Dying on the Vine by Aaron Elkins Page A

his mouth, and it was John who had to fill them in on the afternoon’s events.
    Julie had been watching her husband. “Gideon? What’s wrong?”
    “Oh, nothing, really, it’s just . . . well, it’s kind of . . . I don’t know, disconcerting . . . disturbing . . . to suddenly find out that the bones you’ve been handling so casually and treating like . . . like specimens of some kind, belonged to someone you know, a person you’ve talked to and dined with. It just brings you up short.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. Just a brief funk.”
    Julie nodded her understanding. “I know.” She waited a moment for him to come all the way out of it. “Gideon, why do you suppose Linda didn’t even let us know they’d been found?”
    She was referring to Linda Rutledge, an old friend of theirs who was married to the middle son, Luca Cubbiddu, and who was the reason the four of them were heading down to Figline Valdarno the next day to spend the rest of the week at the Villa Antica.
    “Well, the investigation was wrapped up only a few days ago. We’re not really that close to them, and I guess she figured it could wait until she saw us. After all, it’s not as if anybody thought they could still be alive after all this time.”
    Bruno showed up with a fresh basket of
coccolini
and two proseccos for the newcomers, and menus for all. The arrival of two attractive women at his table had brought a fresh smile to his face.
“
Complimenti della casa,
” he announced, with a far deeper bow than he’d given Gideon and John. Even his voice was a richer, more seductive purr. With a flourish he peeled back the checkered cloth like a magician revealing a wonderful surprise. “
Coccolini
.” And waited for his applause.
    Julie accommodated him. “Mm,” she said, trying one. “
Meraviglioso
.”
    Bruno dipped his chin in gratitude and backed away a few steps before turning and going into the kitchen. Naturally enough, Marti wouldn’t touch, let alone eat, anything deep-fried, but—thank goodness—she wasn’t one of those people who went out of her way to make you feel guilty for indulging. She simply ignored them. She sipped her prosecco, though. With wine she had no quarrel.
    There were more questions now, and when Bruno showed up again to take their orders, John and Gideon were still explaining. Not having had an opportunity to examine the menus, they asked Bruno for his recommendations. Julie and Gideon took them: the antipasto platter, followed by ravioli stuffed with porcini mushrooms and black truffles, and then veal chops with roasted cherry tomatoes. And a liter of the house red, a Carmignano rosso from nearby Brucianesi. No dessert. Gideon then interpreted for Marti, whose hold on Italian was even shakier than John’s. Tuscany, of course, is justly famous for its beef and meat dishes, so finding something for her on the menu wasn’t easy.
    He requested the minestrone for her, a dinner-sized portion. Bruno nodded, writing on his pad. He approved, but not wildly.
    “But can she get it made with vegetable stock, not chicken stock?” Julie asked in Italian.
    Bruno was shocked. “
Ma certamente non
!” But then he got it. He gestured at Marti. “
Ah,
vegetariana
?”
    She responded with a vigorous nod. “
Si
.”
    He waved a magnanimous hand. All would be well. “I take care of. You leave to me. You will like very much.”
    “Thank you, Bruno. That sounds wonderful.
Mera . . . meraviglioso
.” She expressed no reservations or caveats about salt or fat. When dining out, she very sensibly allowed herself considerable leeway.
    Bruno, pleased, turned to John. “Signore?” He tried a little levity. “Sorry, no more Chicken McNug’, ha-ha.”
    “Ha-ha,” said John.
    Gideon knew that John was longing to try Florence’s famous
bistecca alla fiorentina
, a reliably gigantic slab of prime porterhouse served ultra-rare and usually simply flavored; nothing more than salt, olive oil, or