Murder A La Carte: A Culinary Mystery Novel Collection

Book summary

Traverse the sun-kissed vineyards of Tuscany with Filippo, unraveling a family secret steeped in wine and revenge. Venture to Northern Italy, where a quest for the prized truffles becomes a deadly hunt. Then, journey through time, from the dark days of Nazi-occupied Italy to the present, as a treasure beyond imagination threatens to rewrite history. Each tale is a gourmet blend of suspense, history, and the rich flavors of Italian cuisine. This collection is a feast for the senses, with every page offering a taste of danger and a dash of intrigue.

Excerpt from Murder A La Carte: A Culinary Mystery Novel Collection

Leaving Salina, I decided to spend some time in the Tuscan countryside. It remains one of the world’s most beautiful landscapes, and lacking someone to share it with, I could at least enjoy it behind the wheel of this amazing vehicle.

Since I had left just after noon, I knew I had about two hours to tool the roadways before looking for a place to stop and eat. That was just long enough to get to Montalcino by way of a winding route that would take me in and out of little villages while I made my way through the valley.

Montalcino is another of Tuscany’s many hilltop towns, but this one has the distinction of being the capital of one of the region’s most famous wines. Brunello di Montalcino, the noble red wine made from the Sangiovese grosso grape, has led all Italian wines in pricing for decades, eclipsed only in recent years by the likes of Barolo and Barbaresco, and the town after which it is named is famous for access to this phenomenal wine. It’s said that Montalcino is the only town in Italy that has more wine bars than churches, a notable accomplishment that becomes obvious to anyone who walks her streets and piazze.

As the Maserati approached the hills on which the town was built, I could see the eleventh-century fortezza on the crest of the hill. My eyes followed the line of stones that made up the outer wall of what was once a fortification against a Sienese invasion. Before entering the town, I found Boccondivino, a favorite restaurant of mine, and one of the best in the region for pasta with truffles. It was a bit too early in the season to have truffles, so I quickly disposed of the idea before my mouth began to water, but the thoughts of previous meals still made this an absolute stop for me.

Inside the restaurant, there were about a dozen tables, some just filling up with people having their midday meal. There was the foursome of three men and one very beautiful woman. They seemed to be workmates and it was obvious from the conversation that the men treasured having an attractive woman at the table, even if she had to be shared. There was the small family: father, mother, and two young children who were quieter but very involved in consuming what appeared to be the third course of a meal. There was the older man and young woman, pleasant and proper and yet intimate enough to suggest that this was a man entertaining his daughter. His comments were not romantic, but were about romance, and her facial expressions were condescending, accepting his comments without wanting to let her father think he was going to alter her lifestyle.

Across the room were two middle-aged women sitting together. Italy is not as progressive as America and, while the women here are strong and forceful in their own way, it’s less common to see women dining out together without a man at the table. I thought for a moment that these two might be tourists, traveling together on a “no husbands” vacation, but let the matter drop when the hostess approached me with a smile.

“Buon giorno, signore,” she said. “May I seat you?”

“Sì, solo per uno,” I said, then followed her to a small table set against the window. I sat down, spread the napkin on my lap, and gazed out the window at the valley that separated this restaurant from Montalcino.

The sun was bright and warm now, and taking a break from the afternoon heat to partake of a delicious meal was a time-honored tradition in Italy that I intended to keep. In a few moments, a basket of bread and simple carafe of red wine appeared on the table. I expected the first, but was surprised by the second, until I caught a little hand waving out of the corner of my eye. It was the young woman I had watched being counseled by her father. She smiled at me and nodded, indicating that the bottle was from her. My eyes were adjusting to the light when I first saw her, and I didn’t recognize her at the time. But now that I was able to see more clearly, I realized that this was Ilsa, the woman in charge of our winery’s gift shop.

I took the opportunity to look long at her, appreciating the curve of her legs under the table, the way the soft light played across her olive-colored skin, and the long strawberry blond tresses that curled and bundled across her shoulders and down her back. I knew of her, that her mother was Swedish and her father Italian, which accounted for the magnificent merging of physical beauty in Ilsa, but I didn’t know anything else about her parents. Apparently, her father was a bit protective of her, which I fully understood, as I drank in the beauty that she offered. Her mother, I was told, was also very beautiful, but spent most of her time at home. I didn’t know where her father worked, but on this occasion at least he decided to spend the afternoon with his daughter and, judging from the tone of his conversation, to give her some advice.

I tasted the wine from the label-less carafe and smiled as I recognized it: the Trantini Rosso di Montalcino, from Sangiovese grapes grown not far from this very restaurant. I was glad that Ilsa would choose one of our wines to deliver in this anonymous carafe.

Ilsa soon excused herself from her father’s company and came over to sit down with me.

“Grazie, signore,” she began, but I interrupted.

“Why are you thanking me? You sent over the bottle of wine.”

She laughed gently. “Well, actually, I didn’t send it over. I just happened to mention to the waitress that you were Filippo Trantino from the Castello dei Trantini and she brought the wine over herself. Could you imagine what my father would have done if I sent some wine to a man in a restaurant?” As she said this, her eyebrows first went up, then burrowed together in a cross look, at odds with the satisfied smile that crossed her lips.

“Then why are you thanking me, and what does your father think of you leaving him to go sit with a man at a restaurant?” At saying this, I shuddered, realizing that I might be sending her away.