To Die in Tuscany David Wagner (inspirational books for women txt) 📖

of short, dart-like projectiles that the balestre shot. Two couples waiting for a table glanced at Betta and Rick before returning to their conversation. Betta looked down and saw DiMaio waving from a corner table with Pilar next to him. He was seated with his back to the wall, facing out, like he was expecting trouble.

They walked down the steps and worked their way through an obstacle course of tables and diners to where DiMaio was now standing. He kissed Betta on both cheeks, shook hands with Rick, and waited while they greeted the seated Pilar.

“I was so glad to hear that you two were going to join us,” DiMaio said as he pulled out Betta’s chair.

“I’m sure you were,” answered Betta while smiling at Pilar.

“I ordered a bottle of Bianchello del Metauro,” said DiMaio, “a good local white. I trust that will work for everyone.” He was about to take his seat when a waiter hurried up to him.

“Can I bother you for a moment before you sit down, Inspector?”

“Of course.” He turned to the others at the table. “It’s impossible for a policeman to go incognito in a town this size. And what can I do for you?”

“Can you reach one of those bottles on the shelf behind you? No, the other one. The Chianti. Thank you; please excuse me.” He hurried off with the bottle in hand.

DiMaio sat down and spread a napkin on his lap. “It took special police skills to remove that bottle.”

“No doubt something you learned at the police academy,” said Rick. “Like the skills needed to find this place.”

“That’s the way we like it,” answered DiMaio as he poured water and wine into the glasses of the new arrivals. “We don’t want any tourists wandering in here.”

“I don’t think there’s much danger of that,” said Betta while picking up her wineglass. “Salute.” The others tapped her glass and everyone took a drink.

When the glasses were back on the table Pilar began the conversation. “Alfredo was telling me about your friend Morelli, so we’re anxious to hear how the visit to his art collection went.”

“Both his home and his collection are impressive, but I can’t say the same for him. As you would imagine, he was not overjoyed at seeing Rick, but since there was nothing he could do about it, he dutifully played the good host. Before I forget, Alfredo, he sends warm regards.”

“Very kind of him. Were you able to spot some contraband?”

Betta shook her head. “I’m afraid not. He knows where I work, of course, so I didn’t expect to make a seizure. There were no empty spaces in his display cabinets. If he put something away for the night, then he must have added another piece in its place.”

“And that wouldn’t surprise me,” said Rick while looking at food on the tables nearby. “Alfredo, you must come here often. What’s good?”

“They only make a few dishes each night, and there’s no printed menu. Our waiter will be back in a minute, but he told us the specials today are the maccheroncelli alla campofilone for your primo and petto di pollo trifolato for the main course.” He pointed at the bottle of white wine. “Keep in mind that I ordered this local bianchello, but our second bottle can be a red.”

“Those both sound good to me. How about you, Betta?”

“I’m in. Pilar?”

“I am, as well. For some reason I have a large appetite. As I recall from my years in Italy, when they push you toward a daily special, it will be good. And we’ll make it easier on them if we all order the same thing.”

The waiter appeared and was pleased to hear the order. He complimented their decision and assured them that they would not be disappointed. Like all good Italian waiters, he wrote down nothing.

“I haven’t seen you two since this morning,” DiMaio said. “What did you get from Vitellozzi?”

“Not much,” said Betta. “He was busy setting up the big exhibit, so we talked with him among the crates. He said Manuel Somonte had visited him in his office the day after arriving in Urbino and talked about donating the drawing to the museum in Sansepolcro. Vitellozzi had the feeling he was apologizing for not giving it to him.”

“I think my father supported the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, so the man couldn’t complain that much.”

“That’s true, Pilar. In fact he paid for part of the exhibit opening tomorrow night.” Betta turned back to DiMaio. “Vitellozzi didn’t have an alibi that could be corroborated; he said he was working late on the exhibit.”

The waiter returned, laden with plates and a platter, which he put on a side table next to theirs. The platter was piled high with what looked like thin, flat spaghetti in a tomato meat sauce. With a fork and spoon between the fingers of his right hand, he deftly transferred portions of the pasta onto the four plates and whisked them in front of each of the diners. After wishing them a buon appetito, he took his cutlery and platter and headed back to the kitchen.

Everyone stared at their plates while breathing in the flavors.

“I thought maccheroncelli would be some local type of maccheroni,” said Rick. “This looks suspiciously like tagliatelle or fettuccine. Not that I’m complaining—it smells wonderful.”

“Riccardo,” said DiMaio, “yesterday you wanted to call the vincisgrassi lasagna, so you are hardly the person to give them lessons on naming pasta.” He picked up his fork. “Buon appetito.”

A collective analysis of the pasta sauce followed. It was a tomato base, with minced chicken and veal, flavored by nutmeg and onion. Bits of carrot and celery could also be detected. The combination of it all, they agreed, worked quite well. When most of the plates had emptied, talk went back to where it had left off, with Betta and Rick in the duke’s palace.

“After we left Vitellozzi to his picture-hanging,” Rick said, “I bumped into Signora Somonte and Lucho Garcia. They were looking at a painting