The Killing Room: A Mystery in Florence
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The new crime novel in the acclaimed Detective Sandro Cellini mystery series, which finds Cellini investigating once again "the savage passions and politics that lie underneath" Florentine society. (The Guardian)
When private investigator Sandro Cellini is invited to attend a glamorous launch party for a luxury residence overlooking the glittering expanse of Florence, he has no idea what he's walking into.
Behind the ancient and luxurious facade of Palazzo San Giorgio, there lies a series of terrible secrets; an old torture chamber, hidden for centuries in the bowels of the building, and a much more recent malevolence. The former head of security for this elite development has just died under suspicious circumstances and Sandro finds himself―quite literally―stepping into dead man's shoes.
He soon discovers that other unsavory incidents have tainted the prestigious opening. When one of the residents is found murdered in her room, events begin to spiral out of control. Sandro must work to untangle the complex web of relationships that exists between residents and staff to unmask a deadly killer, in this superb new Florentine mystery by Christobel Kent.
thought. ‘Sentimental value, she said. The maid resigned, Giancarlo seemed quite sure she’d done it, but the bracelet wasn’t found. Dog’s mess smeared on skirtings and on a door. The steam room was locked with a guest inside. A child’s tricks, although they got worse.’ ‘How much worse?’ She raised her head. ‘The dog,’ she said. ‘We never should have allowed the dog. We made an exception—’ She faltered. ‘What happened to the dog?’ ‘We don’t know,’ said Cornell, fidgeting, looking down. ‘It –
Elena had turned away from the window then. He’d showed her his pictures, one after the other, in a near silence she hadn’t liked to break, once or twice simply mentioning where he’d been when he’d painted something. He spent a lot of time in the Maremma, he said. He liked the Etruscan caves. What could she say, anyway? They’re lovely. She could see him in some underground lair somewhere, painting with a stick. She didn’t know what time it had been when she’d left, but the Palazzo San Giorgio
you know. She can’t be all bad, can she?’ Behind the bar the serving woman had loaded their tray: sandwiches, a salad, a bottle of water, two cappuccini. Luisa paid; would she be paid back? It occurred to her that Magda Scardino would certainly not hand over any money unless compelled. ‘You’ve known her a long time,’ said Luisa, hefting the tray. Juliet Fleming held on to her whisky, gesturing with her free hand for Luisa to precede her. ‘Oh, no,’ she said, casually. ‘I mean, we’ve run across
requirement always to begin any negotiation with a smokescreen of politesse and denials. ‘What a pleasure.’ ‘Giancarlo Vito,’ said Sandro, not wanting to spin this out. The man remembered him at least, that was something. ‘I’ve got his job. Before he was found dead, as a matter of fact, so I don’t want you putting me in the frame.’ ‘Ah,’ said Falco. Not so much interested as calculating. Turning guarded. ‘In that case I had the pleasure of speaking with your boss this morning.’ ‘Very courteous
Someone must have known she was ill. Or . . .’ ‘Or what?’ Leaning forward, Giuli could feel the thump of her heart. ‘Who did you hear in her room?’ But Marjorie Cameron only shook her head. * ‘I used to come up here when I was a kid,’ said Elena, looking out through the tiny window. They were in one of the turrets of the Forte di Belvedere, just up the hill from the Palazzo San Giorgio and officially closed for repairs, and it was almost dark. It was too late to wonder if it had been a