The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy

by Margaret Moore

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” he replied.

  “Oh well, I’ll put it away and have it later. Do you mind if I sit here with you? I’m from Florence, and I’m on my own.”

  “Please do.”

  “I’m David, by the way.”

  “Oh, I'm Cosimo.”

  They shook hands and sat knees almost touching under the table. There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “It's nice here, isn't it?” asked David

  “Yes. Are you just here for the day, or are you on holiday?”

  “I’m on holiday, I was coming with a friend, but he couldn’t make it so, here I am, all alone.” He looked Cosimo in the eyes in a rather disturbing manner, or at least Cosimo felt rather disturbed. David took his hand and said, “What white skin you have. You’re a real red-head, and you’ve got some freckles too.” He stroked the hand and Cosimo felt helpless, as though hypnotised, like a rabbit near to a stoat, certain of it’s destiny, but unable to move.

  “I’m staying in a chalet on the beach, one of those over there,” he indicated a row of small chalets. “Would you like to come and rest; it’s cooler in there and there’s a fan.”

  Now their knees had made contact. Cosimo could feel an erection starting, and blushed, as though the other could see it.

  “No, no, I’ll be fine. It’s cool here,” he said faintly.

  “Come, Cosimo, I know you want to.” David smiled confidently at him and rising, pulled slightly at the captured hand. Cosimo, almost against his will, rose too and they stood side by side, the dark boy and his prey, who was definitely certain of his destiny, legs trembling slightly, loins throbbing, heart beating rapidly. They moved away, still hand in hand.

  Diana spent the day at the music school, listening in on the lessons, and rehearsals and checking that the canteen arrangements were working smoothly. This time they had eighteen vegetarians, and at last she had got the canteen staff to give then something other than pasta with tomato sauce, and a slice of cheese alternated with a fried egg. On today’s menu was lentil soup, followed by aubergines, grilled and served cold, tomatoes and lettuce. In the evening, they would be having pasta with an olive sauce followed by potato and onion omelette. She had lunch with the students to check on the quality of the food. Only Emily and her family ate at home.

  After lunch she rested and then went to the afternoon concert in the old town. This afternoon it was held in a small piazza in front of a church. It was still very hot and there was only a very small audience. Another symptom of the terminal illness which seemed to have afflicted the school.

  Angelo had still not returned, and she was uncertain as to what she should do about it. There had been no word at all, and even discreet enquiries carried out by Orlando, had yielded nothing. It was a nagging worry that she carried around all day. Should she inform the police? She was too frightened to do that and decided to wait until the next day, by which time, she told herself, he would have returned.

  Francesca and Zoë had spent the whole day looking at houses. Francesca was determined to find somewhere to live, that very day. The estate agent had found her quite a long list, but by four o’clock she was pretty discouraged. The ‘charming little houses set in the green country-side’ turned out to be miles from civilisation and usually in poor condition. Another misleading word was ‘habitable’ which usually meant there was water and electricity, but the wires were potentially lethal, and looking round some of these houses, she wondered who on earth would find them fit to live in.

  She wanted to buy a house, rather than rent one, but either the estate agent had misunderstood her, or what she wanted didn’t exist. Once more she stood in his plush office, where he sat behind an enormous desk, possibly designed to keep irate clients at a distance. She turned the pages of a catalogue, disconsolately. There were photographs of all the properties, but they seemed to have little to do with the houses that she had been to see. In the photographs every house looked attractive, even the tumble down ones had charm, but when she gone there to view them, they were dilapidated and some were little more than shells. One had been full of hornets, and many had the detritus of past owners; dreadful chamber pots, or personal things, like old dental bridges left on appalling old dressers with rotted legs and colonies of spiders visible through the broken glass. Francesca was hot, tired and dirty, after a day tramping around these buildings. She was also longing for a drink. She and Zoë had gone on their own, as the real estate agent had given her keys to the houses, or information on where to get hold of them. These were usually kept by some ghastly old crone, who lived in a three house hamlet, and looked as though she hadn’t been near civilisation for a long time, if ever, and spoke in an incomprehensible, and ungrammatical, dialect.

  The real estate agent, however, was smiling and squeaky clean, his black hair smooth and shining above his sparkling spectacles. He was a plump little man, and had the air of one who had found a wonderful way of making money, with maximum profit, for minimum output.

  “Listen, we don’t seem to understand one another,” said Francesca wearily. “What I want is something that only needs a coat of paint, nothing more. It mustn’t be in town, nor must it be miles away from civilisation. It must have a garden, but I don’t want a farm. Is that clear? Do you have anything remotely like that?”

  “I know exactly what you want, my dear,” he said happily

  “Then why did you send me to see all those dreadful houses? I’m exhausted. There was nothing at all like the house I’m looking for.”

  “Really!” He exclaimed happily, not at all put out.

  “Just tell me if you think you have a single house that I might possibly consider, otherwise let’s drop it and I’ll look elsewhere.”

  “No, no, you don’t want to do that. I’m sure we’ll fit you up. I have just what you want, right here. Now I’ll come with you, shall I?”

  “That would be lovely,” she replied.

  By now she had decided that the day’s exertions had been deliberately contrived as a softening up process, and now that she was at the end of her tether, he would produce exactly what she wanted, like a magician with a white rabbit, and she would be so pleased and tired that she would take it, whatever the price was, as she would no longer have the energy to barter.

  She drove off, following his Mercedes in her little Fiat Panda. Just outside town, he drew to a halt in front of a charming stone house, set back from the road, a little larger than Francesca had been looking for, but with a garden and neighbours not too close. They got out of their cars and he put the key into lock of the gates. They scrunched up the short gravel drive on foot. He opened the door to the house and they went in. It was in good condition, and furnished rather charmingly. There were four bedrooms, two double, two single, a very large living room with a fireplace, and a small study. In the kitchen was another larger fireplace, with a heavy stone base and a hook for a cooking pot. The stone sink was under a window, which was rather unusual in this area. It had obviously been 'done up', and by someone with good taste. From the kitchen she walked into the garden, which was walled and hidden away from the eyes of the world. It was fabulous, too big of course, but literally nothing needed doing to it, and the furniture was so charming that, if it went with the house, she would keep it. She had never had a house of her own. She would like to own this one very much. She looked at Zoë, who nodded, and turned to the estate agent, what was his name? She thought for a moment, “Well, Signor Mattone, I’m afraid it’s quite a bit bigger than I wanted.”

  “Yes,” he nodded happily, quite sure she would take it. Damn him.

  “Also I expect it’s out of my price range.”

  “Not necessarily. The important thing is whether you like it, and I think you do. I’m sure we’ll reach an agreement.”

  Francesca gave in and said “How much is it, just as a matter of interest?”

  “Just under three hundred thousand euros, and well worth it. That’s with all the furniture. By t
he way, beyond the walled garden there are two fields that go with the house. You could sell them off, if you don’t want them.”

  “How come it’s on the market?”

  “Well the owners are English actually. Usual story, they bought it and did it up and only came for holidays. Now the husband has died and the widow, she’s getting on a bit, doesn’t want to keep it. The son has a holiday house already and he doesn’t want it either, so there you are. It looks just your sort of thing really, doesn’t it?”

  Yes, thought Francesca, it’s my sort of thing. She began to walk around it looking more carefully this time, asking about septic tanks and boilers and looking closely at the windows and how well they closed, searching the ceiling for clues of damp, and finding everything in order. She wanted it very much, and thought of herself and Zoë, free for the first time, making a life together. This would be a house to bring friends to, to do their homework together. It was not that far from the school either, and it was on the school bus route.

  “Tell them I’ll offer two hundred and seventy-five thousand Euros. Come on Zoë, it’s late, and I’m longing for a shower, and some proper food.” She glared at the estate agent as she added, “We had a sandwich for lunch, since you saw fit to send us all over the place, and up every bloody hill in the vicinity. Let me know what they say. I can’t afford more than that. I know there will be notary’s fees and taxes and so on, on top of that, so I really can’t go any higher.”

  “Good-bye. I’ll be in touch, have no fear.” He smiled and nodded. As they walked back towards the car, Francesca saw he had clamped his cell phone to his ear and was talking into it. He was pretty astute really, as he never pushed things at you, just manipulated you into wanting them.

  “Hey, Zoë! We’re going to buy a house!”

  “Thank Goodness. I couldn’t stand living with Grandma anymore, and those two.”

  “Really, is it that awful?” She looked at her daughter, who nodded, “I’m sorry, Baby. I thought it would be nice for you, you know the swimming pool and the horses and so on.”

  “Yes but it wasn’t like a real house, I mean, like other people live in, with a kitchen that the mother cooks in, and just a small family at the table so you can talk about school, not have to keep quiet because only the adults talk.”

  Francesca put her arm round Zoë, and said, “I promise you, we’ll get out of there and be a little family, and I’ll try to drink less, I won’t promise that I’ll succeed, but I promise I’ll try.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Friday morning and still no Angelo. By now, Diana was sure that something must have happened to him. Emily and Arturo tried to reassure her, reminding her that he had done this once before, but she kept imagining him dead in a car, or in a public lavatory having O D’d with the syringe still in his arm.

  “I’m going to talk to the police,” she declared

  “Madre, calm down, if anything had happened to him, they would have phoned us. He’s probably sleeping at a friend’s house and didn’t want to wake you up with a late phone call. You wait and see; he’ll turn up later today when he wakes up, and will wonder why you were so worried. You know how thoughtless he is.”

  “Do you really think so? What if his body is somewhere no one notices it, or if he is injured and needs help. We should be looking for him. It’s been two nights, Emily, not one.”

  “Oh! Well I admit he has never been away for two nights, but I still think it’s pointless to notify the police yet.”

  “I suppose you’re right, I’ll wait a little longer. At least Cosimo phoned, that’s a relief.”

  “When’s he coming back?”

  “He said he would phone again, or so Signora Bianchi told me, he didn’t ask to speak to me.”

  Emily looked meaningfully at Arturo, and then said, “I think they are both behaving badly. Angelo really is awful you know, Madre. I don’t even think he washes much, and Cosimo is behaving like a spoilt child.”

  “What do you know about Cosimo?” asked her Mother.

  “Well, I don’t actually,” said Emily hastily,” But he’s obviously argued with you, and is now sulking somewhere.”

  “Keep your opinions to yourself, Emily. You are incapable of understanding the situation. What you have just said is a gross oversimplification of a complex matter that doesn’t concern you. In future, I would prefer you to avoid passing judgement. After all, my dear, you have never been very acute. As for Angelo, the truth is, that …” she looked at them both with a penetrating stare, “Let’s leave it, you wouldn’t understand.”

  Arturo stood up, “Diana, I dislike the way you speak to Emily. She is my wife, and that counts for more than her being your daughter. You ask her for moral support, and then you speak to her in a very unpleasant manner when she tries to give it to you. I can hardly stand by and listen to this without protesting.”

  Diana gave him a stare of implacable hatred and replied, “Arturo, I will not allow you to intervene in our discussion. If you don’t like the way I speak to my daughter, then take her away, to somewhere where she can just be your wife. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes you have, and I think I will.”

  “You will what?” cried Emily

  “Take you somewhere where you can be my wife.”

  “Arturo, are you mad? Don’t be ridiculous. What are you thinking of? Apologise immediately.”

  “Is that what you want? I was defending you, wanting her to treat you with a little more respect, nothing more.”

  “Yes I could see that. Thank you dear, but Madre and I understand each other very well. She’s very upset at the moment. I don’t need defending. Please apologise.”

  “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, Diana, I was merely trying to see if it was possible for Emily to be treated more like an adult, and less like a child, but as she evidently prefers to be her mother’s daughter, then I stand corrected. I had mistakenly thought she was an adult.” He left the room and banged the door which bounced open again.

  Emily burst into tears, and Diana left the room as well, and went to the telephone in her study. She punched in a number, and waited patiently to be passed on to the Maresciallo, the local head of police.

  “Maresciallo Biagioni, Diana Guerrazzi here. I wonder if you could help me with a little problem I have? I won’t take up much of your time.”

  Encouraging noises came through the phone, so she continued, “My son Angelo, who is still a minor, has been away from home for two nights, and I’m rather worried. Yes, I see. Thank you, that would be very kind. I’m sure it’s very silly of me to worry, as boys… well, you know what I mean. Thank you. Yes, I’ll be in all morning. Good-bye.”

  Someone knocked on the door as she was putting the phone down. She called out in an incisive tone, “Avanti.”

  “Hallo Madre,” said Orlando moving forwards and putting his hands on her shoulders, “Worried about Angelo, I’ll bet.”

  “Yes, I am, Olly. I have just phoned the police, and they said they’ll do a quick check, you know, hospitals and so forth, and then phone me back.”

  “Poor old Madre, you haven’t had much luck with your kids, have you?”

  “Now someone has already said that to me recently, Who was it? I can’t remember. No matter.” She ran her hand over her face. “Oh dear. I’ve been snappy with Emily, and Arturo’s got on his high horse, and gone off in a tantrum.”

  “That must have been exciting.”

  “No, it wasn’t, but the truth is that sometimes Emily says such stupid things that I can’t hold back.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He laughed. “Look, I know you’re all upset, but I do have to ask you something, and you’re going to be very angry with me, and I’ll take my medicine like a good boy, but you’ve got to help me.”

  “Oh no, not again.”

  “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

  “Oh God, aren’t any of you capable of leading lives that have some contact with reality? You can’t carry on like this.�
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  “I swear I’ll stop. It must be boredom. I get bored with having nothing to do, so I play cards, and this time I lost.”

  “And the time before, and the time before that. How much?”

  “Five thousand euros.”

  “Oh my God! When will it end, all this sorting out your lives for you? None of you are worth anything.”

  “It’s me that’s worthless, the others all have some merits. I’m weak, and I know it, but you’ve got to help me.”

  “If I don’t?”

  “Then I expect I’ll get beaten up. It’s called a softening up process; it makes one keener to give them the dough.”

  “What kind of people do you know? They must be animals. This is all so squalid. The last few days have been terrible, one thing after another.” She pulled her cheque book out and wrote out the cheque for five thousand euros.

  “I’ll have to deduct this, and all the other money you have wasted, from your inheritance. It's something I've been thinking about for some time. Avvocato Martinelli is in the process of adding a codicil to my will, to that effect. It’s not fair that the others should have to pay your card debts, so just remember that anything you spend, over and above your allowance, gets detracted. You are scraping the bottom of the barrel. Naturally there’ll be no trendy book-store. Live within your allowance or find yourself a job. You have been given every opportunity and you have just wasted your life, thrown it away. You are thirty-two years old and all you seem able to do, is gamble away my money,” she said bitterly.