“We’re looking for Via San Frediano,” she said.
“Right there,” he answered, pointing with his pen to a street directly on the other side of the parking area. “You could leave your car here and walk, if you’d like. Just get a ticket from the machine and put in on your dashboard where I can see it.”
She thanked him and pushed the button to roll up the window. “He probably gets paid from the fines he writes.” They pulled to the edge of the lot, waited for a break in the traffic, and crossed over the road to enter Via San Frediano. After only twenty meters she slowed, checked out the number on one of the buildings, and pulled over to park. “This should be it.”
The house looked like the one next to it and the two across the street, as if they had all been projects of the same geometra and put up at the same time, which Rick estimated to be at least a half century earlier. It was two stories and essentially a single long box with shuttered windows, all the same size. Stucco had chipped off in a few places, exposing the cement block underneath, but the overall impression was neatness. Washing hung from a wire running between two of the second-floor windows, and two satellite dishes aimed skyward from positions on the slightly pitched roof. Set precisely between the bottom windows was the plain, wood door. Rick and Betta got out of the car and walked to it.
Two doorbells were lined up at eye level on one side of the door, neither of which had the name that Betta expected to see. She looked above the door at the number.
“This is the address Bruzzone gave me, but I don’t see a Spadini. Well, we’ve come this far—let’s see what we can find out. Pick one, Rick.”
“Sinistra.”
Betta rang the left bell for a few seconds and they waited. “I think I hear some movement.”
A few moments later fumbling was heard inside, and the door creaked open. From down near the floor a small head peeked out. Betta smiled down at it. “Hi. We would like to speak with Signora Spadini. Is she here?”
The face belonged to a boy of about five. He looked up at Betta with wide eyes, then switched them to Rick, who smiled and waved. The boy was still staring at the two visitors when a female voice came from deep in the house.
“Who is it, Giorgio?”
Giorgio looked behind him toward the voice, then back at Betta, before slowly closing the door.
“The lad needs to work on his greeting routine,” Rick said. “He’s got the door opening part down pretty well, but after that, it’s definitely lacking.”
They could hear the sound of footsteps approaching quickly from inside, and the door was opened by a woman wearing an apron over slacks and a baggy sweatshirt. She gave them a puzzled look. “May I help you?” Giorgio was wrapped around one leg, staring up at Betta.
“Signora Spadini?” said Betta. “We’re with the police. Can we speak with you a moment?”
The woman’s face froze. “I…I am not Signora Spadini. She lived here until she died, but that was six months ago.” She made no move to open the door more than half way. “I am her daughter, Egle Camozzo.”
“Our condolences, Signora. Obviously we were not aware of your mother’s passing. I am with the art police in Rome, and we are investigating a missing drawing that your mother first discovered.”
The words had the effect of calming the woman, and she opened the door fully. “I saw something on the news about that. The Spanish man who was murdered? Please come in. Giorgio, let go of my leg.”
They were in a small hallway with two doors. The boy released his grip on his mother and pressed himself against the wall, still keeping his eye on Betta. She and Rick followed the woman through one of the doors into a sitting room, its floor strewn with plastic blocks. A flat-screen TV was propped on a side table, faced by chairs where the three adults sat after maneuvering through the minefield of blocks. Giorgio hung back in the doorway. After Betta introduced herself and Rick, they were offered and politely declined something to drink.
“I saw the story on TV but didn’t know that it was my mother’s drawing. That’s what you’re saying, that it was her drawing that’s missing?”
“It was,” answered Betta. “We got her address, this address, from the man who bought it from her. Had you met Signor Bruzzone?”
“Bruzzone? No, this is the first I’ve heard the name. You see, my mother didn’t tell me about finding the drawing until after it was sold. My husband and I were living in Città di Castello at the time, and my mother was renting this house. I should say this half of the house since it’s a duplex and there’s another family on the other side. With the money from the drawing she was able to buy it, and when she died it was bequeathed to me. We were paying rent in Città di Castello so it made sense to move here, since my husband can easily drive back to his work. It was also larger, so Giorgio has more room to play, and his sister loves the school here.”
The boy took the mention of his name as a cue and walked over to pick up a pair of the plastic blocks. He looked at the two visitors before walking to Rick. “My blocks.”
“Those are nice blocks,” said Rick. “Can I see them?”
Giorgio put the two blocks in Rick’s hand and bent down for more.
“You have made a friend, Signor Montoya,” said Signora Camozzo.
“I am honored.” Rick put the blocks on the coffee table in front of him and started to arrange them into walls, while Giorgio picked more off the floor and brought them to him. “Don’t let us interrupt the conversation.”
Betta looked at Rick and the boy for a moment before turning back to Giorgio’s mother. “Did your mother tell you where she found the drawing?”
“Not exactly. She mentioned an old trunk. But for several years, even before that, she had been starting to show her age. I was never sure if what she was saying was something that had really happened or if it had been remembered from years before. It wasn’t dementia; she was still very sharp, but there were occasional lapses. I’m sure she simply didn’t want to share the details with me.”
“Why would that be?” Betta asked.
Signora Camozzo took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she decided how to answer. “She resented that we lived so far away and she couldn’t see her grandchildren every day.”
“Città di Castello couldn’t be more than a dozen kilometers from here,” said Betta.
“That’s true, but my mother didn’t have a car—not that she knew how to drive if she’d had one—and she hated getting on the bus since it stopped several blocks from our house. Because of that she only saw us on weekends when we would come here for lunch, or pick her up to drive her back to our house.” She shook her head with the memory. “In her mind we might as well have been living in Perugia or Florence, and my husband was to blame. Because of that she never wanted to tell me things because she didn’t want him to know anything. It was spiteful and childish, but that’s the way she was.”
Rick listened to the exchange while stacking blocks.
“Fortunately,” the woman continued, “the children didn’t know what was going on between their grandmother and their parents, and Mamma was very good with them. Perhaps I’m making too much of it all. Are you sure you won’t have some coffee? It won’t take me but a minute to prepare it.”
Betta assured her that they were fine. Rick and Giorgio had built a foundation and were leaving spaces for the windows, so that it was starting to look like the house where they all were sitting.
“How did your mother die?” Betta asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“The doctor said her heart gave out. She had been ill for several years with heart problems, so it wasn’t a shock. I’m an only child, and since my father died years ago, I was the one to look after her. During the week I would drop my husband at his office, our daughter at school, and Giorgio and I would come here to Monterchi. After lunch we’d drive back to Città di Castello in time for scho
ol letting out.”
“I’m sure your mother appreciated your efforts.”
Signora Camozzo shrugged and looked at her son. “She enjoyed seeing Giorgio.”
Later Rick and Betta stood on the street outside. It was warmer than when they had entered the Camozzo residence thanks to the rays of late-morning sun that struck the front of the building and bounced onto the street. A brown tabby cat, oblivious to their presence, apricated on one of the stone windowsills, his tail hanging limply over the edge.
“You and Giorgio were bonding well in there. I was not aware that you have such a way with children.”
“I’ve had plenty of experience working on Legos with my two nephews, Betta. They had a huge bin of the things, and along with my brother-in-law we would spend hours constructing stuff. It’s something I miss about not living in Albuquerque. That and green chile cheeseburgers. Speaking of which, where are we going to have lunch?”
“It’s only noon, Rick. I thought we would first stop in to see the Madonna del Parto while we’re here. It’s the most famous work of art in the town.”
“The only work of art in the town.”
“You could say that.”
They walked to the car and Rick opened the driver’s side door. “Did you get anything useful from Signora Camozzo?”
She got in and waited for him to come around to the passenger seat. “As much as anything I was curious about how and where her mother found the drawing. Provenance is something my office is always interested in, especially with stolen pieces.” She turned the key and started the engine. “In this case it likely has no real bearing, now that it’s been stolen. That is, if it really was stolen, and if Somonte was in fact murdered to get it. If we’re lucky it will turn up intact, and my involvement in this case will be ended. Then it will be nothing other than a murder investigation.” She pulled into the street.
Rick adjusted his seat belt. With Betta driving even a short distance, he always prepared for speed. “I wonder if Alfredo has made any breakthroughs.”
* * *
DiMaio looked deep into Pilar’s eyes and hoped he was seeing a spark, even a small one. They sat in the sterile break room of the commissariato, not an ideal place for a tryst, but the best he could manage at the moment. Two people occupied one of the other tables: the switchboard operator on an early lunch break, eating pasta she’d heated in the microwave, and a traffic policeman sipping coffee from the machine. With DiMaio and Pilar also drinking from tiny plastic cups, the coffee maker was getting an unusual workout, considering its ignominious but well-earned reputation among the polizia of Urbino.
“I’m sorry we can’t have lunch today, Pilar.”
“Perfectly understandable, Alfredo. I’m sure your regular duties keep you busy enough without having to investigate a homicide. But I look forward to dinner this evening.”
Her words comforted the policeman. “As do I. You’ll enjoy the restaurant. Intimate. Good food. We’ll have a chance to talk, just the two of us. Not that it wasn’t fun last night with Riccardo and Betta.”
“It was just what I needed to keep my mind off other things.” She stirred the coffee with a plastic stick, a gold bracelet dangling out from the sleeve of her wool sweater. A cross between a long cardigan sweater and a jacket hung over the chair next to her. “Is there any news on the investigation?”
DiMaio could not but wonder how innocently the question had been posed. Was she probing? In the back of his mind all morning had been the realization that he was treading a fine line between a personal interest in Pilar and his duties as the lead investigator of her father’s death. He’d admitted to himself that Betta and Riccardo may have been right in bringing it up at dinner. Now his guard was up.
He shook his head. “Not much. Betta and I interviewed Morelli this morning.”
“The art collector who knew my father.”
“Exactly. He was also the one your father outbid to get the drawing that has gone missing. He is not the most simpatico person I’ve ever encountered, and he fancies himself to be a ladies’ man, much to Betta’s annoyance. He has no alibi for that evening, so he has to be considered a suspect, but somehow losing out on the drawing does not appear to be motive enough for homicide.”
“Maybe he saw this as the last chance to get the drawing before it gets put in a museum.”
“It’s possible, I suppose, which edges us into the expertise of Betta and her art police. She’s said that there are people who steal works of art simply for the pleasure of ownership, and it doesn’t bother them that they can never show it to anyone. But after interviewing him I would doubt that Morelli is that kind of collector. My guess is that he wants everyone to know it when he has a valuable work of art, but who knows? Perhaps Betta will find out this evening, since he invited her to see his collection.”
Pilar tilted her head. “Really? Inviting a beautiful woman up to see his art collection? What would Rick think of that?”
“Rick will be with her, though Morelli doesn’t know that.”
She laughed, then turned thoughtful. “Perhaps Morelli tried to convince my father to sell him the drawing instead of donating it and they got into an argument. I can recall vividly my father’s temper when anyone attempted to change his mind once he’d made a decision. I stopped trying years ago.”
“An argument that turned violent. That’s a possibility.” He looked up and groaned.
At the door to the room stood a uniformed policeman, and next to him Professor Florio. When the cop spotted DiMaio he said something to the botanist and walked alone to the table. “I’m sorry, sir—I didn’t realize you were with someone. This man says that he needs to see you urgently. If you’d like I can ask him to wait.”
“That’s all right, Sergeant.” He gave a nod to the professor, who smiled and scuttled quickly to the table as the policeman left the room. DiMaio stood. “You wanted to see me, Professor?”
“Well, yes, but I—”
“It’s all right. Let me introduce Signora Somonte, the daughter of your benefactor. Pilar, Professor Florio is the director of the botanical gardens.”
“I am mortified that I am interrupting, Signora, but at least it allows me to extend my deepest condolences on the loss of your father.” His face froze and he turned to DiMaio. “Oh, dear, does the Signora speak—”
“Yes, I do, Professor, and thank you for your kind words. I know that my father thought very highly of your institution.”
“And we held him in high esteem as well.”
The two men were still standing, and DiMaio did not show any eagerness to have Florio join him and Pilar at the table. “Is there something urgent, Professor?”
“No, no. Well, maybe. It’s just that I had another theory on the crime and wanted to get your reaction. I recalled that in one of the novels I read last year the body is found in a garden and the police eventually track down the murderer through leaves. That is, leaves that they find. On the street. But please finish with what you were dealing with. I’ll be out in the waiting room.” He turned and hurried out.
DiMaio watched Florio leave and took his seat.
“What a strange man,” Pilar observed. “Does he really think he can break open the case using the plot of a crime novel?”
“Apparently. I’d like to say that we get such eccentrics showing up all the time, but I can’t. He’s the first one I’ve encountered. The strange thing is that otherwise he seems quite rational. He is, after all, a professor of botany, so he couldn’t be a complete pazzo.”
A different uniformed policeman came into the room carrying a newspaper. “You’ll want to see this, Inspector.” He handed over the paper, looked at Pilar, and made his exit.
“Now what?” DiMaio spread the front page out on the table and began to read the story under a picture of the metal gate at the entrance to the botanical gardens. After a minute he
slapped his hand down. “The same journalist who came to see me yesterday. Her story tells how your father’s body was found, including a description of the plant that he donated to the gardens. How did she get this information? I gave specific orders to my officers not to give out any details to the press. Somebody is in trouble.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t someone from the commissariato, Alfredo.”
“What do you mean?”
She stirred her coffee. “It could have been someone who wants to increase the number of visitors to the botanical gardens.”
Chapter Seven
Betta drove back to the main road and waited for a break in what was mostly commercial traffic going between Arezzo and Città di Castello. She went west for a few kilometers before turning toward the old section of Monterchi that rose on its hill just ahead. Signs for the Museo Civico took the car around the base of the town, which was just as well since the steep streets leading up to the center had originally been laid out for foot traffic, not cars. Fields spread out to the right as the street bent along the side of the hill. Two minutes later they found themselves in front of the building that housed one of Piero della Francesca’s masterpieces. It looked more like a school than a museum, since that’s exactly what it had been for the first part of its life. Had it not been for the signs, Betta might have driven right past. Instead she pulled over and parked.
Once again Betta’s Cultural Ministry identification worked its magic, and they were waved in by the man at the counter. The first few rooms dealt with the history of the Madonna del Parto, which Piero had painted on the wall above the altar in a small church at the edge of Monterchi. The building was destroyed by an earthquake in 1785, but miraculously the fresco remained intact. It was carefully removed and put in a small chapel nearby. Only in the late nineteenth century was it identified as being from the hand of the great master, and the people of the town realized what they had. Restorations followed, and it eventually ended up in the former middle school, becoming a required stop—along with Arezzo, Sansepolcro, and Urbino—on what could be called the Piero della Francesca Art Loop.
To Die in Tuscany Page 9