The Dark Heart of Florence Tasha Alexander (novels for beginners .TXT) 📖

said. “It’s not as if we’ve uncovered sensitive information or have special insight into Marzo’s death.”

“I’ve been reading Monsieur Le Queux’s book, the one you abandoned and left in the Sala dei Pappagalli. It’s quite intriguing. I especially liked the bit where he discusses how the days of British supremacy are coming to an end. He says, The English have endeavored to rule the world far too long. They must be suppressed, and the Powers have already agreed that the time has come to crush this nation of swaggering idiots.”

“I believe it was an enemy agent making that claim,” I said. “It hardly reflects Mr. Le Queux’s own views.”

“I say it only to tease you, Kallista. You know I don’t despise the English. At least not all of them.”

“Your magnanimity is laudable,” I said, accepting her teasing in good humor.

“The book leads me to believe that if we’re entangled in the work of spies, we have every right to expect to be followed. Preferably by a dashing sort of agent.”

“Is there any other kind?”

“Oui, if Marzo Spichio was one.”

“Don’t be unkind to the dead, Cécile.”

She shrugged but made no reply.

Inside the museum, we climbed the stairs to the gallery on the second floor, pausing briefly in front of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. We then sat on a bench in the corridor near windows that offered sweeping views of the city, the Arno in one direction and the Duomo in the other.

“Because Lena did not allow us to accompany her home, we don’t know where she lives,” I said. “I want to speak to Ridolfo. We need to learn more about him, and he can tell us where to find Lena.”

“Will he still be in Florence?” Cécile asked. “He works outside the city.”

“If Lena’s characterization of his laziness can be even half believed, I doubt he’d return to the tannery until after his brother’s funeral. I had a message for him delivered to the family apartment this morning, asking him to meet us here at eleven.” I glanced at my watch. “He’s nearly a quarter of an hour late, so it may be that my deductions are nothing but useless drivel.”

“He does not strike me as a man who knows his way around a museum. As such, it is sensible to expect tardiness.”

Cécile was correct. At twenty past the hour, Ridolfo Spichio sauntered toward us, more interested in ogling the fashionable ladies in the gallery than in showing even a passing concern for art. But he had come, and for that, I was grateful. I thanked him and explained that I’d wanted us to be able to speak freely, without causing his mother further upset.

“I’m curious,” I said. “Why did Lena insist on living away from your family?”

“She is a girl who likes to put on airs, who thinks she is too good to live like a peasant. Which is insulting, as my family has never been peasants. She wants to believe she belongs in a palazzo.”

“Surely she knew Marzo couldn’t afford a house like that,” I said.

“She was willing to modify her desires, at least to some degree.”

“It must have hurt your mother,” Cécile said. “She, after all, still lives with her own mother-in-law.”

“Lena thinks she’s better than everyone, which is why my mother didn’t care what the girl wanted to do. But she didn’t like the idea of losing Marzo. Now, though, she’s lost him in a far worse way.”

“She still has you,” I said, “and I imagine she needs you now more than ever.”

He snorted. “Unfortunate for me. My work is not in Florence. I cannot move back in with her, and I shouldn’t have to.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest you should. Tell me about your work.”

“I’m a tanner. It would not interest you.”

“Florentine leather is the most beautiful in the world,” Cécile said. “Why would that not interest us?”

“Have you smelled many animal hides, signora? You would not find it pleasant.”

Cécile bristled. “I do not equate pleasant with interesting.”

“Why am I here?” he asked. “I know it’s not to talk about tanneries.”

“We want to know more about your brother,” I said. “I feel awful about his death and wish I had known him better.”

“You told me he was kind. That is what Marzo was good at—making people believe whatever he wanted them to about him. If you lived with him, you would know he was not so kind. He was selfish, more concerned with his fiancée’s whims than his mother. He never even feigned the slightest interest in me.”

“I’m sure he cared,” I said.

“You’re wrong on that count. Did you know Lena was engaged to me? Six weeks before the wedding she met my brother. Two days later, she told me she could not marry me.”

This was a markedly different version of the story than Lena had told us. “How long were you engaged?” I asked.

“Four months.”

“In all that time she never met your family?”

“She met my mother and my nonna. I kept her away from Marzo because I knew he would steal her from me.”

“How did you know that?” I asked.

“Because whenever he saw something he wanted, he did whatever was necessary to get it. Lena is beautiful. Any man would want her. It came as no surprise to me when he took her.”

“How long after she called off your wedding did she agree to marry Marzo?” Cécile asked.

“Nine days. Nine. I was humiliated.”

Cécile frowned. “How long ago did this happen?”

“A year ago.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “No one deserves to be treated in such a callous manner, particularly by his own brother.”

“What does it matter now?” He balled his hands into tight fists.

“Were you surprised to learn of his death?” I asked.

“Only because it was an accident. Given the way he treats others, I would have thought it more likely he’d be murdered.”

“Who would you have suspected?” Cécile asked.

“Who cares? No one had the nerve to do it. But I suppose I can take comfort in knowing that he’s gone and can’t hurt anyone else.”

“You didn’t