The Knotty Bride Read Free

front of a beautiful ochre-colored palazzo with overflowing flowerboxes. “It says it also offers a ‘dwelling single with large technical shelter for bikes.’”
    Rupa laughs so loud this time that we almost cross into the left lane. Beside us, an angry driver slams on both his breaks and his horn.
    “But I think this might be the place for me because the owner, Debi Busaci, says the bed and breakfast is ‘for those who want to live days pleasing.’”
    “Heavens no,” Rupa replies adamantly. “Who wants to live days pleasing? That’s all we women ever do. We try to please. Don’t go to that one.”
    “That’s not what she means. I think she means it’s for those who want pleasant days or something. And I’ve already made up my mind. I’m going because it’s on the beautiful island of Lipari. I am going to go and enjoy ‘to be typical Italian.’ And I will park my bike in their ‘technical shelter’ and live my vacation days as ‘pleasing’ as possible. It will all be so wonderful.”
    I stare hard at the brochure of the beautiful bed and breakfast. The pictures of the sea look so warm and inviting that I can almost hear the little waves calling my name. “Lily Bilbury,” they say, “Come, sit by the sea. Come and forget all about your broken heart.”
    I decide right then and there that I will accept their invitation.
     

Chapter 2
     

    A few hours later we are south of Florence, driving along the Umbrian autostrada and closing in on the town of Orvieto. The countryside outside Orvieto is our stop-off point. Here, Francesca has arranged for us to stay at the Inn of the Seven Hounds , which is owned by some distant relative of hers.
    Simply put, the place is amazing. There are all these little houses clustered around three shimmering pools. Each one of these houses looks like something out of Casa Bella with its own small kitchen, living room, bathroom and two small bedrooms. True to its name, the Inn of the Seven Hounds also has a small group of beagles loping along hither and thither, longing to be petted. All these things are truly wonderful, but the high point of the inn is the spa that consists of a lovely thermal pool inside a rock grotto.
    “The spa will be open exclusively to the three of you before dinner,” Francesca’s great-uncle Mario Tallete says as he shows us to casita no. 5.
    With the splendidness of our lodging, the private spa, and seven loping hounds, the casual reader might assume that I am already on vacation. But I am not. I am on a mission. This mission started several months ago when, in an effort to help the Italian tax office locate Carlo Buschi’s unnamed heir, Rupa, Francesca and I went to visit a farmhouse that belonged to the Buschi family. This farmhouse was near Dagro, Switzerland, and we were hoping to find a relative who might know the name of the daughter mentioned in Carlo Buschi’s vague will. Sadly, when we arrived at the farmhouse after a frightful battle with Mother Nature, we found the place all shuttered up and abandoned. Arriving in a terrible snowstorm, we did what anybody else might do in such a situation– we broke in. The place was pretty empty save for some long-forgotten furniture and a jewelry box. As luck would have it, the jewelry box contained a very intriguing scrap of yellowed paper. On it, Carlo Buschi had written the names of three women. Fancying ourselves super sleuths, we have developed a theory that goes like this: we believe that one of the women may be the missing daughter.
    I know; we’re absolutely brilliant!
    So, in an effort to solve the missing heir mystery, several months ago we sought out the first lady on the list. Margherita Tazzini, a Milanese interior designer, told us quite a few interesting stories about her love affair with Signor di Meo, Villa Buschi’s dandy of a florist. In the end, however, we were very disappointed to learn she was not Carlo Buschi’s daughter but his goddaughter. Sadly, she knew nothing