Mirto Magenta: A Short Sardinia Comedy Mystery by Traci Andrighetti

Author:Traci Andrighetti [Andrighetti, Traci]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Limoncello Press
Published: 2021-03-11T22:00:00+00:00

8

The dive boat was within swimming distance of the buoy. “Could we stop here?”

“Certo, signorina.” The scuba instructor, Ànghelu, a short, stocky guy in his fifties, climbed the steps to the upper deck to alert the captain.

His name meant angel, but he wasn’t judging from the way he ogled my rack. One of Dante’s circles of hell involved lust, and since Glenda was on board too, I wondered whether I’d entered number eight.

Ànghelu came downstairs, pulling a mask and snorkel on his head. “When-a your friend come-a out, we start-a the scuba lesson.”

I glanced at the restroom, hoping it wouldn’t take Glenda much longer to get into her short wetsuit. But it had been a struggle for me to get the thing on, and unlike her I was used to wearing clothing.

I gazed over the side of the boat to check the visibility. The water was the bluest I’d seen, and clear, but all I could see were murky shapes.

Ànghelu moved beside me. “We call it La Città Sommersa, The Submerged City.”

“Yes, I speak Italian.”

A flame burned in his black eyes. “I thought-a you might.”

To extinguish his fire, I grabbed my phone from my bag and did a Google search. Lust was the second circle of hell, and fraud was the eighth, which was fitting since I was about to hunt counterfeit amphorae. “Are there a lot of artifacts in this area?”

“Not-a many.” He frowned. “It is a protected-a site, but-a this is-a Italy.”

I shared his dismay. The entire country was a museum, which made it impossible to safeguard all of its treasures.

“There is much-a silt and-a Neptune grass, but-a you can see some-a buildings from-a the ancient port, and three Roman roads.”

Foreboding fluttered in my stomach, but that was irrational. The road-to-ruin thing had been a joke, but then again, so had the circles of hell.

The restroom door opened, and Glenda sashayed out sans fishnet skirt—in a lone clamshell thong.

I glanced at Ànghelu, who stood at attention. “Uh, where’s your wetsuit?”

“I can’t swim in that fitted body bag, sugar, so Ànghelu said I could skin-dive.”

What a gentleman. I just hoped she didn’t take his recommendation any more literally. Knowing my landlady, once she got in the water she’d ditch all of her clamshells and go full mermaid.

“Ho-kay.” Ànghelu rubbed his hands together. “I teach-a you to dive.” He reached for a tube dangling from his oxygen tank. “Put-a the mouth-a-piece in-a your mouth, and-a kick-a your fins.” He pulled down his mask. “Andiamo.”

I huff-snorted. “That’s it? That’s the lesson?”

He raised his chin, and his lower lip rose. “Eh, sì.”

“What about the techniques and the safety regulations?”

His lips slid into a smile. “Rules are just-a suggestions.”

I’d heard that from more than one Italian, starting with my nonna.

I pulled on my mask as Ànghelu helped Glenda onto the side of the boat with a liberal use of his hands.

She gave a girly giggle. “Oh, Ànghelu! You, devil!”

I shoved in my mouthpiece and threw myself overboard. The sea was the temperature of

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