Murder in Chianti
Page 30
“Is that Dante?” Perillo asked.
“Purgatorio Four. My adaptation to fit the circumstances. A good man, Perillo. He brought justice.” Gogol turned to Cinzia, who offered him a plate of cooled-down cacio e pepe. He dug into his pockets and showed her he’d brought his own lunch: yesterday’s crostini from Sergio’s shop. Then he took the plate anyway and dropped it to the ground.
OneWag didn’t wait a second to bury his face in the pasta. Cinzia laughed, which brought Stella over. When OneWag looked up at her with bits of melted cheese on his whiskers, Stella laughed too. Then Tilde laughed, Enzo, Nico. Laughter spread down both tables. Daniele, Rosalba, Luciana, Enrico. Only Elvira paid no attention. Five Down was giving her trouble.
Once OneWag was through eating, the plate looked like it had just come out from the dishwasher. Nico hoped his guests would go home this evening with minds clean of the ugliness of murder and stomachs filled to satisfaction. He went back to the grill to work on the spare ribs. As he basted them with the sauce, he listened to the lively chatter amongst friends and family. He felt his body relax. The tension and sadness of the recent years seemed to melt away. He looked up at Nelli’s painting of Gravigna, perched on a tree branch, and knew he was home.
Acknowledgments
Writing this story has been a joy, thanks to the many friends I made while researching in Tuscany. They welcomed me and answered a flood of questions with smiles on their faces. A huge grazie to Lara Beccatini, who first introduced me to the ways of a small Tuscan town and stayed close throughout. Grazie to the team at Il Vinaio in Panzano: Paolo Gaeta, Teresa Barba, Brian Garcilazo, Carolina Gemini and Manjola Kurti. They fed me their wonderful food and filled my glass with excellent wine while I took notes. I am grateful to Ioletta Como and Andrea Sommaruga for trying to teach me the complicated wine business, Lorenzo Guarducci for answering my questions about guns, Bibil Vangjeli and Gianluca De Santi for feeding me breakfast every morning and introducing me to the local Maresciallo dei Carabinieri. Maresciallo Giovanni Serra’s help is a priceless gift, and I send him a thousand grazie.
I am lucky to have a wonderful New York team of readers who give me advice and spot my countless typing mistakes. A heartfelt thank you to Barry Greenspon, Barbara Lane, Rose Scotch, Elaine Gilbert and Willa Morris.
I am grateful to Amara Hoshijo for her intelligent editing, and I am proud, once again, to be a Soho Press author.
To my patient husband Stuart, my love and trust.