Murphy's Law Read Online Free PDF

exile from Siena was like.
    “Too bad,” he said sincerely, placing a hand on Egidio’s shoulder.
    “Particularly this year, when the Caterpillar is bound to win the Palio,” Egidio said with a sly look at Dante.
    “In your dreams, Caterpillar,” Dante said cheerfully. “In your dreams.”
    He turned to the woman, sobering up immediately. She had been watching them carefully, big light-brown eyes moving from him to Egidio and back.
    Dante nodded to the door. “We can talk more easily in another room, Signorina Murphy. Over in the other cloister. Down the ramp, through the archway, fourth door to the right. It says Sala San Francesco on the door. I’ll be right there.”
    After she left, Dante leaned close to Egidio. “There used to be only this one entrance to the Certosa.” Except for the broken west wall, which fifteen years ago presented few obstacles to agile teenagers. “Is that still the case?”
    “Yes.” Egidio turned and picked up a huge cast iron key, suitable for the lock of a medieval castle. He hefted it in his hand. “And I have the only key.”
    “Okay. I want you to make sure that no one from the Certosa leaves the premises until I say they can. Where’s the body?”
    “Room seventeen, the lady said,” Egidio answered promptly. “Second floor.”
    “In about fifteen minutes, my men from La Scientifica will be arriving. Tell them I’ll be up straight away.”
    Egidio’s mouth formed an “O” at the mention of the Scientifica, the Crime Scene Squad. There was a very popular TV series featuring the Scientifica , with two babes who looked hot in lab coats. Egidio swallowed and nodded.
    Dante knew that a thousand TV scenes of polished pros poring over a dead body were flashing before Egidio’s eyes. Little did Egidio know that the Siena Crime Scene Squad saw murdered bodies about as often as the Snail contrada won the Palio. Which was never.
    With a sigh, Dante made his way down the ramp, wishing the American had waited until after the Palio to get whacked.
    It was the heart of Palio season, the period the entire city waited for, dreamed of, schemed for all year round.
    Today was the feast day of the patron saints of his contrada, Saints Peter and Paul. All of the Snails would be out in the streets celebrating, from the youngest to the oldest. It was the day in which small children, and the odd infatuated foreigner, would be baptized into the contrada at the little fountain that spouted wine whenever the Snail won.
    Alas, wine hadn’t flowed from that fountain in far too many years.
    This morning would be the drawing of lots to assign the horses to each district, after the horses had had a trial run around the unusual race track, the fan-shaped central square which turned into a golden track of magic twice a year.
    It was a tradition stretching back a thousand years and would doubtless continue for another thousand. So whether Dante was there or not would make no difference whatsoever to the outcome. But he wanted to be there. He didn’t want to be embroiled in the investigation of the death of a foreigner.
    He wanted to watch the horses race, wanted to stand there listening to the old timers judging legs and breadth of chest and stoutness of heart. Word had it that the best horse of all was Lina, a bay. Who knew if fate would assign Lina to the Snail contrada?
    Only ten contrade out of the seventeen raced at each Palio. There were two Palios a year, one in July and one in August. This year, the Snail was running in both, something unusual.
    There was a chance in ten that fate would allow his Snail contrada to draw Lina. They already had the nastiest, craftiest jockey in Italy, Massimo Ceccherini, known to all as Nerbo, after the whip made of calves’ phalluses the jockeys used in the race. Considering Nerbo’s reputation as a skirt chaser—and catcher—the nickname was an apt one.
    Maybe the goddess Fortuna, notorious bitch that she was, would smile on them this year.
    God knew the