“Una bellissima giornata.” He took his seat and poured coffee from the pitcher already on the table. “This is just what I need.”
“It is indeed beautiful, especially out here.”
Her smile seemed forced. He poured hot milk from the other pitcher, stirred in sugar, and studied her face. “What’s the matter, Betta?” He pointed at the paper that was now folded next to her plate. “Did your Bassano squadra lose?”
“This isn’t about soccer, Rick, it’s about murder.”
The cup, halfway to his mouth, returned to the saucer. “What murder?”
She found the page she wanted, folded it in half, and passed it to Rick.
He studied it, saw the article, and began to read aloud. “Police who were called to the scene, a country road about five kilometers from Orvieto, initially assumed the woman had been killed by a hit-and-run driver.” He glanced at the table next to him, heard a couple speaking German, but lowered his voice anyway. “On further examination it was determined that the type and extent of injuries indicated homicide. A passport found on the body confirmed that the woman was an American, Rhonda Van Fleet.” He looked up at Betta and then back at the page. “Anyone with information about the woman in this passport photo is asked to contact…it’s her, isn’t it?”
“The nasty one, no question about it.”
“What would she have been doing on a road far from town?” He scanned the story again, but there was no information other than the basic facts of finding the body. The writer must not have had enough time before the paper went to press to embellish it with conjecture, as any Italian journalist worth his salt would do.
“That’s likely what the police are trying to figure out right now,” Betta said. “They probably don’t even know about the other two women. Who would be prime suspects.”
“Do they teach you that kind of thing in your art squad training?”
“Hardly. I learned about suspects the same way you did.”
“By solving mysteries?”
“By reading mysteries.”
“And I thought you were going to give me a compliment. I guess I should go to the police and tell them what we saw on the funicular yesterday.”
She shook her head slowly and grinned. “So it’s your civic duty to get involved. If you were all Italian rather than just half from your mother, you would set the paper aside and avoid getting involved. Or do you want to become part of another investigation?”
“You got it right with the part about civic duty.”
“Well, eat your breakfast first, Signor Detective. You can’t detect on an empty stomach.”
After Rick left, Betta stayed at the table to enjoy the flowers and another cup of coffee. This downtime in Orvieto would be just the break she was looking forward to, with a change of scenery, culture, and of course Rick. The sudden ringing of her phone was an unwelcome annoyance to her pleasant thoughts. She fished it from her purse and checked the number. The 0424 area code was familiar, her Veneto hometown of Bassano del Grappa, but the number itself was not. A shiver ran through her that something might have happened to her father.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Betta.”
The low voice was all too familiar. Relief that nothing was wrong at home was replaced by annoyance with a touch of anger. She had not seen her ex-fiancé since that violent exchange on a back street in Bassano months earlier, after which she had pushed the pain of their relationship out of her mind. Its memory returned with the sound of his voice.
“Carlo, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“But we do need to talk, Betta. I’m not the same person you knew, I’ve reformed.”
Could he possibly have been drinking at this hour? The words were slightly slurred and spoken slowly and deliberately. “We most definitely do not need to talk, Carlo. We have nothing to talk about. It’s over. Move on.”
He continued as if she had not spoken. “You’ll see that I’ve changed. You will change your mind. Are you still with that cowboy?”
The question sent a chill through her. “Yes, if you must know.”
“I would like another shot at him too, but not for the same reasons.”
“After the last time you saw Rick, I would think you wouldn’t be anxious to encounter him again. Carlo, our conversation is ended. Don’t call me again.”
“No Betta, I won’t call again. The next time we talk will be in person.”
The line went dead, and Betta stared at the phone.
***
Since moving to Italy, Rick had found himself in more than one police station. They tended to look and smell the same, perhaps to help police feel at home when transferring from one assignment to another. But the police station in Orvieto was not a carbon copy of all the others. It was in a residential neighborhood and stood across from a grassy park cut by paths and shaded by tall pine trees. The building had been a residence at some point, a large one, and now he walked through an entrance hall into what must have once been the parlor or drawing room. Ever the linguist, he made a mental note to look up the origin of the term “drawing room,” which on its face didn’t make sense. This room had various dented metal chairs arranged against the windows of one wall, furniture at odds with the original décor. The long desk also failed to rise to its surrounding, though a bored policeman behind it sat in a slightly more comfortable, but also metal, chair. More agitated than bored were the three people who occupied chairs along the windows, no doubt waiting to wrestle with red tape that required a visit to the authorities. Rick walked past a line of bulletin boards to the desk. As he approached, the policeman looked up, deciding if this new arrival would be a problem. Knowing that it would be requested, Rick pulled
