***
“I have much to do,” said LoGuercio as he flipped through his notes. The car retraced the route back to Orvieto, but at a slower speed, making Rick wonder if LoGuercio had said something to the driver. There was no need to hold on this time. “Starting with this caretaker, Donato.” He tapped on a line of his notes. “Wouldn’t it be easy if he confesses to meeting our victim last night and doing her in? I could go back to petty crime, you could return to sightseeing full time, and our tourism chief could get off my back.”
“It’s never that simple, Paolo, in life or in crime. And the killer has to be someone she knew when she was here as a student, almost certainly the person she ran into in the piazza or someone she saw later. The two women don’t appear to be capable of murder, or even to have a motive.”
“Nor do they have an alibi. Either or both of them could have been waiting at the bus stop when she got off. My men are tracking down the driver of the bus on the final run last night. According to the schedule, it would have reached the stop near the villa at about eleven-twenty last night en route to Acquapendente.”
“About a half hour after the women went to bed. Or said they went to bed.”
“Precisely.”
“Do you really think she was attacked after getting off the bus?”
LoGuercio shook his head. “I do not. The scenario of being murdered somewhere else still makes sense. She must have told the murderer where she was staying. He offers to drive her there, and kills her at a secluded spot somewhere on the way. Then he puts her body into the trunk and drops it at the side of the road to make it appear that she was killed after getting off the bus.”
“So you can start looking for possible locations between Orvieto and where the body was found, to look for the actual murder scene.”
LoGuercio gestured at the low hills on either side of the car. “It could take a while.”
Five minutes later the car slowed into a turn and began the climb up to the city.
“Over there,” LoGuercio said, while pointing to one side of the road, “are some fascinating Etruscan burial grounds which you really should visit. A stone city of the dead in the shadow of Orvieto’s cliff, a very evocative place. Are you planning on seeing some Etruscan ruins this trip, Riccardo?”
“I think I had my fill of things Etruscan the last time we met, Paolo.”
“Perhaps you’re right. There is enough history here that is of a more recent vintage. Which reminds me that with all this going on I have not heard enough about what you have been doing since Volterra. Are you and the lovely Betta free for lunch? Despite the demands of the job, even a policeman must pause to take in nourishment.”
“Especially when there is no commissario to keep you working at your desk at lunch time.”
LoGuercio grinned, and it struck Rick that it was the first time since they’d met earlier in the day that he’d seen the man smile.
“I am shocked, Riccardo, that you would think such a thing.” He pulled out his notebook, scribbled something on a blank page, tore it out, and passed it to Rick. “I will reserve a table at this place for the three of us at one o’clock.”
Chapter Six
Betta read from her red guidebook while Rick stood, arms crossed over his chest, and took in the stone beauty of Orvieto’s Palazzo del Popolo. As she spoke of individual aspects of the building’s architecture—the tall arches of the ground floor, trifore windows on the representational second floor, and pointed battlements on the roof—his focus moved accordingly. His eyes stayed on the battlements, called merli, which also means “blackbird” in Italian. The rows of jutting stone did indeed look like huge blackbirds from below. Rick knew that merli in Guelph towns, whose government supported the pope, were designed in one way, while the Ghibelines, who backed the emperor, had a different shape. He could never remember which was which, but since Betta’s guidebook had noted the various popes who had taken refuge in Orvieto over the centuries, he guessed these to be Guelph. Betta put a red string in the page and closed the book.
“The stairway is the most impressive feature,” she said, looking up.
Ten people abreast could have climbed the stone stairs to the landing before swinging around to climb another set to reach the wide balcony under the arched windows of the second floor.
“What year did they start construction of the building?”
She opened to the same page. “Eleven fifty-seven.”
“No handicap ramps required in those days.”
“Unfortunately not.”
“Since they don’t have a capitano del popolo anymore, what do they use the building for now?”
“Conventions, meetings, big events. There’s a large hall on the second floor.”
“I’ll bet the Albuquerque Convention Center has one that’s larger.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Did you notice those kids over there drawing the building? Let’s go take a look.”
They walked to the far end of the plaza where about a dozen students of college age sat on fold-up stools armed with sketch pads and pencils. Thanks to the internationalization of clothing styles, it was difficult to tell young people of one country from those of another just from their dress. Jeans, loose-fitting shirts, and casual footwear were worn by everyone. But something about their body language gave Rick the sense that these kids were Americans. There was an adult, somewhat older than Rick, who prowled behind the group, making comments as he did. He also had the aura of an American, but was trying valiantly to look Italian.
“Art class?” Rick said to him as
