Language: English

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ISBN: B007245IQ8

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Pomodoro!: A History of the Tomato in Italy (Arts and Traditions of the Table: Perspectives on Culinary History)

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walked along the east side of the campo, looking at the numbers painted above the doors. As he had expected, the number was painted above an entrance-way two doors to the right of the pharmacy. He stood for a moment in front of the panel of bells beside the door and studied the names. The Bank of Verona was listed, as were three other names with bells beside them, probably private apartments. Brunetti rang the first bell above the bank. There was no answer. The same happened with the second.

pathologist had done a bit of showing off by giving the Latin name of the grass in which Mascari’s body had been hidden. Dead people can’t bleed; there is no pressure to carry the blood to the surface. This was one of the simple truths of pathology that Brunetti had learned. If those scratches had been caused by, and here he repeated out loud the orotund syllables of the Latin name, then they would not have bled, for Mascari was dead when his body was shoved under those leaves. But if his legs

be in the bell tower of the church of San Polo. He ate all the pasta, wiping the remaining sauce up with a piece of bread, then took the bowl inside and came out with a plate of freshly washed figs. Before he started on them, he went back inside and picked up his copy of Tacitus’ Annals of Imperial Rome. Brunetti picked up where he had left off, with the account of the myriad horrors of the, reign of Tiberius, an emperor for whom Tacitus seemed to have an especial distaste. These Romans

‘Three weeks ago. He went to Ravanello and told him something was wrong with the accounts. He had no idea that Ravanello knew about it, thought that it was Santomauro. Fool,’ Malfatti spat in contempt. ‘If he had wanted, he could have got a third out of them, an easy third.’ He looked back and forth between Brunetti and the secretary, asking them to share his disgust. ‘And then?’ Brunetti asked, keeping his own disgust to himself. ‘Santomauro and Ravanello came to my place about a week

now, when people hear Leonardo’s name, they will remember the dress, and they will think whatever dirty thoughts they want to think.’ Brunetti knew she was right. ‘I’m sorry, Signora.’ There was nothing else he could say. She leaned forward and touched the back of his hand. ‘No one can apologize for human nature, Commissario. But I thank you for your sympathy.’ She took her hand away. ‘Is there anything else?’ Knowing dismissal when he heard it, Brunetti said there was not and took his

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