Death at La Fenice (Commissario Brunetti, Book 1) by Donna Leon

By Donna Leon

Death at los angeles Fenice is the 1st novel in Donna Leon's across the world best-selling Commissario Guido Brunetti sequence. in the course of intermission on the famed los angeles Fenice opera residence in Venice, a notoriously tough conductor is poisoned, and suspects abound. Brunetti, a local Venetian, units out to resolve the secret at the back of the high-profile homicide. to take action, he he calls on his wisdom of Venice, its tradition, and its soiled politics. Revenge, corruption, or even Italian food play a task. the unconventional that began all of it, Death at los angeles Fenice is an entrancing secret, wealthy in atmosphere.

“Few detective writers create so vibrant, inclusive and convincing a story as Donna Leon, the expatriate American with the Venetian middle. . . . essentially the most beautiful and refined detective sequence ever." —The Washington Post

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Extra resources for Death at La Fenice (Commissario Brunetti, Book 1)

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He had made himself, with water from the thermos flask that was one of the amenities of his room, half a pint of green tea in a cherry-blossom painted cup with a lid. They made you eat dinner here at six (breakfast at seven, lunch, appallingly, at eleven-thirty) but there was still an hour and a half to go. He couldn’t stomach the lemonade and strawberry pop and Cassia fizz you were expected to pour hourly into yourself to combat dehydration. He drank green tea all the time, making it himself and making it strong, or else he bought it from the street stalls for a single fen, something like a third of a penny, a glass.

A pungent aromatic perfume came off the liquid, as unlike supermarket packet tea at home as could be. For a moment or two, drinking his tea, he peered into the shining, starless darkness that streamed past the window and then he pulled down the blind. Lois Knox and Purbank were coming along the corridor together now. He could hear their voices but not what they said. ’ His footsteps pattered away. Wexford waited for the corridor to empty. He made his way to the bathroom. The lavatory was vacant, the bathroom engaged, the barrister having stolen a march on him and got there first.

They shook hands. It turned out he was a fellow alumnus of Mr Sung’s from the alma mater of foreign languages. Of all green growing things the greenest is rice. Wexford looked out of the window at rice seedlings, rice half-grown, rice near to harvest. This was the very quintessence of greenness, perhaps Aristotle’s perfect green which all other greens must emulate and strive for. Men and women in the age-old Chinese blue cotton and conical straw hats worked in the fields with lumbering grey water buffalos.

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