Dying on the Vine

marriage, and the unanticipated sound of Julie’s voice, the sight of a smile—just for him—on that lovely face, still squeezed his heart and sent a surge of gratitude for his good fortune through him. He jumped up.

“Julie, hi! Marti, how’s it going? How was your day? Did you make it to the Bargello?”

The Museo Nazionale del Bargello was one of Florence’s smaller art museums and a little out of the way, but a real gem, housed in an especially beautiful fourteenth-century palazzo, with airy, high-ceilinged, evocative old chambers and sculptures by the likes of Michelangelo, Donatello, and Cellini. Best of all, unlike the perpetually jam- packed Uffizi, there was plenty of room to wander, and no need to elbow anybody out of the way to get close to the art. It was Gideon’s and Julie’s favorite museum in Florence, and Julie had been looking forward to showing it to Marti.

“Oh, we got there, all right,” Julie said.

“All the way to the door,” Marti put in. “Which was closed, and on which a little sign was pasted. In English, sort of: Museum close, becowse on strike.”

“Too bad. Will it be open tomorrow? We’ll still be here in the morning.”

“That information,” Marti said, “was not forthcoming.”

“But we did get to the Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens,” Julie said, “so, all in all, it was a good day.”

John gestured to the two unoccupied chairs. “So, join us. We promise, no more talk about skeletons and murders.”

Marti began to sit down, but Julie stopped her. “I wouldn’t count on that, Marti. I’m looking forward to a nice, long, two-hour Italian dinner, and I don’t know about John, but I doubt that Gideon can go that long without skeletons creeping into the conversation. Let’s go freshen up and let them get it out of their systems.”

“No, really—” Gideon said.

Marti shook her head. “Nup, Julie’s right. You two were right in the middle of something. At least finish that. Anyway, I need a touch-up. We’ve been out all day.”

“Well, I might as well finish getting that call to Rocco out of the way, then,” Gideon said as the women left in search of the restroom. “Shouldn’t take long.”

Rocco picked up at once. “Pronto.”

“Rocco, it’s Gideon.”

“Hello, Gid. Look, we’re just about to eat. Could I maybe call you a little later?”

“Sure, but this’ll just take a second. I’d really like to have a look at any medical reports that were made on the husband’s skeleton. Would it be possible for you to e-mail me copies down in Figline Valdarno?”

“Yeah, it’d be possible, but it’d take about a year to get the clearance to do it. If you could come back into Florence, you can look at them here.”

“Can’t. Class until one, and then we head straight for Figline. How about the day after?

“Thursday’s not so good for me, I’m kind of tied up. Unless you could be here before things start, say eight o’clock?”

“Will do. I’ll be there at eight A.M. sharp. I expect John’ll be there too.” He threw an inquiring glance at John, who responded with a shocked “Eight A.M., as in eight o’clock in the morning?” John was not known as an early riser. “Are you kidding me?”

“He says he’s greatly looking forward to it,” Gideon said. “Where do we come?”

“Regional headquarters. Borgo Ognissanti 48. It’s not that far from Santa Maria Novella, not even a ten- minute walk.”

“Thanks, Rocco, see you Thursday. Sorry about interrupting your dinner.”

“No problem,” Rocco said, and then, mostly to himself: “Just let me jot this down. P. Cubbiddu report for —”

Startled, Gideon jerked upright. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything. What’d you think I said?”

“Cubbiddu.”

“Oh. Yeah. I know, it’s a weird name—Sardinian. These people—”

“We know these people,” said Gideon. “We know these people. That’s where we’re going tomorrow, to the winery, to Villa Antica. That’s how come I know Figline Valdarno.”

“You’re kidding me! Why didn’t tell me that before?”

“Now, how could I tell you that when you never told us—”

“Okay, okay, you’re right, but how do you come to know them? Oh, jeez, I really gotta go. I’m gonna get my head handed to me if the food gets any colder. Tell me about it later.” And he was gone.

Marti and Julie had returned while Gideon was on the phone.

“Who were you talking about the Cubbiddus to?” Julie asked as she took her seat.

“Rocco Gardella. A lieutenant in the Carabinieri.”

“A carabiniere? Has something happened in the case? Have they found them?”

“Yes, both of them, Pietro and Nola. Their bodies.”

They waited for more, but Gideon just sat there, abstracted, hands steepled in front of his mouth, and it was John who had to fill them in on the afternoon’s events.

Julie had been watching her husband. “Gideon? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing, really, it’s just . . . well, it’s kind of . . . I don’t know, disconcerting . . . disturbing . . . to suddenly find out that the bones you’ve been handling so casually and treating like . . . like specimens of some kind, belonged to someone you know, a person you’ve talked to and dined with. It just brings you up short.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. Just a brief funk.”

Julie nodded her understanding. “I know.” She waited a moment for him to come all the way out of it. “Gideon, why do you suppose Linda didn’t even let us know they’d been found?”

She was referring to Linda Rutledge, an old friend of theirs who was married to the middle son, Luca Cubbiddu, and who was the reason the four of them were heading down to Figline Valdarno the next day to spend the rest of the week at the Villa Antica.

“Well, the investigation was wrapped up only a few days ago. We’re not really that close to them, and I guess she figured it could wait until she saw us. After all, it’s not as if anybody thought they could still be alive after all this time.”

Bruno showed up with a fresh basket of coccolini and two proseccos for the newcomers, and menus for all. The arrival of two attractive women at his table had brought a fresh smile to his face. “Complimenti della casa,” he announced, with a far deeper bow than he’d given Gideon and John. Even his voice was a richer, more seductive purr. With a flourish he peeled back the checkered cloth like a magician revealing a wonderful surprise. “Coccolini.” And waited for his applause.

Julie accommodated him. “Mm,” she said, trying one. “Meraviglioso.”

Bruno dipped his chin in gratitude and backed away a few steps before turning and going into the kitchen. Naturally enough, Marti wouldn’t touch, let alone eat, anything deep-fried, but—thank goodness—she wasn’t one of those people who went out of her way to make you feel guilty for indulging. She simply ignored them. She sipped her prosecco, though. With wine she had no quarrel.

There were more questions now, and when Bruno showed up again to take their orders, John and Gideon were still explaining. Not having had an opportunity to examine the menus, they asked Bruno for his recommendations. Julie and Gideon took them: the antipasto platter, followed by ravioli stuffed with porcini mushrooms and black truffles, and then veal chops with roasted cherry tomatoes. And a liter of the house red, a Carmignano rosso from nearby Brucianesi. No dessert. Gideon then interpreted for Marti, whose hold on Italian was even shakier than John’s. Tuscany, of course, is justly famous for its beef and meat dishes, so finding something for her on the menu wasn’t easy.

He requested the minestrone for her, a dinner-sized portion. Bruno nodded, writing on his pad. He approved, but not wildly.

“But can she get it made with vegetable stock, not chicken stock?” Julie asked in Italian.

Bruno was shocked. “Ma certamente non!” But then he got it. He gestured at Marti. “Ah, vegetariana?”

She responded with a vigorous nod. “Si.”