“And since he’s dead, we’ll never find out. What is happening with Aragona?”
“He’s incarcerated here, but it may be a while before he comes to trial. He hired a lawyer who I thought only worked for Mafiosi, and he doesn’t come cheap.”
“He can afford it. That’s for the homicide charge, which don’t include his problems with the Guardia di Finanza. By the way, were they responsible for the gap in his criminal file?”
“They were. And the word is they were about to stage an early morning raid on his premises. The Guardia loves pre-dawn raids. He was shipping wine to Germany under his expensive labels but the bottles contained something of much lower quality. Surprisingly, some German must have noticed. So he has a separate set of lawyers for each case. When it’s all over, there will have been a large transfer of funds from Aragona’s accounts to the legal profession.”
“I wonder if Tullia had her money in a separate bank.”
The policeman shrugged.
“The one hero in this was Morgante,” Rick said, “and he will benefit the most.”
“The pharmacist who took the bullet in the cathedral?”
“Right. LoGuercio tells me he is now the town hero for protecting the cultural patrimony of the city. With the removal of Boscoli, the town council unanimously voted him in as mayor, even those who were in Boscoli’s coalition. There’s talk of him running for parliament in the next national election.”
The dish next to Rick’s pasta plate was filling with the empty shells at the same rate that the spaghetti was disappearing into his mouth. Piero filled his nephew’s wineglass and returned to his pasta. He was about to speak when a balding man being led to his table by the waiter tapped him on the shoulder. Piero nodded in a formal way and the man continued through the room. Rick guessed it was a politician, but Piero didn’t say, instead returning to the subject at hand.
“That ceramics artist who was a suspect?”
“Crivelli,” Rick said.
“Right, Crivelli. From what you said, I can understand why you thought he might be the murderer. The revelation that he had stolen his basic style from a student would have, at the very least, made him the laughing stock of the other potters in Umbria.”
“Interesting that you bring that up, Zio. I spoke to LoGuercio a few days ago, and he mentioned Crivelli. The man sent him a note of congratulations for solving the murder, along with a small ceramic pot. Paolo is using it on his desk as an ashtray.”
“To keep LoGuercio’s lips sealed, it should have been something considerably larger. I doubt your friend will ever have any problems with Crivelli.”
“With what Paolo’s got on him, probably not.”
The empty dishes were picked up by the ever-attentive waiter who stood with them in his hand and posed the expected question.
“Per doppo?”
Rick exchanged glances with his uncle and asked for menus to help them decide. The original good intentions were cast aside and both of them decided to have another course, though one was lighter than the other. Piero, having admired the asparagus on display when they entered, asked for asparagi alla parmigiana. Rick opted instead for the calamari fritti. His justification was that one should always order what a restaurant is known for, and fried food was a specialty at La Campana.
Piero handed over his menu to the waiter and turned to his nephew. “You can give me a few bites of your calamari. You ate well in Orvieto, I trust?”
In Italy, that was always a rhetorical question, but Rick nodded.
“Riccardo, I considered inviting Betta to join us today.”
Rick had been about to take a drink of wine, but now slowly replaced his glass on the table. “Inviting Betta? To our lunch?” He held up his hands. “Don’t get me wrong, I love being around Betta. But Zio, with Betta we wouldn’t be able to—I don’t know—to talk about things like we always do.”
Piero appeared to be enjoying his nephew’s discomfort. “Have we said anything today that you wouldn’t want to share with Betta?”
Now Rick did take that drink of wine. “Well, I can’t think of anything off hand. But having her with us would change the atmosphere.”
“For the better, in my opinion.”
“What about discussing your cases? We couldn’t really do that with an outsider present. Could we?”
Piero gave the question some thought and looked at Rick over his half glasses. “She passed all the tests and background checks to get into the art police. I don’t recall that you, dear Nephew, have ever had a security check by the Italian authorities.” He rubbed his stubby beard as his brows knitted. “Perhaps I’ve been bending regulations by talking about my cases with you.”
Rick held up his hands again, as if warding off an attacker. “You’ve made your point.”
The secondi arrived. Piero’s asparagus was arranged neatly on the plate, a thin crust of browned cheese contrasting with the green of the stems. Lemon slices framed Rick’s stack of crisp calamari. He picked up one slice and his fork, squeezing the juice over the squid.
“Buon appetito,” Piero said as he took his utensils in hand.
“Altrettanto,” Rick replied, still thinking about Betta’s possible inclusion in their periodic lunches. Since they had returned from Orvieto, Rick had attempted to push the incident with Carlo from his memory, but it nagged at him. As much as he tried to convince himself that Betta had meant no harm, and she believed she was doing the right thing, he was still stung that she’d kept it from him. The scar on her forehead had healed, but the tiny pang inside Rick was still there.
“Zio?”
“Si, Riccardo.”
“About Betta.”
“Si.”
“Let me put this as succinctly
