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

“Isn’t this when I’m supposed to tell you where I was when the murder took place? I read a lot of gialli, especially those by British crime writers.”

“Go right ahead.”

Rick wondered if Crivelli noticed the annoyance in Paolo’s voice. The man was beginning to grate on both of them.

“I live in Todi, as you must know already, where my other shop is located. But I have a small apartment upstairs that I use if I’m kept late in Orvieto. That was the case last night. I had dinner with friends and slept here. So there is no one to corroborate my alibi for the entire evening, I’m afraid. Not even my wife, since she was in Todi.”

“May I ask with whom you had dinner?”

“Of course, Inspector. I dined with Mayor Boscoli and his wife.” The grin returned. “I’m sure he will be glad to confirm that if you call him.”

***

“He’s a real charmer, isn’t he?”

Rick didn’t answer immediately. He had pulled out his cell phone and noticed a missed call and message, but didn’t recognize the number. He’d check it later. “I’ll agree with that, Paolo. Being a snob appears to work for him, his business looks like it’s based on snob appeal. Small production, probably limited-edition pieces. If you’re a discerning collector, your home cannot be considered complete without a signed Crivelli vase.”

“Did you see the way he dropped the mayor’s name?” LoGuercio said. “I’ve already got Mayor Boscoli on my case, I don’t need Crivelli to be complaining to him.”

“I’m sure the mayor has more important items on his agenda that telling you how to solve a murder.”

“You could have said that about Morgante. And speaking of Morgante, Riccardo, what are your thoughts about him running to Bianca Cappello’s office?”

They had turned up a side street in the direction of the police station, squeezing into a doorway to let a car pass. Ahead there was a break in the buildings lining the left side of the street, opening to a small square that allowed a wider view of a stone palazzo at the far end. Based on the styles of palazzi he passed regularly in Rome, Rick guessed the building was from the seventeenth century. A small, stone balcony, supported by columns reaching to the street, looked down from the third floor.

“She was distraught about the news of her friend’s murder and called the pharmacist. He rushed over with some potion to calm her down.”

LoGuercio nodded and rubbed his eyes. “Could be that. And it’s an interesting that you said that here.” He stopped Rick with his hand and pointed to the building. “See that? There was a case of a distraught woman that took place right up there. She found out her husband was having an affair and climbed out on the balcony and started screaming, threatening to jump. It drew a crowd. People came from the whole neighborhood. Her husband was a prominent businessman, so that made it an even bigger event.”

Rick studied the balcony and saw that it was a long way to the pavement. “What happened?”

“She jumped and died.”

“That’s terrible. You tried to talk her out of it?”

LoGuercio’s eyes stayed on the building. “Me? No. I wasn’t there.”

“Didn’t someone call the police?”

“They probably did, but it happened in 1710. I may have the year wrong. Sometime back then.”

Rick shook his head.

They were in front of the police station when he remembered the phone message. “Paolo,” he said after listening to it and closing his phone, “that was from Francine Linwood. She has something she wants to tell us.”

“We can’t drive there now, I’m supposed to contact the prosecuting attorney, and you were going to make that phone call to the police in Arizona.”

Rick stuffed his phone in his pocket. “She’s here in town. You make your call to the prosecuting attorney and I’ll walk over and see what she has to tell us. It shouldn’t take long. When I get back we’ll call Phoenix.”

“That will work.” LoGuercio walked to the door of the police station and went inside.

Rick pulled out his phone and checked the time. “Damn.” He punched a number and put the phone to his ear as he walked. It went to messages. “Betta, things are running longer than I expected, I have to talk with one of the American women again. It’s going to be impossible to meet Morgante at the cathedral. I’ll call him and tell him. Hope you’re having fun. Ciao.” He took Morgante’s card from his wallet and dialed the number. Same thing, to messages. “Signor Morgante, Riccardo Montoya. I’m afraid we’ve gotten busy with the case and won’t be able to accept your kind offer to see the cathedral today. Hope that doesn’t inconvenience you.” He hung up and picked up his pace.

Francine Linwood had called from a bar on one of the small squares in Orvieto, so small that Rick had to use the GPS on his phone to find it. The afternoon sun was beginning to drop behind the tile roofs of the surrounding buildings, slowly shrinking a rectangular patch of sunlight on the similarly rectangular paving stones. Eight small tables with umbrellas were arranged outside the door of the bar, most of them occupied by people whom Rick guessed to be locals. Of those, half were older couples, dressed more formally, the other half younger people more interested in reading their cell phones than live conversation. Francine sat alone with a wineglass and a dish of peanuts in front of her. She seemed to be staring at a tower in the distance, but Rick couldn’t be sure. Her eyes were covered by sunglasses, even though the spread of afternoon shadows had made them unnecessary. The shadows had also begun to lower the temperature, but she had come prepared; a shawl of bright Southwest colors draped the chair next to her. She spotted Rick and waved. From the smile he concluded that the information she wanted to impart was not that serious. Or she was