Murder at the Leaning Tower (An Armstrong and Oscar Cozy Mystery) by T A Williams

Author:T A Williams [Williams, T A]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books
Published: 2024-02-06T00:00:00+00:00

14

TUESDAY EVENING

Rocky arrived to tell us that dinner was served and we all took our places at table. I had toyed with the idea of establishing a seating plan in advance that would give me maximum visibility of the people I considered to be the most likely suspects but, as it worked out, there was no need. I chose a seat with Melanie on my right and Piers on my left. This way, I was able to see the faces of almost all the other guests to some extent and in particular the faces of the Canadian couple, the Swiss couple and Gus Cornish almost full on. Virginia was clearly visible beyond Malcolm to my right, but I couldn’t see him full face, and the same applied to Eleanor Leonard, who was on the other side of Piers.

Antonella arrived with the antipasti. Not hors d’oeuvres – antipasti. Clearly, Emile was embracing the fact that he was now in Italy and the result was spectacular. He gave us his own take on bruschetta, adding some slices of bread topped with a delicious seafood mix and some with foie gras and grated truffles, as well as the traditional Tuscan toppings of chopped tomatoes and chicken liver pâté. These were served with a salad of fresh artichoke hearts and a selection of salami and cured ham. As I munched my way through these delights, every now and then passing down a breadstick to Oscar – mainly to stop him drooling on Melanie’s shoes – I surveyed the scene. Was I sitting down to dinner with a killer and, if so, who was it?

Eugenie and Gus were engaged in conversation – well, to be honest he was doing all the talking and she was just nodding occasionally – and they both looked relatively relaxed. Antoine Dujardin spent most of the evening sending and receiving text messages. He appeared stressed, but I didn’t know him well enough to be able to tell whether this was normal Antoine or something more. Tonight, Herr Baumgartner – ‘call me Erich’ – was once again doing his best to drain the European wine lake and he had resumed his jokes and storytelling of the previous night. Maybe it was me being over-critical but I had the feeling that maybe tonight he was a little bit less hearty than before, but I had to remember that less than twenty-four hours earlier, a murder had taken place. Proximity to violent death can knock the stuffing out of anybody. Beside him, his wife, who probably had a first name but who only answered to Frau Baumgartner, sat there and picked at her food, sipped mineral water and occasionally shot acid sideways looks at her husband. This was pretty much what she had been doing the previous evening and I couldn’t see any immediate change in her features that might have suggested culpability.

Then there were Eleanor Leonard and Virginia, and both looked deeply troubled. Of course, I told myself, they knew they were

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