Murder in Chianti

Murder in Chianti

by Camilla Trinchieri


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Set in the heart of Tuscan wine country, Camilla Trinchieri's new mystery introduces Nico Doyle, a former NYPD homicide detective who's just looking for space to grieve when he finds himself pulled into a local murder investigation.

Mourning the loss of his wife, Rita, former NYPD homicide detective Nico Doyle moves to her hometown of Gravigna in the winesoaked region of Chianti. Half Italian and half Irish, Nico finds himself able to get by in the region with the help of Rita’s relatives, but he still feels alone and out of place. He isn’t sure if it’s peace he’s seeking, but it isn’t what he finds. Early one morning, he hears a gunshot and a dog's cries near his cabin and walks out to discover a dead body in the woods, flashily dressed in gold tennis shoes. When the police arrive, Nico hastily adopts the fluffy white dog as his own and wants nothing more to do with the murder.

But Salvatore Perillo, the local maresciallo, discovers Nico's professional background and enlists him to help with the case. It turns out more than one person in this idyllic corner of Italy knew the victim, and with a very small pool of suspects, including his own in-laws, Nico must dig up Gravigna’s every last painful secret to get to the truth.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly


At the start of this vibrant mystery from Trinchieri (The Breakfast Club Murder as Camilla T. Crespi), retired Bronx policeman Nico Doyle is having breakfast one morning at the run-down farmhouse he has rented near the town of Gravigna, Italy, his late wife’s hometown where he’s recently settled, when he hears a gunshot in the hills. When Nico investigates, he comes across the body of a man whose face has been obliterated by a shotgun blast. The victim’s Michael Johnson running shoes suggest he’s an American. Salvatore Perillo, the carabinieri officer who takes charge of the case, says on learning Nico was once a homicide detective: “I’ve dealt with only a single murder in my career. Holy heaven, New Yorkers must have murders every day.” Nico agrees to assist Perillo, despite his dislike of working homicides. Enticing descriptions of food and wines, an introspective protagonist with an unusual background, and an intricate plot that weaves its way amid past peccadillos combine to make this a winner. Readers will eagerly await Trinchieri’s next. (July)

Library Journal


When former NYPD homicide detective Nico's beloved wife, Rita, passes away, he makes a drastic change and moves from New York to her hometown of Gravigna, Italy, a small hamlet in the Chianti hills. His sorrow is deep, but immersing himself in Rita's extended family, he rediscovers purpose in helping out at their restaurant. His respite is short-lived and early one morning he discovers a corpse on his property whose face has been blown off by a shotgun. It isn't long before the carabinieri (Italian police) realize that Nico is an ex-homicide detective who retired under murky circumstances. Salvatore, the maresciallo in charge of the case, requests that Nico help them in the investigation. As details are uncovered about the dead man, readers learn more of Nico's past and that of Rita's family. In this small village, secrets that have been kept for decades are about to be explosively revealed. VERDICT Trinchieri (Seeking Alice) has incorporated all the elements mystery fans could want in this Italy-set whodunit: eccentric villagers who quote Dante, delectable descriptions of Italian cuisine, endless glasses of wine, and a thoroughly gripping mystery. Recommended for libraries where mysteries set in Italy are popular. [See Prepub Alert, 1/22/20.]—Amy Nolan, St. Joseph, MI

Kirkus Reviews

After the death of his wife, Rita, Bronx homicide detective Nico Doyle starts a new life in the idyllic village of Gravigna in the Chianti hills in Tuscany, where Rita grew up.

A barking dog summons Nico into the woods near his new home, where he finds a man lying on the ground, a single shot to the head. Nico’s landlord, Aldo, calls the local marshall,expansive Salvatore Perillo. Since the corpse has no ID, Nico inherits a faithful dog, whom he names OneWag. There’s a fair amount of chatter about the murder and a soupçon of family drama at Sotto Il Fico, the restaurant Nico considers a second home. Tilde, Rita’s cousin, doesn’t approve of Gianni, Tilde’s daughter Stella’s boyfriend. Matriarch Elvira, who runs the restaurant with quiet authority, declares that the victim was American, disquieting Nico, who’s been careful to keep his Bronx background a secret. When Perillo, under pressure from prosecutor Della Langhe, learns of it, he and overeager sidekick Daniele press Nico for help. The discovery of the victim’s abandoned car, a bracelet traced to a jeweler, and a visit to a hotel reveal the man’s identity: Napa Valley vineyard owner Robert Garrett, born Roberto Gerardi in Tuscany but raised in California. Adding another wrinkle to the investigation is the news that Garrett was dying of cancer. Might this have been a mercy killing? Regular visits to the restaurant and to Rita’s grave punctuate Nico’s probe. The solution Trinchieri provides will surprise and satisfy.

An engaging procedural that introduces a delightful cast readers will want to spend more time with.

From the Publisher

An Apple Books Best of July 2020 Pick
An Amazon Best of the Month Pick for July 2020

Praise for Murder in Chianti

"A Tuscan feast of old lusts and new loves, meals and murder in Chianti country with an ex-NYPD cop and a dog." 
—Martin Walker, author of the internationally bestselling Bruno, Chief of Police series

"Engaging characters, a wonderful Tuscan setting, and a tightly plotted mystery. Like a good wine, Nico's story starts out delicious and is sure to reveal even more complexity and nuance over time.“
—SJ Rozan, bestselling author of Paper Son

“A fine series debut! Retired detective Nico Doyle immerses himself in small-town Italian culture while helping solve a murder. Enriched with bounteous descriptions of the delectable flavors of Tuscan food and wine.”
—Terry Shames, Macavity Award–winning author of the Samuel Craddock mysteries

"[A] vibrant mystery . . . Enticing descriptions of food and wines, an introspective protagonist with an unusual background, and an intricate plot that weaves its way amid past peccadillos combine to make this a winner. Readers will eagerly await Trinchieri’s next." 
Publishers Weekly

"A page-turning mystery with dark corners and complex, heartwarming relationships." 

"An engaging procedural that introduces a delightful cast readers will want to spend more time with . . . The solution Trinchieri provides will surprise and satisfy." 
Kirkus Reviews 

"In this small village, secrets that have been kept for decades are about to be explosively revealed . . . Trinchieri has incorporated all the elements mystery fans could want in this Italy-set whodunit: eccentric villagers who quote Dante, delectable descriptions of Italian cuisine, endless glasses of wine, and a thoroughly gripping mystery."
Library Journal

"Lush with descriptions of wine country and filled with fascinating details of life in Italy, Murder in Chianti is the perfect read for all seeking an outdoors escape through fiction." 

"A puzzling mystery to solve . . . You're going to love Tuscany, love the food, love the characters, and love solving this mystery." 
Kittling Books

"This . . . gently beautiful novel set in gorgeous Tuscany could not be more delectable . . . You may also be craving a glass of Chianti to accompany your reading journey. This is a wonderful bit of armchair travel." 
—Aunt Agatha's Books

"Well plotted, descriptive, and filled with unique characters."
AudioFile Magazine

Praise for Camilla Trinchieri

“A suspenseful and moving family drama that will leave you wondering where the truth lies.”
—Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author of The Woods

“[Trinchieri] shrewdly mixes . . . forward-moving court scenes with flashbacks, showing how seemingly simple decisions go terribly awry.”
The Baltimore Sun

“A chilling and memorable tale of hearts in turmoil, rendered with grace and intensity by an author who understands secrets and the devastation they can wreak.”
Richmond Times-Dispatch

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781641291798
Publisher: Soho Press, Incorporated
Publication date: 07/07/2020
Series: A Tuscan Mystery , #1
Pages: 312
Sales rank: 138,563
Product dimensions: 5.60(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.10(d)

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One
Monday, 5:13 a.m. The sun wouldn’t show up for at least another hour, but Nico got out of bed, shrugged on a T-shirt, pulled on a pair of shorts and socks, and laced up his sneakers. Bed had stopped being a welcome place, both back in the Bronx brownstone he and Rita had lived in for twenty-five years and here in this century-old, two-room farmhouse he’d rented since May.
     He set up the moka and, waiting for the gurgling to start, made the bed. Since he’d begun making his own bed at age three or four, he never walked away with it unmade. A neat bed started off the day with order, gave him the sense during childhood that all was well despite his father’s drunken temper, his mother’s fear. He knew it was all an illusion, but somehow it had helped then. And now, when he was trying to find order again.
     A quick gulp of espresso shook him fully awake, followed by a forbidden cigarette that he smoked at the open window. Back in the Bronx apartment, he had happily lived by Rita’s house rules. Now he had the unwanted freedoms that came with being a widower. Bad language when he felt like it, dressing like a street bum, a cigarette after morning coffee. An extra glass of wine or two with dinner. A good nighttime cigarette. Small stuff that would never be worth it.
     The air was still chilly in the early morning, which Nico welcomed as he set off for his three-mile run along the winding road up to Gravigna. It was steep going and dangerous in the predawn light. And even at this hour, cars whizzed past in both directions, their drivers on their way to work. But Nico’s morning run was like making the bed, a ritual that made him feel in control of his life, all the more necessary after the loss of his job, followed by Rita’s death.
     When the town appeared, perched on its own small hill, Nico stopped to catch his breath and take in the view of Gravigna, with its medieval castle walls, its two towers, the proud steeple of the Sant’Agnese Church. In the meager predawn light Nico could, with the help of memory, make out the hundreds of neat rows of vines that covered the Conca d’Oro, the golden bowl below the town that had once only grown grain. He had marveled at the sight the first time he’d seen it with Rita on their honeymoon. “Our fairyland,” Rita had said then, and he had laughed, both of them dizzy with love.
     Every three or four years, whenever they could afford the trip, they’d come back. It had been her childhood hometown. Rita’s parents, who had immigrated to New Jersey when she was six, had come back to die and be buried here. Rita asked to be buried next to them. He had obeyed, bringing her to her birthplace and immediately heading back. But he no longer had anyone in New York. An only child with parents long gone, ex–work colleagues who shunned him. And he missed Rita and her fairyland. He came back to be close to her and what family she’d had left—her cousin Tilde and Tilde’s daughter, Stella.
     A pink-gray light had begun to scale the surrounding hills. It was time to go back and prepare the tomatoes. No going off in his old Fiat 500 to the town’s only café, Bar All’Angolo. The friendly bar owners; the schoolchildren, mothers and workmen crowding the counter; and the tourists sprawling over the tables made him feel less lonely, and the delicious whole wheat cornetti that came fresh from the oven made the place all the more tempting.
     This morning, however, Nico was happy to break his routine. He had a job to do. Instead of his usual slow walk back, he started to jog home. Twin motorcycles rent the silence of the morning with their broken mufflers. A few cars passed, one honking loudly to announce its presence behind him. Another, a Panda, whizzed past, only a few inches away. Just another crazy Italian driver. Nico reached the stairs of his new home with a wildly beating heart and no breath left in his lungs. Maybe he was too old now for round-trip jogs. As he stretched his calves, he looked up at the sky. A cloudless blue vault, the start of another glorious Tuscan September day.
THE DOG RELIEVED HIMSELF against a tree and meandered into the woods, sniffing for food that hunters or lovers might have dropped. The snap of twigs was followed by a chain of snaps. The dog froze, its ears at attention.
     “Where are we going?” a voice asked.
     The dog silently crouched down under a bush.
     “I know these woods,” another voice answered. “I’m taking you to the meeting place.”
     “Why here, and why at this ridiculous hour?”
     “You wanted privacy, didn’t you? You’ll only get that in the woods, when everyone is asleep. If it were hunting season, we couldn’t even come here.”
     “We’ve already been walking for half an hour.”
     “Consider it a step toward repentance.”
     “It hasn’t been easy to live with what I did.”
     “You’ve certainly waited long enough to make amends, but don’t worry. The money will be enough to wipe away even your sins.”
     “Are you sure this will happen? I have to fly back tonight.”
     “Shh. Relax. You’ll get what you came for.”
A TEN-MINUTE SHOWER RESTORED Nico. Cargo pants, a clean shirt, bare feet and he was ready. The previous night’s pickings from the vegetable garden he’d started as soon as he’d signed the lease for this place awaited him in the room that served as both a kitchen and living area. Two baskets of ripe, luscious plum tomatoes sat on the thick pinewood table. He picked one up, felt its weight in his hands. A lot of work and love had grown these beauties. Nico turned on the oven and started slicing the tomatoes in half. After salting them, he drizzled extra virgin olive oil gifted from his landlord’s grove, added a spattering of minced garlic, and spread them, cut-side down, over four trays.
     A gunshot rang out just as Nico was sliding the first tray into the oven. The sharp crack made his arm jerk. Tomatoes spilled to the floor.
     “Shit!” Hunting season wasn’t opening for another week, but some hotheads were too eager for boar meat to follow the law. Aldo Ferri, his landlord, had warned him about the boars showing up en masse now that the vineyards were loaded with ripe grapes. The farmhouse Nico was renting was close to a dense growth of trees, the beasts’ favorite habitat. They were mean, ugly animals who could grow to weigh over two hundred pounds. Aldo had suggested Nico pick up a hunting rifle to be on the safe side. No, thanks—he was through with guns of any kind. Last night was the first time he’d heard gunshots. They’d come in short, distant bursts. This one had been much closer.
     Only one shot. If this guy was after boar, he must be a damned good marksman. A wounded boar would spare no one.
     Nico stared down at the tomatoes on the floor. Some had landed on his shoes. Hell, what was the rule? Thirty seconds? A minute? Well, Rita would have to forgive him. He’d swept the kitchen two days ago, and he needed every single tomato for the dish Tilde was letting him cook at the restaurant tonight.
     With the tomatoes back in the oven to roast, it was time to enjoy the rest of this new morning. Nico ground some more coffee beans, put the moka over a low flame, cut two slices of bread, and filled them with thin slices of mortadella and a sheep’s milk caciotta. Probably a lot more calories than two whole wheat cornetti, but not caring about that was one of his new freedoms. He put his coffee and the sandwich on a tray, shrugged on a Mets sweatshirt, and stepped out to the best part of the house: an east-facing balcony overlooking part of the Ferriello vineyards and the low hills beyond.
     There was just a slim ribbon of light floating over the horizon, enough light to see that the wooden beams holding up the roof were empty. No sleeping swallows. They didn’t usually fly off so early. That gunshot must have scared them away. Or maybe early September was simply time to move on. He would miss them, if that was the case. The evenings that Nico wasn’t helping Tilde at the restaurant, he’d gotten used to sitting out on the balcony with a glass of wine to wait for the three swallows to swoop in and tuck themselves in between the beam and roof for the night. He didn’t mind cleaning up their mess in the morning. They’d become fond of each other.
     Nico was halfway through his breakfast sandwich when he heard a dog yelping. A high-pitched, ear-busting sound that could only come from a small breed. Maybe it was the mutt that seemed to have made a home next to the gate to his vegetable garden. A small, scruffy dog that always greeted him with one wag of his bushy tail and then lay down and went to sleep. Nico had checked the garden the first time to see if the dog had done any damage. Finding none, he let it be.
     Nico leaned over the balcony and whistled. The yelps stopped for half a minute, then started off again, louder this time. Nico whistled again. No pause this time. As the yelps continued, Nico wondered if the dog was hurt. More than possible. The vineyard fences were electric. Or it could’ve gotten caught in some trap. The yelps seemed to be coming from the left, past the olive grove. What if a boar had attacked the dog?
WITH HIKING BOOTS ON and the biggest knife from his new kitchen in hand, Nico traced the sound of the yelps. They led him past the olive grove, up a small slope of burned-out grass and into a wood thick with scrubby trees and bushes. The yelps got louder and faster. He was getting close. Then silence. Even the birds were mute. Nico broke into a run.
     The dog almost tripped him. There it was, between his boots, with a single wag of its tail. “What the—” The dog looked up at him with a perky expression that clearly signaled, I’m cute, so pay attention to me. Toto, the cocker spaniel he’d had as a kid, used to give him that exact same look whenever he wanted a treat.
     “I got nothing on me.”
     The dog raised a paw. It was red.
     Nico bent down to get a better look. Blood. On all four paws. The thick undergrowth had masked the prints. He checked the animal for cuts. Nothing. It was filthy, but fine. The mutt must have found the spot where the boar or other wild animal had been hit with that one shot.
     “Come on, you need a cleanup.” Nico tucked the dog under his arm and turned to walk back. The creature squirmed and fought his grip, letting out a growl. “Fine, suit yourself, kid.” Nico put it down and kept walking. The dog stood in place and barked. Nico didn’t stop. The dog kept on barking. Nico finally turned around. Toto would do this when he was trying to tell him something. Once, it had been a nasty rat underneath the porch. No rats here, but maybe he should go along with it.
     He turned around. “Okay. What?”
     The dog shot off deeper into the woods. Nico trudged behind him. “This better be good, mutt.”
     At the edge of a small clearing, the dog sniffed the air a few times, then lay down, his job complete. When Nico reached the spot, he let out a long breath. What the mutt had been trying to tell him was a doozy.
     About twelve feet in front of them, at the far edge of the clearing, a man lay on his back, arms and legs spread out at an unnatural angle. What had been his face was now a pulpy mess of flesh, brain and bits of bone steeped in blood.
     Nico’s stomach clenched. It wasn’t the sight that got to him—during his nineteen years as a homicide detective, he’d seen worse and quickly numbed to it. No, it was the surprise of finding a body here. He’d walked away from that job, his old life, and come to Italy to find peace. He wanted to be near Rita, near her family, and far from violent death. Murder seemed to have no place in the beautiful Chianti hills.
     “Come on, let’s get out of here.” His phone was back at the house. Nico bent down and swooped the mutt back up. No protests this time. He took another long look at the dead man without getting any closer. This was a crime scene, and old habits persisted. To blow off a man’s face, you needed a shotgun, not a rifle. Close range, maybe four feet. So it was probable the victim knew his killer. Blood would have splattered all over him. Find the bloody clothes, and you had the perpetrator. Nico’s eyes scanned the ground around the body. No shell that he could see. Either the murderer had picked up his brass, or it was somewhere in the underbrush. Not his job to go looking. His eyes shifted back to the body. A six-footer at least, judging by the length of his torso and legs. Big belly poking out of his jeans and a gray T-shirt mostly covered in blood. Some dark-red letters on it, or was that more blood? Nico leaned as far forward as he could without taking a step. Not blood. Two letters. AP. Blood covered the rest of the word or logo. At the man’s feet were gold running shoes spotted with blood. Michael Johnson sprinters. If this man had ever been a runner, it was a very long time ago. White socks peeked up from the Nikes. On his wrist, more gold—a very expensive-looking watch. Maybe a knockoff. Hard to tell, even up close. Chances were the killer hadn’t been interested in that. Unless something or someone had scared him away.
     Nico looked down at the mutt huddled in the curve of his elbow. “You?” He surprised himself by smiling. “Sure thing.” He turned his back to the dead man and, with the dog tucked under his arm, started walking back to the house. About twenty feet back into the woods, Nico felt the ground soften. Nico looked down. He’d stumbled on a patch of wet ground. Elsewhere the ground looked perfectly dry. It hadn’t rained in days. Nico took another step and spotted an upturned leaf. It held water. Pink water. The killer must have washed himself. There was no water source that he could see. Nico continued his walk home. Solving homicides wasn’t his job anymore.

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