“You think? Well, Tullia called me a couple hours ago. Something terrible happened to her husband. She was too shaken up to tell me exactly what. Apparently he’s going to be away for a while.”
“That sounds serious.”
“Right. I said I’d come over immediately but she told me not to. She’d already called her sisters, who live up north, and they were on their way to Orvieto. She didn’t think it would be a good idea to have me around. Can you believe that, Riccardo?”
“That she’d called her sisters before calling you, or didn’t want you around?”
“Both, I guess.” He stared into the mirror at the other side of the bar. “I’m just surprised she wants a couple women to comfort her rather than me.”
The kid has learned nothing. “That’s called family, Fabrizio.”
Fabrizio nodded. “Funny you should say it, because that’s just what I was thinking. And that’s why I decided to accept what Tullia said and just go back to Perugia. Family is important, and the only way I could really understand that was to be away from home for a while.”
The kid has learned something. “You won’t regret your decision.”
“I hope not.”
“And, you’ve also learned other things about, well, life.”
“I’ll say, Riccardo. I’ve learned a whole lot, that’s for sure. I don’t know when I’ll use it in a book, but you’ll read it sometime.” He looked again at the clock. “Listen, my train is due, I’d better get to the track. Great seeing you.” They gave each other cousinly hugs.
“Give my best to your parents.”
Fabrizio rolled his eyes, picked up his sack, and walked away. Rick was still shaking his head when Betta appeared, a magazine in her hand.
He raised his hand to get the attention of the barman. “Betta, we’re going to have a prosecco for the road.”
Chapter Sixteen
Uncle Piero’s restaurant selection was tied to a police investigation at the north side of Rome’s centro storico. A woman had been found dead in an apartment at a bend in the Tiber across from the Palace of Justice. The location was ironic, since the deceased was the estranged wife of an undersecretary of the Justice Ministry. Any similar case would have brought in a precinct detective, but at the request of the minister himself, Commissario Piero Fontana was assigned to investigate. He was not happy, but now pushed work from his mind to enjoy lunch with his nephew, their first since Rick had returned from Orvieto. They sat in La Campana, which had started life as an inn, and now claimed to be the oldest restaurant in the city. As befitted an establishment that had been on site for almost half a millennium, the menu was Roman. As was the clientele.
Rick observed that no one in the room was dressed more elegantly than his uncle, despite Piero having come directly from a crime scene. No surprise there. Today a bright paisley tie over a dark blue shirt contrasted with a subtle glen plaid jacket that could have had elbow patches but didn’t. A solid red handkerchief peeked from the jacket pocket, picking up the colors of the tie which would soon be covered with a white napkin.
Normally Rick and Piero skipped anything resembling antipasto and went directly to the pasta course, but one of the specialties here was the carciofi alla giudia, artichokes fried to a crispness that made them crunch at the bite, so they succumbed. For primo, Piero tried to talk Rick into joining him again, with tagliolini con alici e pecorino. Rick, not a fan of anything with anchovies, opted for the spaghetti alle vongole, always done to perfection at La Campana. The choice of a main dish, if there was to be one, would wait until after the first two courses. The seafood in the pasta choices called for a white wine. Assuming that Rick had tasted enough Orvieto Classico on his trip, Piero selected a bottle from another part of Umbria, a smooth Montefalco Bianco. They were halfway through it when the waiter removed their empty artichoke dishes.
“Riccardo, I think you can take at least partial credit for your cousin’s decision.”
“How do you figure that, Zio?”
“You are family to him. He said he came to the realization that family is important. You being there helped put the thought into his thick, young head.”
Rick chuckled. “That’s a bit of a stretch. More likely is that he saw the handwriting on the wall when Tullia invited her sister to stay with her. He saw that it was over.”
“Perhaps they were both looking for an excuse to end it. Let’s hope so, for Fabrizio’s sake.”
Piero took a drink of his wine. “What I hope is that the knowledge the boy learned from the experience was not solely carnal. Some his age are mature beyond their years, while others give the impression they will never grow up. I fear that your cousin is in the latter category.” He waved his hand. “But I would rather talk about the exploits of my other nephew.”
“We’re back to the murder case.”
“Exactly.”
The pasta arrived, suspending the conversation momentarily. Steam rose from both the fettuccine and the spaghetti as the dishes were placed in front of them, and with it their delicate aromas. The waiter added a small plate for Rick’s empty clam shells and retired. Grated cheese was neither expected nor offered.
“We did some digging into Mayor Boscoli’s past,” Piero said after his first bite. “There was a period after he graduated from the liceo, and before the university, that was a blank. It coincided with the time of the Milan bank robbery. After getting his degree here in Rome at La Sapienza he went back to Orvieto and opened a practice. He also started investing in real estate.”
“Paolo said Boscoli owned a lot of property in town. So how can a guy fresh out of the university afford to buy buildings? Family money?”
“That was my thought as well. No, he came
