Free Italian Fever by Valerie Martin Page A

eyes were cold, devoid of amusement or interest. Lucy sent the bread along to Massimo and swallowed half a glass of the excellent wine.
    “I hope you won’t think me rude, Lucia,” Antonio said, “if I ask you how long you are planning to stay with us.”
    “Not at all,” she replied. “Only I’m not sure I can give you a satisfactory answer. There’s a little business to be cleared up. I have to arrange to ship Signor Vandam’s books back, return his car, organize the papers he left. Once that’s done, I may stay on for the pleasure of it. I believe the lease runs until the end of the month.”
    “Signor Panatella is naturally anxious to know,” Antonio continued. “He has, as you say”—here he lifted his chin to include Massimo in his purview—“a waiting list.”
    The commencement of the second course, hard on the first, Lucy thought, distracted her host from his line of questioning. There were so many dishes that a third recruit, a flashing-eyed, voluptuous young woman, her thick black hair only partially controlled by a strip of red ribbon, joined Signora Panatella and her twin in transporting the food to the table. Lucy noted that old Signor Cini came briefly to life at the sight of the young woman. He sat up straight in his chair and, when she was near him, put his hand out to touch any part of her he could reach. She laughed as his fingers closed on her forearm and she leaned provocatively over him to set the dish on the table. He lifted hishead, breathing in her fragrance, which was apparently so intoxicating that he lost himself in it, for his eyes closed, his fingers loosened on her arm, and she slipped away. In a moment, the table was laden with dishes, plate after plate, and the diners began again the business of moving them about. The various appetizing aromas rose over the table, mixed with the soft exclamations of pleasure that escaped the guests as they tasted the first bites. Lucy inquired about a dish of stewed meat even as she chewed a bite of it, for she knew it was no animal she had ever tasted before. “ Cinghiale ,” Antonio said, and Massimo added, “Wild boar. It is a dish special to this region.”
    “It is a pest special to this region,” Antonio corrected. “They come in the night and damage the vines; even the trees are not safe from them.”
    “Fortunately, they are also delicious,” Stanton Cutler put in. He was attempting with only a modicum of success to make a space for a serving of spinach on his overcharged plate. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes lively. He probably hasn’t eaten since lunch, Lucy thought, if then, and he has a big frame to feed. Signor Cini, she noted, had not heaped his plate, though he had taken advantage of the variety available, whereas his son, so inferior to him in robustness and muscle tone, had served himself only one quail, which he was divesting of its meager flesh with the speed and skill of a surgeon.
    “I wonder what business there is to be cleared up,” he inquired, addressing his question to the dismantled carcass on his plate.
    “I gather there will be some questions from the embassy,” Lucy said. “Forms to fill out, that sort of thing. And I’ve a few questions myself I wouldn’t mind resolving.”
    “Certainly there is no anxiety about the manner of his death.”
    “Not really,” she replied.
    “It does sound so odd,” Stanton put in. “Was the well on this property?”
    “No,” Antonio said.
    Lucy sawed the wing from a joint of chicken. The Cini silver, she observed, was weighty, venerable, and sharp. “What I want to know,” she said, “is what happened to Catherine Bultman.”
    At the mention of this name, Antonio and his father exchanged a look so charged, Lucy was reminded of a silent movie. It would be too ridiculous if in the next moment Antonio denied any knowledge of Catherine’s existence. The old man fixed her briefly with his predatory eyes, then returned his attention to his plate.
    “She was