The funeral home in the village closed long ago.
People here live to be a hundred—easily, with a glass of wine, a slice of cheese, and olives. Ninety is the new seventy; Grandma Penelope can vouch for that.
But trouble is brewing: every Wednesday, like clockwork, one person after another has started to die.
“Natural causes,” assures the new doctor.
But the village whispers: “That can’t happen. Not here. Not in spring, when the almond trees are blooming.”
Shutters slammed shut. The streets fell silent. People were offended by Penelope and Nicolette, who refuse to look for the cause of the “plague” and stubbornly repeat: “Don’t invent darkness where old age has simply come.”
And yet they will have to get to work. Because the killer’s footsteps are already behind them, and spring, as we know, is a deceptive thing: everything is in bloom, but under the petals, poison can be found.
A new cozy story from the life of an Italian village, where the truth is found not through clues, but through conversations over coffee and pie.