Italian Village 03 A Mystery Before Christmas by Adriana Licio

Author:Adriana Licio [Licio, Adriana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Christmas, Cozy, Holidays, Mystery
ISBN: 9788832249026
Google: 6UDOywEACAAJ
Amazon: 8832249022
Publisher: Roberta Schiavulli
Published: 2019-11-08T00:00:00+00:00

“Hello, Giò, please come in,” said Mrs De Blasi.

Giò looked around the large living room, its formidable library of books made up of colourless volumes. Heavy curtains framed the windows, and on the walls were a number of portraits and ancient landscapes in oils, housed in richly ornate gilded frames. Maybe it was the overall grandeur or the dark antique furniture, but there was something intimidating about the room.

“Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Something else to drink?”

“A cup of tea, please.”

“Lemon and sugar?”

“Both, please.”

As Mrs De Blasi left, Giò’s eyes wandered around the room again. What struck her was the lack of photographs. On a canted console table, she finally spotted a single picture. It was the same photo she had seen in the mausoleum, portraying the young son.

When Mrs De Blasi came back, Giò was still contemplating the photo.

“My goodness, no wonder you thought about your son when you saw Betta. The resemblance is striking indeed.”

“It was such a surprise, so unexpected. I confess I only saw my son…” Mrs De Blasi blushed slightly, putting the silver tray on a low table between a mustard yellow sofa, where she invited Giò to sit, and the armchair where she sat herself.

“How old was he in the picture?”

“Ten years old, not much older than Betta.”

“I saw this picture yesterday in the graveyard,” said Giò, feeling slightly embarrassed. She didn’t know how to approach the conversation; she wasn’t even sure what she was investigating or where she was heading.

“Yes, it’s the same picture.” Mrs De Blasi’s simple answer didn’t help.

“Do you have other pictures? What did he look like when he was older?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have any other pictures.” Mrs De Blasi sighed heavily, drank a sip of her tea, then slowly put the cup down on the table. “My husband destroyed every memory of my boy. I was lucky that the mum of one of his friends had kept this single picture.”

“Was this after your son had died? Was your husband trying to assuage his grief?”

“Not at all,” Mrs De Blasi said, somewhat sharply. “You see, Giò, my husband was not an easy man to live with. He was a domineering, possessive man, a real tyrant, and I was meek and stupid, a sort of puppet in his hands. My son rebelled and left home as soon as he came of age, and he never came back.”

“Oh, and how did he die so young?”

“He died in a fire in Milan. He was…” She sighed again, a tear rolling down her cheek. “He was a vagrant. His father had to go and identify his body. But to answer your question, it was when Marco ran away that my husband destroyed all his belongings, all his books, baby clothes, every single photograph.”

“How old was he when he ran away?”

“He had been running away for years, but when he was younger, his father would use his parental authority to get him back. Once he was 18, Marco disappeared without trace, but a year later, my husband managed to find him.

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