The Sign of the Weeping Virgin (Five Star Mystery Series) Read Online Free PDF Page A

family.
    Guid'Antonio smiled to himself.
Unofficial
, indeed.
    “Squirrel pies! Crow pies, cheap!”
    Amerigo said, “Those pies smell like they've been here forever. I wanted a bite to eat, but now my appetite's flown.”
    “In writing, please?”
    “Nonna!”
Amerigo called to the old grandmother hawking the tragic little tarts. “You call that dried-up parchment a pie?”
    The vendor screwed up her face, her eyes hot beads as Amerigo passed her cart. “Here's a better question, you rich brat: could your soft belly handle it?” She bit into one of the withered pies and hurled it at Amerigo, grinning, showing the black, rotted stubs of her teeth. The crust split, and a burnt crow's leg popped out.
    “Christ's ankles!” Amerigo slapped the pie to the ground, where a fawn-colored dog, all paws and bones, snatched the pie up, snarling.
    Guid'Antonio glanced at the sun. “
Andiamo
, Amerigo. We're late.”
    “Jesu! I've never seen such ribs sticking out of a dog! I'd try to get the rope off his neck, but he'd have my hand for something sweet. No fine leather collar for him, now or any other time.”
    “He's fought bears, then been left to rot.”
    “For all that, he's managed to survive. And escape.”
    “He's a Florentine.” Along with the sound of his nephew's voice, Guid'Antonio heard the dog's labored breathing and caught the smell of cat urine and moldy bread intermingled as they entered a side street.
    “You do know he's following us,” Amerigo said. “What manner of cur is that?”
    Guid'Antonio glanced back. The dog was
huge
. Black mask across the muzzle, cropped ears, a short, matted dense coat, and curled-down toenails. “A mastiff, a
cane corso Italiano
in a better life.”
    “Even sadder. An ill fate for a magnificent dog.”
    “Go on!” Guid'Antonio shooed the animal away. “Give him one bite and we'll have him forever.”
    “He's already had one bite. The filth posing as a pie, remember? Speaking of filth, I managed a quick bath this morning, given this meeting with the Lord Priors. Still, my body feels whipped as that dog, who's still following us at a safe distance, by the way.” Amerigo gave Guid'Antonio a sly glance. “We haven't seen the last of him.”
    “Au contraire,”
Guid'Antonio said.
    They stepped into Mercato Vecchio, where daylight was a patch of pale sky overhead, and Amerigo's stomach growled with hunger. “Apparently, despite that burned tart, you've not lost your appetite,” Guid'Antonio said.
    “Though embarrassed, I will confess it.”
    City Hall was not far ahead. In a few moments, the Republic's foremost governing council would gather in the Great Hall to hear Guid'Antonio present his report regarding his mission to France. Beside him, Amerigo's stomach roared. “Oh, all right. We'll eat on the way,” Guid'Antonio said.
    “
Grazie!
I've had my fill of French
cassoulet
and pork with prunes. I want something satisfying. Something Italian.”
    “So do I,” Guid'Antonio said.
    He approached a fruit stand, a sagging assembly of rotting wood pegged together in a ramshackle suggestion of shelves. From behind a stack of baskets, an old man appeared, his ferret eyes keen, darting over them.
    “What do you want?” the man said, one calloused hand pushing back his hood of coarsely woven cloth.
    Guid'Antonio stepped back. The peasant stank of sheep and sweat. “Two apples and some pecorino.” He opened his scrip and tendered a silver penny.
    The farmer's gnarled fingers snatched the coin. The apples the man handed him were as brown and withered as the man's face, the sheep's-milk cheese Guid'Antonio bit into, rancid. “Ugh!” He spat the cheese into the dirt.
    The mongrel dog launched his body forward and lapped up the found meal.
Two in one day? Unbelievable!
Growling down in his throat, one dull eye rolling up, the mastiff kept close watch on the proceedings.
    Repelled by the foul taste of spoiled cheese, Guid'Antonio wiped his lips with his handkerchief, all