“We will have to talk to the museum director,” said DiMaio after Rick translated. “I’d like to know more about our new widow. Please see what you can get out of him.”
“Why not?” answered Rick before turning back to Garcia. “Had the Somontes been married very long?”
Garcia gave a weak cough before answering. “He married her soon after the passing of his first wife, three years ago.” He looked from one face to the other. “She had worked as a secretary in one of his wool mills.”
The Spaniard shrugged, as if nothing more needed to be said, and it occurred to Rick that if Betta had been along, the man wouldn’t have said even that much. He asked DiMaio what else he should ask.
“Ask him if Somonte had a cell phone. We didn’t find one on the body. Also, could he have any papers or documents in his room that might be helpful? I don’t want to ask Signora Somonte, but we will if we have to.”
Rick translated the question for Garcia.
“He always carried a cell phone. Dios mio, could he have been killed for a cell phone? As far as papers, there was his notebook. You should find it in his room.”
“But we don’t want to disturb—”
“No, no, Señor Montoya. He had his own room. Because of his wife’s cold, of course.”
* * *
Betta had climbed the steep street, glad that she was wearing comfortable, thick-soled shoes. The afternoon shoppers were beginning to appear, along with tourists who wandered about holding tight to their guide books and maps. Before reaching the corner, she passed a wine bar, a sign on the door indicating that it would open at six, and she thought it might be a good place for them to go before dinner. Often such places had good samplings of antipasto, so it might even be perfect as an alternative to a full meal. She passed a tiny gelateria and came to the Piazza della Repubblica where the main arteries of Urbino intersected. To the right, Via Vittorio Veneto climbed to the Palazzo Ducale, the most famous building in the city. She turned left up the steep Via Raffaello, passing the facade of the San Francesco church, suppressing the desire to take a quick peek inside. Cultural tourism would have to wait for another day.
Galleria Bruzzone, at number 12, was smaller than she had expected. Her frame of reference for commercial art galleries began with her father’s business in Bassano del Grappa. That was a large, well-lit room with sufficient space to hang a dozen paintings easily, whereas Bruzzone’s shop was small, narrow, and dark. The few paintings she saw as she entered were miniatures in ornate frames, displayed in a case like rings in a jewelry store. She looked through the glass and decided they were nineteenth century and not Italian. The dates and Germanic name on the title cards confirmed both suppositions, but it was not an artist she had ever heard of. Her office had enough missing Italian masterpieces to deal with; they didn’t need to be looking for lost foreign art.
She had heard a bell sound somewhere in the back of the gallery when she came in, and now a door in the rear opened and a man emerged pulling on a suit jacket. He was tall, about the same height as Rick, with a well-trimmed, gray goatee surrounding a kindly smile. He bent forward as he walked, adding some years to Betta’s guess as to the man’s age. Early sixties was what she decided.
“Good afternoon. May I be of assistance?”
Betta pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it to him. “My name is Betta Innocenti. I’m an investigator with the art police in Rome.”
Bruzzone pulled a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket, slipped them on, and studied the card. His face changed to a puzzled frown. “I’m familiar with your office, of course, and certainly hope my gallery is not suspected of dealing in stolen art.”
“No, sir, that is not the case at all.”
The smile returned. “Why don’t you come back to my office and you can tell me how I can help. I am always ready to assist the authorities.” He gestured toward the open door. “You’ll have to excuse the clutter. I hope eventually to move somewhere that gives me more room to display art, in addition to having a larger office. But that would be a large expense, and also I would lose this excellent location. What better address could there be for selling art than Via Raffaello? His birthplace is just up the street, you know. Have you been?”
“Not yet, but I hope to visit it while I’m here.”
He was accurate about size and clutter. The office was really a spacious closet, much of its square footage taken up by a desk with chairs on both sides. A credenza ran along almost all of one wall, its surface shared by stacks of files and a printer. The desk had more papers stacked up and a laptop computer. A corkboard stuck with more sheets of paper, exhibit programs, and drawings took up most of the back wall, and everything was illuminated by gray light from a fluorescent lamp hanging from the ceiling. Betta took the chair that was just inside the door on the right facing the side of the desk. She looked at the bulletin board behind the desk while Bruzzone squeezed around to sit across from her. He folded his hands on the papers in front of him.
“I trust you are aware, Signor Bruzzone, that Manuel Somonte arrived in Urbino two days ago.”
“Yes, indeed. I saw him yesterday.”
“Perhaps you are not aware that he was found dead this morning.”
Bruzzone’s face froze. “I…I was not aware of that. How tragic.” He rubbed his forehead and spent a moment trying to compose himself. “He was not a young man, but he appeared to be in good health for his age when I saw him. He dropped in, as he always does—or I should now say did—when he was in town, to see if I had any pieces of interest for him. I showed him the miniatures in the cases, though I knew they aren’t the kind of art he purchased.”
“Signor Bruzzone, Somonte was murdered.”
The man stiffened and swallowed hard. “O Dio. How…? But who would do such a thing?” He stared at the desk and slowly lifted his head to look directly at Betta. “I don’t understand. This is a matter for the local police—why would your office be involved?”
“I’m sure Inspector DiMaio will want to talk to you, but I am here because the drawing that Somonte was going to donate to the museum in Sansepolcro has gone missing.”
This bit of news seemed to upset the art dealer more than hearing about the death of Somonte. “That is indeed terrible. Just terrible.” His mouth stayed open, but no more words came out.
Betta broke the silence and zipped open the case she was carrying, taking out a notebook. “I thought that since you sold it to him, you could be of help in tracking it down. You could begin by telling me—” She looked past him at the board where a piece of paper at a crooked angle was stuck to the cork with a pushpin. Bruzzone followed her eyes and turned around to look.
“Oh, I forgot that was there. You must have seen the finished work in Sansepolcro. Yes, that is a copy of the drawing. Before I sold it to Somonte I made the copy and stuck it up there to remind me of the sale. Such transactions have been few and far between for me lately.” He reached behind him and pulled it from the wall, the pushpin falling onto the floor. “Would it be of help to your investigation? Perhaps you could show it around the city to see if anyone has seen it.”
“Thank you, but I have pictures of the drawing itself on my telephone.”
He pulled a pin from another corner of the board and stuck the copy back in its place. “You were saying how I could be of assistance?”
“You could begin by telling me something of the drawing’s provenance. I don’t think we have anything in our files in Rome.”
“Yes, of course. This was one of those cases that we art dealers dream about. Out of the blue an old woman walked into my shop and offered it to me. She said she came upon it in a trunk in her storage shed and wondered if it was worth anything. Can you believe that?” He shook his head slowly as if he still couldn’t believe it himself. “I studied it carefully, consulted a specialist about Piero’s various studies for the work
in Sansepolcro, and concluded that it was the genuine item. The woman was unable to tell me how it got into her trunk, of course; it had been there for centuries. There is simply no way of knowing that kind of thing. But she and I were the beneficiaries of the find. It wasn’t the same as discovering a full painting by the master—that would be worth millions—but for a dealer like me, such a drawing was a once-in-a-lifetime transaction.”
Betta had pen and paper in hand but had written nothing. “Can you give me the name and address of this woman, to put in our files?”
“I’m sure I have it.” Bruzzone got up from the chair and squeezed past the desk to the credenza. He opened its door and pulled out a small filing box that might have started its life holding a new pair of shoes. Back at the desk, he opened the box and shuffled through a line of cards. “Here it is.” He passed a card to Betta, who wrote down the information and returned it to him.
“Interesting that she lives in Monterchi. That’s near Sansepolcro, which would make sense.”
“Yes,” Bruzzone said, “at about a dozen kilometers, it’s easy to reach from Sansepolcro, even in Piero’s time. Also, Piero’s Madonna del Parto hangs in a museum in Monterchi, so there’s a strong connection between the artist and the town. Not as much as he had with Sansepolcro, his birthplace, but enough so that it is not surprising the drawing turned up there.”
It crossed Betta’s mind that a person in Monterchi could have wanted the drawing, someone unhappy that it had not stayed in the town. Unhappy enough to commit murder to get it and then not be able to display it? That didn’t make sense.
“When you recover the drawing,” said Bruzzone, “it will be turned over to the museum in Sansepolcro, I assume?”
Betta tapped her pen on the notebook. It was an interesting question and not something she had considered. “I don’t know if a document was signed already formalizing the donation. If not, I would assume that the drawing would become the property of the heirs, most likely Signora Somonte.”
Bruzzone leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. “In that case, she could then go ahead with the donation as her husband had wished, or keep the drawing herself, or sell it.”
She saw what he might be getting at and didn’t want to go there. “Those questions are something the ministry’s legal department would have to work out, so I shouldn’t speculate. My assignment is to find the drawing.” She closed her notebook.
“I understand. I can’t help thinking that there are those in this city who were not happy that it was going to Sansepolcro and now might try to convince her to keep it here. I’m talking, of course, about the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche. Vitellozzi was very upset when he found out that Somonte was going to send the drawing down to that small museum.”
“Vitellozzi?”
“Annibale Vitellozzi, the director of the museum. I’m sure you’ll meet him in the course of your inquiries.”
Betta reopened her notebook and wrote down the name. “That’s very helpful, Signor Bruzzone. Is there anyone else you could suggest I talk with?”
He stroked his goatee in thought. “Well, someone else you’ll likely encounter anyway, since this is such a small town and the arts community is even smaller, is Cosimo Morelli, an extremely wealthy local businessman. Cosimo has the largest private art collection in Urbino, with some very important pieces. When you meet him he will invite you to see them—he always does.”
Betta wrote down the name. “Morelli would seem like the kind of person to have purchased Piero’s drawing.”
Bruzzone nodded, and a smile formed on his lips. “He tried. But Somonte outbid him.”
* * *
Somonte’s room was a small suite on the top floor of the hotel with a sweeping view of the hills north of Urbino. DiMaio had gone immediately to the front desk to stop the cleaning staff, or anyone else, from entering the room but was too late. When they opened the door, using a key given them at the front desk, the suite had been made up and everything was in order. Since Somonte had left his key when he’d gone out the previous evening, it was clear that the murder had taken place somewhere else. Nevertheless, something relevant to the crime might have been changed by the housekeeping crew.
The suite consisted of three rooms. The door from the hallway opened to a sitting area, taken up mostly by a sofa and two chairs with a view out of a large window. Against one of the walls was a bar, including a small sink, with glasses and bottles of liquor lining a shelf above and a small refrigerator below. Rick opened the refrigerator and found small bottles of prosecco as well as an assortment of juices and soft drinks. The only item somewhat out of place sat on the bar counter, a half-full bottle of sherry. It was Spanish, and not a label familiar to Rick, though he was not an expert on sherry, let alone imported brands. While he checked out the bar, DiMaio was looking at papers on a desk at the other side of the room.
“This might be something.”
Rick put down the bottle and walked to where Alfredo was thumbing through a small notebook, bound in leather, with the name Manuel Somonte and the year stamped on the outside. “This was sitting on top of the desk. Somonte’s agenda. The notations for this week are mostly names and phone numbers, likely people he wanted to see during his stay, but unfortunately it doesn’t say when or if he met with them. Can you read his writing better than I can?” He passed the book to Rick.
The penmanship was crude with small flourishes on some of the letters, the handwriting of someone from another generation. “I would imagine Somonte kept personal notes here and that his assistant takes care of business-related appointments, probably with a more modern system than scribbling in a notebook.” He felt the vibration of his phone and pulled it from his pocket. “It’s a text from Betta. She probably didn’t want to call, thinking we might still be in our interview downstairs.” He read from the phone screen: “I got names of people Alfredo should interview. Shall I meet you at the commissariato?” Rick looked up from the phone. “Are we going back there when we’re done here?”
“I think we’re done already, Riccardo. I’ll take a quick look in the bedroom, but I don’t expect to find anything of interest. Maybe the names she has are the same ones in that little book in your hand.”
Chapter Four
The two names Betta got from the gallery owner—Morelli, the art collector, and Vitellozzi of the museum—were in Somonte’s little book, as were Bruzzone himself and Florio, the director of the botanical gardens. DiMaio sat at his desk, his left hand holding open the book and the other slowly writing the four names and telephone numbers on a legal pad.
“The hotel checked the phone records, and Somonte made no calls from his room. If he called anyone on this list he must have done it on his telefonino, the same phone that was not found on his body. That was very inconsiderate of the murderer to take it. I would have thought that having the Piero drawing would have been enough.” He dropped the pen on the desk and looked up at Rick and Betta. “Well, we have people to interview, it appears. Betta, you talked already with Bruzzone— what did you glean from the conversation?”
DiMaio rubbed his eyes. Rick could not decide if the gesture indicated annoyance with Betta for unilaterally going off to interview the art dealer or simply fatigue.
She already had her notebook on her lap. “The two names, of course. The more suspicious has to be Morelli, the art collector. It was he who lost out on getting the drawing, so he was obviously not happy with Somonte for that, and hearing that it was going to be donated to a museum might have added salt to the wound.” She looked up, waiting for a reaction from DiMaio. When it didn’t come, she continued. “The other, Annibale Vitellozzi, is, as I see it, somewhat less likely to have murdered Somonte, but he was surely annoyed that his museum was not chosen to receive the donation of the drawing. That by itself would be a weak motive for murder.”
“I agree,” said DiMaio. He picked up the phone on his desk
and made three short phone calls while Rick and Betta listened. After he hung up the phone for the third time he looked at his two visitors. “I think you got most of that. Florio, the botanical gardens director, will be waiting for me in his office at the university when we’re done here. Morelli is in Pesaro on business, driving back tonight. He will come here to the commissariato tomorrow morning. Vitellozzi is extremely busy getting this big exhibit ready to open, but he can be interviewed at the museum tomorrow. Betta, why don’t you go talk to him, since you’re here for the art squad?”
She nodded, and Rick was relieved that Alfredo didn’t appear concerned about having an art cop on his turf. The relief didn’t last long.
DiMaio turned to a fresh page of the pad in front of him. “Where did Bruzzone say he was around the time of the murder?”
Betta flushed. “I didn’t ask him. I was so focused on the provenance of the drawing that I forgot.”
DiMaio nodded slowly before speaking again. “And what did you learn about the drawing?”
“It was discovered in Monterchi,” Betta said quickly. “I thought it would be useful to go down there and talk to the woman who found it and sold it to Bruzzone.”
Another nod from the policeman. “I fail to see how that would be relevant to my investigation, but I’m sure the art police would like to know more about this drawing. You two can drive down to Monterchi after talking to Vitellozzi at the museum.”
The awkward silence was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Avanti.”
“Excuse the interruption, Inspector.” It was the uniformed sergeant they had passed at the front desk on the way to the office. “There is a woman in the waiting room who insists on seeing the officer in charge of the murder investigation. Her name is Pilar Somonte.”
To Die in Tuscany Page 4