To Die in Tuscany

by David P. Wagner

  “That has to be Vitellozzi,” said Rick.

  The man noticed the new arrivals and walked swiftly toward them. Rick estimated him to be in his late fifties, though the slight paunch could have made him look older than his years. Graying temples added to the aging, along with a hairline that years earlier had begun its retreat toward the top of his head. He smiled and moved his hands like a juggler, which Rick took as a reference to the work of setting up an exhibit.

  “I assume you are Dottoressa Innocenti from the art police.”

  Betta acknowledged that she was, shook his hand, and introduced Rick as an American working for the police as an interpreter. Vitellozzi showed no surprise, making Rick wonder if he already knew about the investigation. Wouldn’t he be curious as to why an interpreter was needed?

  “You must excuse my informality of dress in greeting someone from the Cultural Ministry, but, as you can see, we are hard at work in preparing for the opening tomorrow night. I was speaking this morning to the ministry undersecretary about the exhibit, and he mentioned that someone from his art police was here. Then I got the call from Inspector DiMaio, and here you are.” He held up a hand for Rick and Betta before turning quickly to the workers. “Not there! Center it against the wall!” His attention returned to Betta. “Sorry about that. It never fails that we are working at the last minute on arrangements that should have been taken care of days ago. But it’s also very exciting. For most temporary exhibits I let my assistant curator do the setup, but for one of such importance I decided to get directly involved.”

  “All I know,” said Betta, “is that it is about Raffaello, to commemorate the five-hundredth anniversary of his death.”

  Vitellozzi’s delivery was rapid-fire. “Yes, Raffaello di Urbino, or as you Americans would say, Signor Montoya, Raphael of Urbino. The city’s most famous native son, who unfortunately is buried in Rome. I am Roman myself, but I’ve come to believe that the master should someday be brought home. I’m sure an appropriate resting place would be found for him here. Fortunately, we were able to schedule this exhibit years ago, making this one of the first of the museums to honor him for the quincentenary. Which seems only right, since he was born in Urbino.”

  “What will be in the exhibit?” Betta asked.

  “Well, as you probably know, the great scandal of Raffaello’s work is that almost nothing of it is here in Urbino except for La Muta, and another smaller piece, here in our collection.” He gestured toward a female portrait that had already been hung. “There is a painting on the wall of his birthplace that is attributed to him, but except for La Muta, virtually all of his masterpieces are in other cities. This is a disappointment to the wonderful people of Urbino, but what can be done? Well, one thing is to mount exhibits like this one. For it, we have brought in several of his most important works, on loan from museums in Italy. We made some attempts with other countries in Europe, but to no avail. You may know that the Louvre and the National Gallery in London both have numerous works by Raffaello. Fortunately, our sister Italian institutions were more forthcoming, though almost always with a catch, spoken or unspoken.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Rick.

  “Reciprocity,” Vitellozzi said. “We have paintings in our collection, most importantly those by Piero della Francesca, that they will certainly request on loan at some point in the future. The director of the Pitti Palace, when he agreed to send us the Madonna della Seggiola, as much as said so. The negotiations with the various institutions began years ago. We asked the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana in Milan for the cartoon of the School of Athens, almost sure that they wouldn’t part with it, and we were correct. Raffaello’s self-portrait was easier to get from the Uffizi. They understood that it was virtually a requirement for an exhibit of this type, but there’s no doubt we’ll hear from them sometime to cash in the IOU. Also, they have such a treasure trove there that it will barely be missed.” He clasped his hands together. “I could go on, but you aren’t here to talk about this exhibit but poor Somonte. If you don’t mind, we can talk here so I can keep an eye on the progress. There are some chairs over in that corner with a bit less chaos.”

  The chairs were stacked, and he and Rick pulled them off and arranged them in a triangle. Vitellozzi took the one that put his back to the wall, making Rick think of a mafia don in a restaurant.

  “You knew Signor Somonte well?” asked Betta.

  “I would not say well, but since he always visited the museum when he was in town, I came to know him. His wealth and connection to Italy were not a secret, so any museum director would want to cultivate such an individual.”

  “Did he support the museum financially?”

  “We are, of course, a government institution, but there is private support for specific events, such as this one. To anticipate your next question, yes, Somonte gave us some financial assistance for this opening. As you no doubt saw on the poster outside, we have corporate sponsorship for the exhibit itself, but Somonte helped to defray the costs of this opening event. So it is all the more tragic that he will not be with us tomorrow night to receive our thanks.”

  “Then you didn’t talk to him after he got to Urbino four days ago,” said Rick.

  “I was referring to public recognition of his support. I did see Signor Somonte the day after he arrived. I had just read in the paper about the donation of the drawing when he appeared in my office, which I found somewhat ironic. We had a short conversation.”

  “That was the day before he was to go to Sansepolcro.”

  Vitellozzi nodded. “Yes. He talked about the donation of the drawing to the museum there, reminding me that his mother was born near that town. He brought up the subject, not me. Perhaps he was feeling some guilt that he hadn’t given it to us.”

  “What did you say to him?” asked Betta.

  He thought for a few moments before answering. “I could have reassured him that he made the right decision, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. We were not able to purchase it when it went up for sale—that was expected. But when we heard a few months ago that he was donating it to such a small museum rather than this one, well…” He shook his head. “So I changed the subject.”

  Rick recalled Morelli using the phrase “a slap in the face” when describing the museum director’s reaction to the donation. Vitellozzi was clearly uncomfortable talking about it now, but he didn’t appear to hold much of a grudge. If he was still greatly annoyed, he was good at not showing it. Or he was never that upset about not getting the drawing, and Morelli had been exaggerating to deflect suspicion from himself.

  “I understand,” continued Vitellozzi, “that the drawing has gone missing. It is certainly a very valuable piece of art, but acquiring it doesn’t appear to be reason enough for murder.”

  “Our experience,” said Betta, “is that art thieves can get violent.”

  Something caught Vitellozzi’s eye and he jumped to his feet. “Excuse me—I’ll be right back.” He rushed over to where workers were lifting a frame from one of the crates. The picture was the portrait of a young man with long reddish hair, dressed in a black shirt and cap. The features were soft, the neck long, the skin pale. The sitter had turned his face to stare at the viewer with a bored look, giving the impression he was unsure about having his portrait painted.

  “That’s the Raffaello self-portrait from the Uffizi,” Betta said as they watched Vitellozzi hovering over the workers. “If he’s going to run over each time one of these masterpieces comes out of its box, we could be here forever.” She turned back to Rick. “What do you think of what he said about the drawing?”

  “He admitted that he was unhappy not to have the donation. If he’d told us it meant nothing to him that Somonte snubbed his museum, that would have been hard to believe.”

  Vitellozzi’s eyes moved around the room as he walked back. “Sorry about that.” He settled back in his chair but kept his
eyes on the portrait that was now being raised to the wall. “We were talking about Piero’s drawing. I hope it turns up soon; it would be a great loss to the art world if it isn’t found. My fear is that whoever did this to Somonte didn’t know its value and simply threw it in the trash.” He frowned at the thought. “But artwork has a way of reappearing. Remember that Somonte’s drawing was found hundreds of years after Piero sketched it.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Betta. “Inspector DiMaio requested that I ask you where you were the evening before last. Purely for the record, you understand.”

  Vitellozzi had been looking at the portrait of Raphael, but the question got his attention. “Being routine doesn’t detract from the fact that I may be a suspect. To be frank, it hadn’t crossed my mind, but I suppose there might be some suspicion, since I knew the man and saw him that day.”

  If he was waiting for reassurances from Betta about her question being a routine requirement, they were not forthcoming.

  “Well, like most of the evenings for the past week I’ve been here preparing for this exhibit. In my office, that is, which is one floor down. Since I come and go through a back door to the palazzo, I’m afraid the guards won’t be able to vouch for me. Their concern is the safety of the art collection, not the movements of the director.”

  “I understand,” said Betta. “Tell me something, Dottore. In your opinion, if someone had the drawing in their possession, where would be a logical place to sell it?”

  “Well, really now, isn’t that the kind of thing you art police are supposed to know?”

  “We often find that local sources are the most reliable.”

  “You should ask that question to someone like Bruzzone, the man who sold Somonte the drawing in the first place. I don’t follow the black market in art.” A glance at his wristwatch was more of an unspoken comment than a need to find out the time.

  Betta got up from the chair. “Dottor Vitellozzi, I appreciate your time, especially with what is happening now.”

  Vitellozzi’s smile showed more relief than friendliness. “I hope I was of some help, though for the life of me I can’t think what it might be. We will see you two tomorrow night, I trust?”

  “We would love to,” Rick replied quickly.

  After thanking the museum director, Rick and Betta went back through the same door, leaving the hubbub of the exhibit preparation. The guard looked up for a moment but then resumed his vigil. He concentrated his attention on a group of young tourists, thinking these two visitors might report back to Vitellozzi.

  “We have time, Rick—let’s see a few of the masterpieces. The two by Piero should be along here somewhere. I’d ask the guard, but he’s busy keeping an eye on those kids.” They walked through a set of open doors into another chamber that was smaller but kept the vaulted ceilings. Only an occasional tall window distracted from the paintings, since the walls kept their somber white. “I think that’s the Madonna di Senigallia over there.”

  They walked to the middle of the rectangular room, passing works of art that in lesser museums would have drawn crowds. Piero’s work had an audience of three when they reached it. An elderly couple studied the small painting, speaking German to each other in low voices. Next to them was a man whose nationality was not apparent, since he was dressed in clerical black and his silence could betray no accent. The priest, too, looked deeply into the eyes of the four figures in the painting, but unlike the Germans, he was more interested in the spiritual than the artistic.

  Rick saw the hand of Piero immediately in the faces of all four figures. They had the drooping eyes and wide forehead, just like the painting in Sansepolcro, and they stood stiffly, as if the artist had placed them in a pose and asked them not to move. Only the angel on Mary’s right looked straight at the viewer; the other angel stared at the head of the Madonna, and the eyes of the Virgin herself were cast downward. The infant Jesus held up his hand in a gesture of blessing while looking into the distance, perhaps considering his future. Even the small piece of doorway and ceiling in the background showed Piero’s mastery of perspective, as did his subtle use of light that washed over the four from an unseen window to the left. Every detail of a Renaissance painting had a message, and Rick wished he had his book of signs and symbols to decode these. Why the piece of coral around the baby’s neck, and what was the flower he was holding? The colors on the Virgin’s dress—what did they represent? The basket on the shelf was most puzzling.

  He was about to ask Betta when his concentration was broken by familiar voices coming from three paintings away. They were spoken by a man and a woman, and the language was Spanish. He leaned toward Betta’s ear. “I believe it’s Signora Somonte and Lucho Garcia, and they appear to be having some sort of disagreement. Stay here and I’ll say hello.”

  “I was not expecting her meddling—you should have foreseen it,” said the widow to Garcia. The sharpness in her tone was the same as when she had met with Rick and DiMaio in the hotel, but without the nasal flatness. Her cold had abated.

  “Do you think I saw it coming?” Unlike on the previous day, Garcia was less than deferential to his boss’s widow.

  When the two Spaniards noticed Rick walking toward them, the conversation stopped and their faces assumed stiff smiles. Signora Somonte was dressed more sedately than yesterday, but only slightly. Today it was a dark pantsuit with low boots, and her blond hair was more in order. In contrast Garcia wore the same jacket and pants, perhaps the same shirt, but a different tie than Rick remembered.

  “Señor…?” she began and stopped. Garcia whispered in her ear. She went on. “Montoya. Of course I remember you, Señor. I just did not expect to see you here.”

  “Nor did I expect to see you, Señora, but it is good that you are out and about. Your cold seems to be better.”

  “It is.” She was searching for something to say. “This museum was one of Manuel’s favorite places in Italy. I thought it would be right for me to visit it before returning to Spain.”

  “I understand completely. When are you planning to fly home?”

  “It will depend on the police. Your police.”

  “It may take some time to find who killed your husband, Señora.”

  “I know that, but I was hoping that the drawing would turn up. That maldito drawing that is the cause of all this.” Her voice betrayed frustration mixed with anger.

  “You will take it back to Spain?”

  She glanced at Garcia. “I haven’t decided. It’s mine now that Manuel is gone.”

  “Of course,” said Rick. He had assumed the donation would go forward once the drawing was found, but this was not the time to discuss the commitment Somonte had made to the museum in Sansepolcro. Did her indecision—if that’s what it was—add a new twist to the murder investigation? “I know Inspector DiMaio is working hard to find it.” He could have added that finding the drawing was likely the same as finding the murderer. “I will call you immediately if he has any news, but if I can be of any assistance in the meantime, as an interpreter, you can call me. I gave Señor Garcia my hotel phone number yesterday.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice indicating that the conversation was over.

  Rick took the hint, said goodbye, and returned to Betta’s side. The three other people who had been studying the painting had been replaced by two others who spoke Italian with a northern accent.

  “I was watching as you talked to them. Signora Somonte doesn’t appear to have settled well into her role as the grieving widow, and I can’t help but speculate on the relationship between her and Garcia.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Betta. Shall we be on our way?”

  * * *

  Most of the route from Urbino to Monterchi was on the road they had driven the day before. The car made the same bends and cutbacks, and the views were the same, but the difference was that now they were going downhill. Fortun
ately they didn’t find themselves behind a truck or other slow-moving vehicle this time. After an especially serpentine series of cutbacks they reached the Tiber River valley where the terrain became boringly flat, but Rick was not about to complain. Instead of retracing their route exactly by turning north toward Sansepolcro, Betta continued straight, following the signs for Monterchi and crossing under the expressway that connected Rimini on the coast with Perugia.

  The fertility of the soil in the valley was evident, not just from the vast fields starting to sprout crops but in the agro-business buildings and warehouses that appeared regularly along the straight road. Betta slowed as they entered the town of Petrino. Change the sign at the edge of town, Rick thought, and it could be any of a hundred small agriculture-based cities in northern Italy. Two-story residences appeared as soon as the fields ended, along with the occasional gas station. Then, once into the center, a church, shops, a park, a school, and the inevitable pizzeria. The sequence reversed and they were out into the fields again. For a brief few kilometers they drove through the northern bump of Umbria that pushed against Tuscany, before the car crossed the border. The people of Monterchi were Tuscan rather than Umbrian by a scant kilometer.

  Like so many other towns in Italy, Monterchi was built on a hill, the better to fortify and protect its inhabitants when danger threatened. As hills went in Tuscany, this was a small one, but high enough to offer a view of the valley and spot anyone approaching, be it friend or foe. A large parking area lay between the town and the road, set up for tourists who were prohibited from driving up the narrow streets to the old part of town. Along with cars, a few buses sat waiting for the people who had walked the final few meters up to the centro storico. Betta spotted a traffic policeman, pulled in, and rolled down her window. The cop, who had been issuing tickets, noticed and walked a few steps to the car.