Wilmington, NC 05 - Murder On The ICW

villas was something we had to do and so we had detoured to Venice.
    We toured the Villa Emo , and La Mal Contenta with its Greek temple front. The source of the villa's name came from the name of the village, Malcontenta di Mira.
    But by far, my favorite was the Villa Cornaro located in the village of Piombino Dese and owned by an American couple from Atlanta. The interior of the villa was magnificent with a statuary gallery that included full-figure statues of such personages as a Carnaro doge and his wife, the Queen of Cyprus. We wandered from lofty room to lofty room, where enormous pastel frescoes featured scenes from the Old and New Testaments.

    Back at our hotel we separated, going to our rooms for a brief lie down, a shower and a change of clothes, then met again for dinner. We strolled over one of the many bridges that crisscrossed the canal and as luck would have it stumbled upon the Trattoria al Ponte. The bridges were arched with intricate iron railings, the kind of bridges where trolls hid in children's fairy tales. But there were no trolls here, only handsome gondoliers with thick black hair and flirtatious black eyes.
    Our waitress was friendly and spoke enough English to describe the menu. She recommended Rabosco , a slightly fizzy local red wine that we lapped up with delight. I ordered spaghetti con scampi e radicchio and Jon had spaghetti Bolognese. For dolci we had galati , light and cool.
    After dinner we cruised the canal in a gondola, snuggled together, kissed when the gondolier was not looking. "Italy is so romantic," I said.
    "With you, it is," Jon replied.
    My room was dark when we entered but we did not turn on the lights. Instead, I flung open the doors to the balcony so that ambient city light flowed into the room. From somewhere below a man was singing Italian ballads. We did not understand the words but the meaning seemed clear, a ballad about finding true love. The tenor's voice was rich and strong and he sang of burning desire as we held each other and made love, murmuring our own words of love.

16

    During the night I dreamed I was wandering alone in a large manor house. The house was frightening and I was lost. The rooms were enormous with lofty ceilings and I moved from room to room searching for a way out. I knew Jon was there somewhere, but always in the shadows where I could not see him. When I came close to where he was concealed, he'd vanish into the next room.
    I called for him to wait. "Jon!" I cried. "Wait for me. Don't leave me!"
    I must have cried out in my sleep for Jon woke me. "It's all right, Ashley. I'm here. You're just having a bad dream." His arms went around me, holding me tight. " Sssshh ," he whispered. "I have you now."

    In the morning we rented a car and driver for the trip south to the Lucchese hills of Tuscany. The road wound through vineyards and olive groves, and valleys stretched for miles in every direction. The hamlet of Borgo Lucchese , our destination, was located just outside the ancient walled city of Lucca. "Lucca's famous walls were constructed in the sixteenth century," Jon paraphrased his guidebook, "but the city itself dates to the Paleolithic period. Etruscans lived there and then the Romans. The city reached its splendor during the period from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance."
    "Imagine living with all this history," I commented, as our car followed a country lane deep into the countryside. "But the Italians must take it for granted just as we take our past for granted."
    We entered Borgo Lucchese through a private entrance gate. Some of the buildings were made of stone but others had been rendered an incredible, soft salmon pink. "They're the color of my house back home," Jon remarked excitedly.
    We checked in and were shown to our rooms by a servant. We were staying in a wild-boar hunting lodge called Ferro-a-u, the oldest building on the property with walls that were a thousand years old. Outside the lodge, lemon trees grew and their fragrance was lovely, citrusy and clean.
    We unpacked and went to work. The sooner the work was done, the sooner we could play. The manager had been informed that we were old house restorers and that we were on assignment for David Boleyn.
    "Mr. Boleyn," the manager said, "he is one of my best patrons. He brings guests here, many guests, famous people from your country, senators and congressmen, their wives. And husbands also. We give them a very nice holiday, very nice. Please go anywhere you wish,