Treachery in Tuscany by Phyllis Gobbell

Author:Phyllis Gobbell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, International Mystery & Crime, Women Sleuths
Publisher: Encircle Publications
Published: 2018-04-27T16:40:23+00:00

Chapter 24

Paul and I left the Oltrarno district, crossed the bridge—one of several bridges that spanned the Arno—and strolled along the river on the north side. Judging from the crowds—all ages, more locals than tourists it seemed—strolling along the Arno was a highly popular Sunday afternoon pastime. It was another sun-splashed day, with gentle breezes coming off the river. Their leisurely pace and relaxed faces suggested people without a care in the world. I wished for that serenity, wished that here in this amazing city with this amazing man, I could put Sophie’s death out of my mind for a few hours—and shake the thought that her death might have had some connection to Bianca’s disappearance. Alex was always telling me that I was too nosy, that I involved myself too much in other people’s problems. I couldn’t help thinking I should have involved myself more in whatever was happening with Sophie.

Along the way we paused for Paul to snap a few photos with his phone, with the bridge in the background. A moment later, he showed me his pictures, all of them with me in the forefront.

“I like this one best of all,” he said. In that particular shot, my expression as I looked out across the Arno was one of mild preoccupation, but it was not a bad photo of me, in the context of the brilliant setting.

I took out my camera, aimed, and clicked, catching Paul’s surprise as he looked up from his phone.

“It’s only fair,” I said.

And then—not like me to be so spontaneous—I stepped forward, raised my face to his, and kissed him.

Paul Broussard wasn’t often taken off guard, so it made me smile to see his momentary astonishment, but he responded with characteristic aplomb. “I am not sure why I deserved that, but I do not need to know.”

He knew.

We walked all the way to Ponte Vecchio, the covered bridge with its shops known for items of gold and silver. Paul was looking for a gift for his friend who was about to turn ninety.

He asked for my advice. “I cannot buy art for Salvatore. He is an artist, a master in his medium. I cannot give him wine. He has a wine cellar that rivals many fine restaurants. What does one give a man of ninety years? He has everything he needs and desires.”

I was no help. In the end, Paul came upon an amazing find. In one of the shops that sold all manner of antique and rare items, he discovered an art book with a section about Salvatore Corsini. “It is a first edition, 1951, and this”—Paul pointed to a photograph on a page full of photos—“this is the early work that was, as one says, the ticket to fame for Salvatore. He used glass at that time, not the porcelain tiles that he would later use.” Set against a backdrop of a sunset, the mosaic was an old man touching the cheek of an old woman. It was inspired by Salvatore’s grandparents, Paul explained.

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