September 1963
Buongiorno from the paese del sole!

I wake at 5:43 sharp, thanks to Ermenegildo, the rooster crowing outside my window. Without a sniper’s rifle handy, I resort to tossing a few coins at him to discourage him instead, but to no avail. Reluctantly, I rise to greet the day in beautiful Villa Bel Soggiorno in Fiesole, perched high above the city of Florence. There are ten of us here for the weekend. We’re the survivors of a just-completed symposium honoring my late father, a renowned Dante scholar and professor of comparative literature. My name is Eleonora “Ellie” Stone, and I was invited to attend by the conference’s organizer, Professor Alberto Bondinelli. He also set up this lovely weekend in the country as a thank you to his students and colleagues who worked so hard to make the event a success. Oh, did I mention Bondinelli was fished out of the Arno—dead—two days before the symposium? I didn’t? Well, he was. And now you’re up to speed.

The symposium went on as scheduled despite the tragedy. What else could they do? So many scholars had traveled so far to attend. And, given the circumstances, the ten of us had reservations about enjoying a weekend in Fiesole. Yet we carried on as we thought Bondinelli would have wanted.

My fellow guests are still sleeping off the effects of a late night, rich food, and wine, so I steal downstairs where I run into our severe, standoffish host, Massimiliano Locanda, at the breakfast table. He’s quite attractive in a debauched, blackened-soul, Don Juan kind of way. Apparently, he’d offered his sixteenth-century villa to his friend Bondinelli for this weekend escape, fully intending to be in Switzerland with his beautiful young lover. But Bondinelli’s death derailed that plan. Now Locanda is stuck with a houseful of strangers.

To make conversation, I ask him about leisure activities at the villa. He warns me to watch out for boars on the property. Then he suggests a swim in puris naturalibus in one of the villa’s streams. I nearly choke on my coffee.

After my awkward breakfast, I set out to explore Bel Soggiorno’s grounds. Lost among the boxwood alleys and walkways, I admire the statuary—satyrs, Dianas, Pans, Apollos, and Daphnes. The stone sitting benches, strategically placed in the shade of a long pergola, offer peaceful spots for lazy afternoon reading. Flowering plants and trees—oaks mainly—but elms and pines, too, shade the sun and make the temperature bearable, especially when a breeze blows. Not far off, a circular fountain, featuring a bathing nymph, bubbles happily. There’s a labyrinth of shrubs, laid out with a geometric precision that begs to be explored, and a gazebo perfect for a cool drink in the evening.

I retrieve my trusty Leica M3 and try to capture some of the beauty of the Tuscan landscape on Kodachrome. Then I dip my feet into the trickling stream, but wisely resist the urge to follow Locanda’s advice to dive in.

Pranzo (lunch), prepared by Locanda’s marvelous cook, Berenice, is served at one. My fellow guests have finally emerged and, with lively conversation and plenty of local wine, we gorge ourselves on the delicious meal. The first course is the minestra, a delicious tortellini in brodo, and the second is almost too much: a lombatina di vitello ai ferri (grilled loin of veal), boiled fagioli, and roasted potatoes. I see a siesta in my immediate future.

After a lazy afternoon reading Boccaccio and napping in the gazebo in the garden, I bravely answer the call for cocktails at six. Then there’s cena (dinner) at nine-thirty, followed dolci, caffè, and digestivi in the salone. With no television or other modern distractions at our disposal, we decide to tell stories late into the night. One of Bondinelli’s students offers a thinly veiled tale that seems to imply the late professor was a falsely pious man. A horrible wretch of a person. I’m intrigued.

Later, as I lie in my bed, I wonder who Bondinelli truly was. How had he come to drown in the Arno? And might one of my fellow guests have given him a push?

No sooner do I finally nod off, the rooster, Ermenegildo, begins to exercise his considerable voice again outside my window. I’m wide awake, still wishing for that sniper’s rifle.

Turn To Stone is the seventh book in the “Ellie Stone” mystery series, released January 21, 2020.

This 1960s-era locked-room mystery takes Ellie Stone to Florence, Italy–a seemingly idyllic setting, which in this case has sinister undertones.

Florence, Italy, September 1963. In Italy to accept a posthumous award for her late father’s academic work, “girl reporter” Ellie Stone is invited to spend a weekend outside Florence with some of the scholars attending the symposium. A suspected rubella outbreak leaves the ten friends quarantined in the bucolic setting with little to do but tell stories to entertain themselves. Deciding to make the best of their confinement, the men and women spin tales, gorge themselves on fine Tuscan food and wine, and enjoy the delicious fruit of transient love. But the summer bacchanalia takes a menacing turn when the man who organized the symposium is fished out of the Arno. “Morto.” As long-buried secrets rise to the surface, Ellie must figure out if one or more of her newfound friends is capable of murder.

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About the author
James W. Ziskin—Jim to his friends—is the author of the Anthony and Macavity Award-winning Ellie Stone Mysteries. His books have also been finalists for the Edgar®, Barry, and Lefty awards. He worked in New York as a photo-news producer and writer, and then as director of NYU’s Casa Italiana. He spent fifteen years in the Hollywood postproduction industry, running large international operations in the subtitling and visual effects fields. His international experience includes two years working and studying in France, extensive time in Italy, and more than three years in India. He speaks Italian and French. Jim can be reached through his website at jameswziskin.com or on Twitter @jameswziskin.

All comments are welcomed.