track her down. Anyone else?”

The professor shook his head slowly. “No, I think that’s—no wait, of course. Amadeo. Amadeo Crivelli. Confound me, I should have thought of him immediately. Amadeo was the pottery instructor. Part time, of course, he had his own pottery business, then as now.”

“He must have known Rhonda Davis very well, since that was her area of study.”

“Very well indeed, Signor Montoya. I recall him telling me that Rhonda had a true talent. Amadeo became very successful with his line of pottery.