To Die in Tuscany

by David P. Wagner

  Rick turned to see Piero della Francesca’s masterpiece on the wall behind him, Christ rising from the Holy Sepulcher—San Sepolcro—while soldiers slept in the foreground. Jesus stared directly at the viewers, challenging them to interpret the penetrating look of his eyes. Was it resignation? Doubt? Determination? Or simple exhaustion? The lips, forming neither a frown nor a smile, offered no help. Behind the figure the landscape was barren on one side and starting to grow on the other. After being dragged countless times through Italian museums and churches as a kid, Rick knew that every aspect of a painting had meaning, and he assumed the background was an allusion to rebirth, as was the brightening morning sky. His eyes were moving over other parts of the composition when Betta spoke.

  “This painting shows the connection between the religious and civic life of Sansepolcro. It was commissioned by the city elders for the communal hall and prayed to before each of their council meetings. The name of the town comes from the relics of the sepulcher brought from the Holy Land, and Piero included one right there.” She pointed to a crude chunk of stone in the lower right corner of the painting. “Today, though, our interest is connected to him.” Her finger moved to one of the sleeping soldiers leaning against the stone sarcophagus.

  Rick stepped to get a closer look at the soldier. “That’s the one in Somonte’s donated drawing.”

  “Correct. And according to tradition, it is a self-portrait of Piero della Francesca himself.”

  Rick remembered listening to a former Italian girlfriend talking about the works she had studied as an art historian. Her specialty had been Mannerism, the period that followed Piero and his contemporaries by several decades, but he recalled her using the phrase “according to tradition.” He turned to Betta and smiled. “I know enough about Italian painting to know that when they talk about tradition, it probably isn’t true.”

  “Art historians always have differing opinions on just about everything. That’s how they make names for themselves. But even if it’s not Piero’s face, it’s still a good story.”

  “And it makes the donated drawing even more valuable. It looks like they already have a place of honor waiting for it over there.”

  They walked to a glass case set against the wall, empty except for a small printed card. Betta was leaning over to read the inscription when hurried footsteps caught the attention of the guard. Rick was stepping forward when Signora Rossi appeared, breathing heavily.

  “Terrible news,” she said when she spotted Betta. “Signor Somonte. He’s dead. They just called from Urbino.” Her eyes darted to the empty case, and she clasped her hands into a tight knot. “But it’s worse. The drawing is missing, and the police believe he was murdered. Do you think someone killed him and took it?” She looked at Rick and Betta. “I must advise the mayor.” She turned and rushed from the room.

  Betta pulled her phone from her purse. “I have to call my boss.” She looked at the guard and retreated to a corner of the room out of earshot.

  Rick watched her punch in a number and then gesture with her free hand as she talked in a low voice with the ministry in Rome. He sighed and walked to another of Piero’s works, identified as a fresco fragment depicting San Giuliano, taken from a local church. The saint stared over Rick’s left shoulder, his face surrounded by thick blond hair and crowned with a disk-like halo. Again Rick tried to read the face the master had created. Fear? Bravery? He would have to look up the hagiography of Giuliano to get a hint. Betta’s voice broke through his thoughts.

  “Rick, we’re going to Urbino.”

  * * *

  The seventy-one kilometers between the two cities would have meant about a half-hour drive for Betta if the roadway had been like the toll road between Rome and Arezzo. Instead, it would take well over an hour to navigate the two-lane strada statale that coiled through the mountains. Making matters worse, a number of trucks plodded slowly up the inclines, and several times Rick had to urge patience, lest Betta try to pass on a curve. There was no need to add to the day’s death toll. This pace was agony for someone like Betta, who was used to riding motorcycles. He tried to get her to think about something other than their progress.

  “Tell me more of what you know about this drawing, Betta.”

  “We don’t know a whole lot. Provenance usually is not recorded for a simple drawing like it would be for a painting. When it turned up a few years ago in Urbino, the ministry was advised of its appearance. Since there was nothing illegal—it hadn’t been reported stolen—my office didn’t get involved. Works of art appear all the time in someone’s attic or basement, and in many cases there’s no way to know how it got there. It could have been in the family for centuries and nobody knew or cared, or it might have been hidden during the war to keep it out of the hands of the Germans. Then someone finds it in a trunk, thinks it might be worth something, and goes to an art dealer. I think that’s what happened with this drawing when it was sold to the dealer in Urbino. That’s something we’ll find out when we get there. If we ever get there.”

  A straight section of road appeared after a curve, and Betta gunned the engine to pass the truck they had been following for ten kilometers. Rick’s head pushed back against the seat, and he gripped the armrest. She groaned as another truck, this one even larger and slower, appeared in the distance.

  “But now that the drawing has disappeared, we are involved.”

  “Art cops to the rescue,” said Rick as he tried to relax.

  It was early afternoon when they made a final ascent and came around the last section of Urbino’s southern walls. A wide parking area spread out to their right. Above it the Palazzo Ducale stood anchored to the highest point in the city. An architectural masterpiece, the palace was built in the mid-fifteenth century by Duke Federico da Montefeltro to be home to one of the most enlightened courts of the Renaissance. Five centuries later, as if in keeping with the duke’s support for the arts, it housed the artistic treasures of the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche. Rick leaned forward and looked up at the ramparts of the castle. His parents had brought him and his sister to Urbino when they were children, and he had marveled then at the size and complexity of the palazzo. It was a period when he was sick of being taken to museums, but, thanks to the palazzo’s architecture, this museum was different to him. He recalled his sister saying it looked like something out of a Disney movie, which had gotten a laugh from their parents.

  The car turned right and drove past the parking lot toward a decorative city gate flanked by columns and topped by carved stone eagles. Just before reaching the wall, Betta slowed, turned, and parked in front of a modern building on the left side of the street. The flags hanging outside, as well as the official seal above the door, told Rick that this was Urbino’s police headquarters. The space was reserved for official vehicles, and once again Betta put her pass inside the windshield.

  She opened the door and stepped to the ground. “I thought we’d never get here.”

  The commissariato was like so many police stations that Rick had entered, starting with the one where his uncle worked. They all had a certain distinctive smell to them, not unpleasant nor pleasing, just a neutral odor that somehow went with the work carried on inside. Benches lined an entire wall of the large room, but only one person was seated there, a woman dressed in black staring ahead. The other walls were bare, except for the usual bulletin boards displaying official notices that no one ever read. Rick and Betta were greeted by the stare of a uniformed policeman standing behind thick glass directly ahead of the door. If he noticed Rick, it wasn’t apparent from his smile or where his eyes were trained.

  “You are already making a positive impression,” Rick said.

  Betta strode quickly to the window and pushed her identification under the glass. “My office in Rome should have called, Sergeant. Regarding the murdered Spaniard.”

  The policeman looked quickly at the document, stiffened, and push
ed it back. “Si, Signora. I was told someone from the ministry would be arriving, but I didn’t—”

  “Just tell us where we can find the investigating officer.”

  Rick grinned behind her.

  “Through that door and at the end of the hall,” the policeman stammered. “Let me come out and show—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” She turned on her heel and walked to the door, Rick following behind, trying to keep up. He was at her side when they entered a narrow hallway.

  “Loved the way you handled that,” he said.

  “Let’s hope this next cop is more professional.”

  Rick thought about saying that he couldn’t blame the sergeant for noticing a beautiful woman coming into the station but decided this wasn’t the time. Maybe later.

  The door at the end of the hallway was partially open, and as they got closer they could hear fingers on a computer keyboard. Betta pushed open the door and knocked at the same time. The policeman was seated behind a desk but turned toward a small table where his laptop sat. Stubble covered his face, and his eyes indicated a lack of sleep. He pivoted and surveyed the two arrivals. At first his expression showed incomprehension, then surprise, and finally the face opened into a wide smile.

  “The art police headquarters in Rome didn’t tell me they were going to send a crack investigative team. I was expecting some bureaucrat art expert wearing an ill-fitting suit.” He got to his feet and rounded the desk, giving Betta a warm embrace while squinting over her shoulder at Rick. “You’re still hanging out with this guy, Betta?”

  “Alfredo,” she said, “what a pleasant surprise.”

  He unclenched from Betta and hugged Rick, the two slapping each other’s back.

  “Detective Alfredo DiMaio,” Rick said, “what have we done to deserve this?”

  “I was just going to say the same thing. And that’s Inspector DiMaio now, Riccardo. How long has it been since the Bassano case? And in the meantime Betta has obviously joined the art cops. And you, Riccardo, still translating and interpreting? I can never remember the difference.”

  “Still at it,” Rick answered.

  “Your uncle continues to move up in the police hierarchy in Rome. I am very appreciative of the word he put in for me after Bassano, by the way.”

  “You deserved it, Alfredo.”

  Betta spoke. “Has the Piero drawing turned up?”

  The inspector sighed. “Do we have to get down to business already?”

  Rick shrugged. “She’s all business.”

  DiMaio gestured to two chairs facing his desk and returned to his. He leaned back with a creak when Rick and Betta were seated. “The short answer is no. But as you can imagine, my priority is finding the murderer, and it occurs to me that Riccardo’s skills can be of help to both of us, Betta.” He turned to Rick. “Do I recall that you are also fluent in Spanish?”

  “That was the official reason for my presence, Alfredo, to translate for Signor Somonte if needed. I wouldn’t think my services would be required now, given what’s happened to the poor man.”

  “On the contrary. It’s his wife and assistant who don’t speak any Italian. I had great difficulty communicating with them this morning after we discovered the body, though part of it may just be that the wife is a difficult woman.”

  Betta shifted in the chair. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, Alfredo?”

  DiMaio glanced at Rick. “She really is all business, isn’t she? I have a suggestion. My only sustenance so far today was a coffee and small pastry very early this morning. I assume you have not had lunch, so why don’t I brief you both on what has happened so far at the restaurant next door? It’s not the fine cuisine that you two cosmopolitans are accustomed to in Rome, but it will do the job.”

  “That sounds perfect,” said Betta, rising to her feet.

  They walked down the hall toward the reception area. It was empty except for a woman dressed in jeans and a turtleneck sweater pacing in front of the desk, a cell phone pressed to her ear. She looked up when the three came through the hall door and walked quickly toward them, stuffing the phone into her pocket.

  “Inspector DiMaio?” Her eyes moved between Rick and the policeman.

  DiMaio looked past her at the sergeant, who shook his head helplessly. “And you are?”

  “Laura Intini.” She pulled out a card and pressed it into his hand. “I have some questions about the death of the Spaniard. If you could give me a minute.”

  DiMaio studied the card while Rick and Betta edged aside. “I put out a written statement this morning, which you should have received.”

  “Yes, Inspector, of course we did. It was very brief, and we thought that you might have something to add to it. Surely there have been some developments since this morning. As you can understand, this is an important story, and our readers will be anxious to learn more.”

  “I’m sure they will. Sorry, I have an important meeting now.”

  She looked quickly at Rick and Betta. “Is it regarding the—”

  “I have your card, Signora Intini. If something develops, you’ll be the first to know.” He walked toward the door with Rick and Betta in tow. “I hate journalists.”

  The restaurant, only a few steps from the commissariato, gave the impression of being a police cafeteria. It was one large, noisy room, its tables mostly filled with men and women in blue uniforms. The ambient noise subsided slightly as the diners watched Inspector DiMaio enter with two strangers, their attention split between Betta’s slim figure and Rick’s cowboy boots. The room quickly returned to its normally high decibel level, made worse by the cement floor and bare ceiling. One of the waiters, carrying a plate of pasta in each hand, spotted the inspector and pointed with his chin to an empty table in one corner. They worked their way through the room and sat down.

  “You come here often?” Rick asked as he looked around the room at all the cops.

  “Your sense of humor is still evident, Riccardo.”

  A waiter appeared balancing three menus, a bread basket, and a bottle of mineral water.

  “Ciao, Mimo. Olive ascolane e un litro di rosso,” said DiMaio to the waiter, who nodded and disappeared toward the kitchen. “A local specialty, stuffed olives breaded and deep fried. I suggest the vincisgrassi for a primo—it’s another dish you’ll only find here in Le Marche, or if you do find it somewhere else in Italy, it won’t be as good.”

  “That’s lasagna, isn’t it?” asked Rick.

  DiMaio wagged a finger. “Don’t let anyone in Urbino hear you calling it lasagna, Riccardo.”

  The wine appeared, a dark red in a ceramic pitcher. DiMaio ordered the pasta, filled their glasses, and offered a toast to old friends reunited. Right behind the wine waiter was one bearing a plate of olives with golden brown breading, still steaming like they had just been scooped out of the frying oil, rolled quickly in toweling, and rushed to the table. Betta spooned a couple of them onto her plate before Rick and Alfredo did the same. They exchanged wishes of buon appetito and picked up their knives and forks. The olives were already large, but the stuffing and breading brought them almost to golf ball size, each one yielding two crunchy bites. Betta and Rick agreed that their first taste of Marchigiana cooking was a success.

  When the serving dish was almost empty, DiMaio took a long drink from his glass and leaned back. “Betta, now that the edge has been taken from our hunger, we can move on to the business part of this lunch. I will start at the beginning, as you requested. I was called just before eight this morning with the news that a body was found at the botanical gardens. Yes, Urbino has a very fine orto botanico, despite its size. The person who found the dead man was the chief gardener and knew the deceased well since he, the deceased, had donated funds and plants. So he told me immediately that it was Manuel Somonte, age seventy-one, a Spaniard with Italian dual citizenship, thanks t
o his Italian mother. I don’t think I need to tell you about Somonte, Betta, since you must have researched him for the event in Sansepolcro, where he was to donate the drawing that you are so interested in finding.”

  Betta nodded but waited for DiMaio to continue. Rick took a sip of wine.

  “When we got to the gardens we found Somonte’s body leaning against a plant that ironically he had donated. Our murderer apparently has a sense of humor. Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the chest, and the initial estimate of the time of death is late last night. The autopsy will narrow it down, but that may not help us much. It is certain that he was killed on the spot; there was no indication that the body had been carried or dragged to where he was found. There were no reports of a gunshot in the neighborhood, but the vegetation and high walls of the gardens must have kept the sound inside.”

  “So he was either forced to go in because the gun was pointed at him, or he knew the person well and trusted him.”

  “That was my conclusion as well, Riccardo.” DiMaio took a drink of the mineral water before continuing. “I couldn’t get much out of his wife and the executive assistant this morning since Signora Somonte was almost hysterical, and neither of them speaks Italian. But I did find out that the last time they saw him was at an early afternoon lunch.”

  “They didn’t have dinner with him?” Rick asked.

  DiMaio shook his head. “Apparently not. The signora is suffering from a cold and had food sent up to the room. The assistant ate in the hotel dining room. They don’t know where Somonte had dinner, or if he did at all, but the autopsy will tell us if he ate something.”

  Rick offered the last two olives to Betta, and when she declined, he spooned them to his plate. “It seems somewhat strange that they wouldn’t know what the man did last night. Was it normal for him to wander off by himself?”