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The incipit of the novel
The rumble of the FIAT 1100 stopped with a jolt and Luigi Mari breathed a sigh of relief. He lowered the window, letting out the veils of dust gathered on the road from Fiesole. “Thank heaven, we’re here my dear.” His wife Iolanda, more attentive, had already begun her sequence of fussing with the compact mirror. A touch of lipstick under the veil of her hat would complete her arrival protocol. “I told you the trip from the Lungarno would be short,” she replied in a whisper. The taxi driver had jumped out to rattle the bell chain on the column of an imposing carriage gate. Mari leaned out to observe the large agaves stretching between the boundary walls and the buttresses of the gatekeepers’ house, this one softened by dense geraniums and caper plants.

An unexpected investigation by Colonel Mari and his wife Iolanda. Invited by an American journalist friend to Fiesole, they witness her sudden death along with ten other enigmatic guests from high international society. Mari's help to the carabinieri will be crucial.
