To Die in Tuscany

by David P. Wagner

  The words jolted DiMaio. “The daughter. I was told Somonte had a daughter, but I didn’t expect her to show up here. Bring her in, Sergeant.” Rick and Betta got to their feet. “No, no, Riccardo, you must stay. Thank goodness you’re here to interpret. I would have had to deal with another Spanish harridan by myself. And, Betta, please sit down as well. This woman will realize that the case of her father’s death is so important that we have brought specialists up from Rome.” He stood up, rushed to a corner where another chair sat empty, and carried it to the front of the desk next to Rick. “There, that’s perfect. You can do your interpreting magic.”

  The door was pushed open by the sergeant, and Pilar Somonte entered.

  It might have been a very distant Viking visitor to northern Spain who was responsible for her golden blond hair—it was not a dye job. She wore it shoulder length but held back on one side by a gold barrette that exposed a matching gold earring. Her lightweight wool sweater and matching skirt, as well as her slim figure and features, could have walked off the runway at a Milan fashion house.

  Rick, who along with DiMaio was standing, approached and shook her hand. “My name is Ricardo Montoya,” he said in Spanish. “Inspector DiMaio has asked me to interpret. May I also present Betta Innocenti from Rome who is assisting on the investigation. Let me first express our deepest condolences on the loss of your father.”

  After shaking Rick’s hand she looked at Betta, then at DiMaio, but didn’t move. Her expression was one of incomprehension, making Rick wonder if he’d spoken the words correctly. Then she smiled.

  “Thank you, Riccardo. I very much appreciate the offer, but I don’t believe your services will be necessary.” Her Italian was almost without accent. She walked first to Betta, then to DiMaio, and shook their hands before sitting in one of the chairs. “As you probably know, my grandmother was Italian, and my father always maintained a strong relationship with this country. He insisted that I learn Italian at the liceo and then sent me to Florence for a year to study design.”

  DiMaio finally found his tongue, but barely. “So that’s why you speak Italian so well, Signora.”

  “Bravo, Inspector. But please call me Pilar.” She looked at Betta and Rick. “We all seem to be about the same age here, so why don’t we dispense with the formalities?” When they agreed, she continued. “Riccardo, I detected an accent in your Spanish that is certainly not from Spain.”

  “You are correct, Pilar. My father is from America, New Mexico, and I went to university there. My Spanish reflects that. And I go by Rick.”

  “And Betta, you work in Rome, but are you from there originally?”

  “No, Pilar. I am from Bassano del Grappa, in the Veneto.”

  “Bassano. A delightful city. I love your famous covered bridge over the Mincio.”

  Rick had expected that they would be the ones putting Pilar Somonte at ease, but it turned out to be just the opposite. DiMaio was enthralled.

  “Alfredo, I’ll find out about you later since you must be anxious to get down to the case at hand. I should say here at the outset that I have been expecting for a while to get news of my father’s death, since he was not a well man. Naturally, I thought his illness would be the cause of his demise, so it was a shock when Lucho called to tell me he had been murdered.” She took a breath to maintain her composure before continuing.

  “Driving here from the airport, I recalled something my father said to me just after he was diagnosed with the illness he thought would eventually take his life. We were sitting in his office, just the two of us.” She held the back of her hand over her mouth for a moment. “He began by telling me something I’d heard so many times before, how much Italy, and especially Tuscany, meant to him. His mother was born in Anghiari, at the eastern edge of Tuscany. It was thanks to her, he said, that he held such a deep love of Italian art. He pointed to an old photograph he always kept on his desk, of him and my grandmother, taken on a visit to Anghiari when he was a boy. As he looked at the two figures he said, ‘When it’s time, I want to die in Tuscany.’ I told him that he wasn’t going anywhere for a while, or some such platitude, and we changed the subject. But what he said that day has always stuck in my mind, and I’ve often thought that he may have been talking more to the photograph than to me.”

  A difficult silence was broken by Betta. “Urbino isn’t Tuscany, but there are few places in Italy identified as strongly with art as this city. He came here often, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. Yes, he did.” She waved a hand in the air, pushing away the memory, and turned her attention to DiMaio. “But I don’t want that story to give you a false impression of my relationship with my father, especially in the last few years. I must tell you that ever since my mother’s death several years ago, and his subsequent marriage to Isabella, my father and I had become somewhat estranged. It had been no secret that my mother was dying, but did that woman keep in the shadows and allow him to deal with it? No, she was shameless in her pursuit of my father, even while my mother was fading.”

  She looked at a bottle of mineral water on the desk. DiMaio got the message, poured some into a cup, and passed it to her. She took a sip and set the cup down next to her.

  “Thank you, Alfredo. I never hid my feelings from him about his remarrying, and especially to that woman, so, inevitably, we drifted apart. Our relationship became less father-daughter and more owner-employee, since I am chief of design at the mills.” She crossed one leg over the other and straightened her skirt over her knee. “Pardon the long explanation, but I thought you should know. Now, can you tell me how all this happened? I couldn’t get much out of Lucho when he called me early this morning.”

  DiMaio carefully went over the facts of the case as he knew them, without giving too much detail about the condition of the body. He told her what information he and Rick had gotten from Signora Somonte and Lucho Garcia, and the meager results from the search of her father’s room.

  “We are now at the point of interviewing others who might have seen your father before he was killed. Since the missing drawing may be the motive for the crime, Betta was sent here from Rome to assist in the case. She works in the office that investigates stolen art.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard about the drawing going missing,” said Pilar. “Lucho didn’t mention that detail when he called. Do you really think my father might have been killed for a drawing?”

  “It’s very valuable,” Betta volunteered. “We have had cases of murders committed or planned for artwork of lesser value.”

  Pilar shook her head and turned to Rick. “Do you work here at the university?”

  “No, I’m a professional interpreter based in Rome. And a friend of Betta.”

  “Ah.” She smiled at Betta and turned to the policeman. “Well, Alfredo, what comes next, and is there any way I can help? Or do you just want me to stay out of your way?”

  “You most certainly will not be in my way, Pilar. I was about to go to the botanical gardens to interview the director. I assume you have a rental car? You can leave it here and I can drop you at the hotel on the way. Or have you already checked in?”

  She held up a delicate hand. “I won’t stay at the same hotel as that woman.”

  DiMaio looked at Rick and Betta. “I think I can find you a room somewhere else.”

  * * *

  The botany department of the university was conveniently located just behind the botanical gardens. Windows on the lower two floors of the building looked across the narrow street at the walls of the gardens, not an especially picturesque view, but not one unusual for Urbino inside the city walls, where buildings were stuffed together. When marauders menaced in the old days it was better to be living safely in cramped quarters than out in the countryside, despite less than ideal sanitary conditions. With the advent of modern indoor plumbing, heating, and air-conditioning, these buildings became fashionable, and had the uni
versity not purchased this one years earlier, it might have been out of its price range.

  The office of Professor Salvatore Florio had the best view in the department. Through two small windows it looked past the street and over the wall to the treetops of the botanical gardens. For Florio, however, catching the sunlight was more important than getting the full view. The windowsills were lined with pots, as was the floor below where plants spread out into corners, with lamps supplementing the natural light. The three outer edges of his desk bore a prickly wall of cacti, some more menacing than others. It was this sea of greens and browns that greeted DiMaio as he entered the office. His first thought was to wonder how long it took to water the pots every day. It flashed through his head that Florio could easily blend in among the trees across the street. He was long-necked and awkwardly tall, wore a loose-fitting brown wool suit, and had a mop of unkempt hair that constantly needed to be pushed aside so he could see through his frameless glasses.

  The professor motioned to the lone empty chair. “Please sit down, Inspector. I hope I can be of some assistance in your investigation. As you might imagine, the death of Signor Somonte was a great shock to those of us connected to the gardens. He was a generous benefactor.”

  Florio’s high-pitched voice went well with his body type. DiMaio carefully maneuvered his way between pots, looked down to be sure the seat was plant-free, and eased himself into its cushion. “Thank you, Professor. Can I begin by asking when Somonte became involved with the gardens?” He moved his head slightly to see around a rabbit-ear cactus that partially blocked his view of Florio.

  “Certainly. It was a few years ago. An Italian friend of his discovered his interest in flora and suggested he visit. Fortunately, I was there that day and we became acquainted. He was impressed with our history—as you may know, the gardens date back to 1806—and also with the plants. He was quite taken with our acrogymnospermae collection, especially a spectacular Encephalartos sclavoi. Botanists come from all over Europe to see it.”

  DiMaio had his pen and notebook at the ready but had written nothing. “The plant where his body was found was his donation.”

  “Exactly. It and other plants he gave us were formally received about two years ago, in a ceremony conducted by the rector of the university. Perhaps you read about it in the newspaper or saw it on the television news.”

  “That was before my time here.” He wrote a few words on his pad. “Who was the person who suggested he visit the gardens that first time?”

  Florio rubbed his chin in thought. “Let me think. I believe it was someone from the museum. Vitellozzi? Yes, that’s it, Vitellozzi. I don’t know his first name. Somonte was very much interested in art, Inspector. I’m not sure if you were aware of that. I have a theory about the murder that I thought of this morning. I think—”

  “We are aware of his interest in art, Professor. In fact, a piece of art in Somonte’s possession is missing, and possibly that was the reason he was killed.”

  Florio’s eyes widened and appeared even wider through the glasses. “I was not aware of that. Goodness me, that does complicate things—and it destroys my theory. You see, Inspector, I am a careful reader of gialli, especially those of the late Andrea Camilleri, so I cannot help but put this murder in the context of others I have read about.”

  It was not what DiMaio wanted to hear. He didn’t need the advice from someone who had read a lot of murder mysteries, but he remained polite. “When was the last time you saw Somonte alive?”

  Florio swallowed hard, making his Adam’s apple even more prominent. “I did not mention it to you this morning, what with the shock of finding his body, but I saw him yesterday. He came by the gardens, as he always does when he comes to Urbino.”

  “Did he seem preoccupied about anything? Was he different from his other visits?”

  Florio could not hide his pleasure. “That is a question that Inspector Montalbano often asks witnesses, and I was wondering if you would ask me as well. No, Somonte was the same as ever, very attentive to the plants, asking questions about soil and nutrients. He was very knowledgeable for an amateur botanist.”

  DiMaio tapped his pad with the pen. “There is something I neglected to ask this morning. Who has keys to the gardens? I assume you do not leave the gate open after hours.”

  The Adam’s apple bobbed once more. “I have one, of course.” He opened the drawer and rifled through its contents before holding up a large, copper key and then putting it back. “Others? Our head gardener, Nino. Two women who collect the entrance fees from visitors and sell postcards. After visiting the gardens, people often pick up a postcard or two to send to friends, but they are mostly the older visitors. Young people just take pictures on their phones. We don’t mind; it still gets the word out about the gardens, and that’s the important thing since we are always trying to get more visitors. Revenue is critical in keeping the gardens going, since they sit on some very valuable real estate.”

  “Was there a chance the gate was left open yesterday after the gardens closed?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Inspector. I will check, but I’m sure they locked up as they always do.”

  “I’ll need the names and contact information for those other people with keys.” He pulled out a card and stretched it over the cacti to Florio’s hand. “You can email it to me. That’s all of them?”

  “Well, Somonte had his key, of course.”

  DiMaio’s head jerked up. “Somonte?”

  “Sorry, I was assuming you knew. It was given to him in that ceremony when he formally donated all the plants. It was the rector’s idea, like giving him the key to the city. Purely symbolic, of course, since I would let him into the gardens whenever he wanted, but he appreciated the gesture and carried it with him. It was a real key.”

  “How many people knew he had that key?”

  Florio shrugged. “All of us did, of course. But also anyone who had read the story in the newspaper or seen the report on TV. Wait, I can show you.” He went to another of the drawers behind the desk, found a tan file, and opened it on the desk. “Here it is.”

  He passed a tattered newspaper clipping over the cacti to DiMaio. The picture at the top of the story showed Somonte, flanked by Florio and a well-dressed man the caption identified as the rector, the three standing in front of tall plants. Somonte was holding up his key, hanging from a ribbon. Everyone smiled.

  DiMaio read through the story, passed it back to Florio, and rose to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Professor. If there’s anything else that comes to mind, you know how to reach me.”

  “Of course. Here, let me show you to the door.” He squeezed around the desk. “I will also be revising my theories about this crime. Perhaps I can be of assistance.” He pointed to the wall. “Did you see this, Inspector?”

  Having been overwhelmed by all the plants, DiMaio had not noticed the framed photograph. A balding, round-faced man sat at a restaurant table behind a plate of pasta, and leaning down over the man’s shoulder was a beaming Florio. The look on the man’s face said he was not pleased that his meal had been interrupted.

  “Andrea Camilleri, of course,” said Florio. “I suggested a plot line he could use. He might have been planning to use it in his next book, but of course he passed away. Such a tragedy for mystery readers.”

  * * *

  The restaurant consisted of one room, rectangular and large, with high ceilings. All the tables were full, but despite the numbers of diners, the noise level was low. It may have been due to the roof design, pitched and strengthened with heavy crossbeams, but more likely it was due to the reluctance of the diners to raise their voices. The elegance of the place—white tablecloths and star-shaped glass chandeliers hanging from the beams—called for polite conversation. This was very different from the trattoria where Rick, Betta, and DiMaio had lunch. Adding to the difference was the presence of Pilar Somonte. Sh
e was as elegant as before, and DiMaio had shaved and changed into a better suit.

  “When he’s not watering his plants, he reads mysteries,” said DiMaio after describing his encounter with Professor Florio.

  Their wineglasses were half-filled with a ruby-tinted Rosso Cònero as they awaited the arrival of the first course. They had made it easy on the cook by all ordering the same dish, gnocchetti al ragu di cinghiale, which the waiter said was a specialty of the house. The red wine they’d chosen, he assured them, would be a perfect match for the rich wild boar sauce on the small gnocchi.

  “So do I,” said Pilar. “Read mysteries, I mean, not water plants.”

  “But you don’t presume to tell us police how to do our jobs because you’ve read every book by Andrea Camilleri.”

  “I’m a big fan of Camilleri,” said Rick while taking a piece of bread from the basket in the middle of the table. “Except for how Montalbano refuses to talk during meals.”

  Betta nodded. “I always found that a bit strange myself.”

  DiMaio shook his head. “Why don’t we talk about something other than mystery books? Like Pilar’s work in the wool business.”

  “That’s kind of you, Alfredo, but there isn’t that much to tell, really. I work mostly with our clients so that we produce the patterns they need in the right fabric texture. They plan ahead, so we’re now working on next spring’s fashions, mostly lightweight wools like this one.” She wore a beige sweater with a subtle blue stripe.

  Betta looked at Rick and turned to Pilar. “Will you now have a larger role in the business? Perhaps I shouldn’t bring that up.”

  “No, no, that’s all right. My father has left the business to me, which is what I assume you are asking. I haven’t talked to the family attorney since flying here, but it’s what my father told me a few years ago, after he remarried. That woman will get the house, as well as their summer home on Minorca, along with a sizable number of euros in the form of a trust. She will be able to live comfortably the rest of her life without having to stick her nose into the business. The mill is mine.”