Murder in Tuscany , livre ebook

Boldwood Books - T A Williams

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

141 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

The first in the bestselling Armstrong and Oscar Cosy Mystery series
Perfect for fans of Lee Strauss and Beth Byers.

Sujets

Fiction

Informations

Publié par	Boldwood Books
Date de parution	18 octobre 2022
Nombre de lectures	1
EAN13	9781804832158
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,1650€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

MURDER IN TUSCANY

T.A. WILLIAMS
To Mariangela and Christina with love, as always
CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Acknowledgments

More from T.A. Williams

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
1
SUNDAY AFTERNOON

I’ve never tried it, and I have no wish to, but I imagine there’s a moment when you’re about to do your first parachute jump and you find yourself standing at the open door of an aircraft thousands of feet off the ground, when all that’s going through your head is, What the hell am I doing here?
That’s the way I felt that day.
I’d stopped the car right in front of the rusty iron gates. It’s not that they were closed. In fact, from the look of them, almost submerged beneath ivy and tortuous climbing weeds, they’d been open for decades. I’d stopped to consider my options and they were, quite simply, binary: stay or go.
The white gravel drive curled gently upwards towards a big clump of cypress trees higher on the hillside. Partly hidden in the midst of them I could just about make out the villa, which the website described as a stunning piece of Renaissance architecture . It was a large building with what looked like a little tower rising from the centre of the roof. The walls were a sun-scorched ochre colour, not dissimilar to the bone-dry earth surrounding the dusty olive trees on both sides of the drive, and from here it looked as though most of the faded green shutters on the windows were closed – presumably against the baking heat of the July sun. There was no escaping the fact that it was a charming view and a beautiful building, but my heart sank all the same as I stared at it.
What the hell was I doing here?
I was still seriously considering whether to turn around and head back to the airport when there was a strident toot of a horn. Glancing in the mirror, I saw the long, sleek shape of a flashy-looking sports car behind me. If the raging bull on the bonnet had been real, it would have been pawing the ground in frustration. Selecting first gear, I hastily drove in through the gates and pulled over so the bright red beast behind could overtake my little rental car. As the other vehicle drew level, it slowed and the window on the passenger side opened. Considering the roof was down, this hardly seemed necessary, but the driver was clearly keen to be heard. I opened my own window to hear what the man had to say and flinched at the impact of the hot, dry air on my face after the air-conditioned interior. Tuscany certainly gets hot in July.
‘Can I help you?’ The man addressed me in Italian and one thing was immediately clear. From the acerbic tone and the autocratic expression on his suntanned face, this wasn’t a man who was used to helping people.
I mustered my best Italian, the result of having an Italian grandmother and having done A-level Italian many years ago, topped up by three years of intermittent attendance at night school classes at Dulwich College more recently.
‘I’m here for the writing course. Up at the villa…’
The Lamborghini driver immediately became less aggressive – not friendly by a long chalk, but noticeably less confrontational.
‘Excellent. Follow me.’ The words were delivered in English in the clipped tones of a member of the privileged upper classes and I felt myself groan inwardly once more, but before I had a chance to respond, there was a snarl from the engine alongside me and the supercar, which had probably cost more than I’ve earnt in the past five years, set off up the drive. The car and the track all but disappeared from sight in the dust cloud produced by the spinning wheels and I hastily scrabbled to close the window, but not before a choking cloud of Tuscan dust had blown in and started me sneezing. Mouthing a few choice expletives, I blew my nose and waited for the dust cloud to subside before accepting my fate and setting off up the drive.
As the track climbed ever higher, I had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that this was a rather fine place in which to spend two weeks. The views opened out over the surrounding hills and that might even have been Florence itself in the far distance, but in the heat haze it was impossible to tell. Of course, it wasn’t the place that was worrying me. It was what I was going to be expected to do here and with whom.
As I was almost up at the villa, my phone started ringing. Old habits die hard so I pulled over and stopped before answering it, although the only accident this distraction might have been likely to provoke would have been to make me run over one of the numerous lizards who for some reason known only to themselves felt obliged to shoot across the track just as the car approached. A glance at the caller ID told me that it was my daughter, Tricia, and my spirits rose – a bit.
‘Hi, sweetheart, how’s the weather in Birmingham?’
‘It’s sunny for a change and I’m fine thanks, Dad. What about you? Have you got there yet?’
‘I’m literally just driving up to the villa now.’
‘And is it as gorgeous as it looked on the website?’
‘I suppose it’s pretty enough, if you like that sort of thing…’
‘Do try to sound a bit more cheerful, would you, Dad. They aren’t going to eat you, you know.’
‘I’m not so sure about that.’
‘You’ll love it, you wait and see. Just think, you a writer, in there among all those other writers.’
‘There’s writing and there’s writing, Trish. I shudder to think what sort of weirdos I’m going to find myself surrounded by.’
‘They’re probably perfectly normal people who just happen to like…’ She was trying hard, but I heard her voice crack as she attempted, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle. ‘…erotica.’
‘Oh, God…’
‘Come on, Dad. From the website it looks like it should be fine. Sponsored by a bestselling author, taught by professional creative writing tutors, it isn’t just going to be a bunch of dirty old men in grubby raincoats, you know.’
‘Those bastards…’
‘That’s unfair, you haven’t met them yet.’
‘I wasn’t talking about them. I was talking about the bastards, my so-called colleagues, who came up with this crazy idea. I’d have preferred it if they hadn’t given me anything at all!’
‘I think it was a lovely gesture as a retirement present. It’s perfect for you – well, almost.’ I could hear the mirth in her voice again. ‘They just didn’t check the small print until it was too late. And they have apologised, after all.’
‘Oh, they apologised all right. Once they’d stopped laughing. I don’t know why I let you bully me into coming. So the course organisers wouldn’t give a refund. So what? Why put myself through this?’
‘Dad, we went through all that last weekend. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just give them the benefit of the doubt and try to enjoy yourself. Like I’ve told you time and time again, think of it as a free holiday in a place you’ve always wanted to visit – after all, that’s what it is.’
‘Yes, I know, it’s just that the last thing I need is a course teaching me to write smutty books…’
She was right. We had been through this already and I had promised her I would try to fit in, however potentially embarrassing it was likely to be. The fact that it was free and in Tuscany sweetened the pill but didn’t do much for the feeling of dread I’d been nursing. Doing my best to sound more positive – if only for my daughter’s sake – I tried to adopt a slightly cheerier tone.
‘I promise I’ll be good. Besides, it said that all my afternoons will be free so even if I’m bored stiff in the mornings I can always get out and about and do some sightseeing. I rented a car at Pisa airport, so I’ve got transport. And it’s only for two weeks…’
‘That’s the spirit. And you are in the historic heart of Tuscany, if not Italy, after all. Just think of all those wonderful old churches and castles and stuff for you to poke around in. Didn’t you say you’d got a list of places you needed to check out? You wait; you’ll have a great time.’
‘I wish I shared your confidence.’
‘It’ll be great. Anyway, enjoy yourself and stay in touch.’ There was a momentary hesitation before her final words. ‘I spoke to Mum earlier and she sends her love.’
‘Bye, sweetie. Thanks for the call.’
As I slipped the phone back into my sweaty breast pocket, her words were still echoing in my head. Was that really what Helen had said or was that the invention of a daughter who wished things could go back to being like they used to be?
There was no further time for conjecture as a glance in the mirror revealed a VW minibus coming up the drive some way behind, so I hurriedly set off up the track again before I found myself on the receiving end of another dust storm. As I reached the top of the olive grove, the drive took a sharp turn to the right and led into the trees where the shade made a welcome change from the relentless sun. Another slight bend in the road and I emerged onto a circular gravelled parking area surrounded by bushes covered with beautiful pink and red blossoms. In the middle of the circle was an elegant old fountain, which wasn’t working. Pretty obviously it needed a drink as badly as I did.
I parked the car a healthy distance from the Lamborghini – the last thing I needed was a claim for damage to a Lambo – and opened the door. Stepping out into the heat, I saw the minibus arrive and pull up between my car and a flashy-looking BMW with UK plates. I was just retrieving my bag from the boot of the little Fiat when footsteps in the gravel behind me made me turn. A dark-haired woman maybe four or five years younger than me gave me a smile that lit up her face but didn’t extinguish the lines around her eyes.
‘Hello.’ She addressed me in excellent English with just the slightest Italian accent. ‘Are you here for the writers’ course?’
I straightened up and held out my hand, feeling like I was about to be led to the stake. ‘That’s