As Betta and Rick studied the panels explaining the history of the Madonna, a woman came to the doorway with the guard who had checked Betta’s credentials at the entrance. He spoke something into the woman’s ear, and she walked quickly toward Betta. She wore a white silk blouse over a blue skirt, which could have been a uniform except for the string of pearls around her neck and shoes that were not made for someone who needed to spend time on her feet. Reading glasses held by a gold chain hung over a hint of cleavage. She wore no wedding ring.
“Excuse me—I was told you are from the ministry.” Her face was friendly but curious. “I am Loretta Tucci, the director of the museum.”
Betta shook the extended hand. “Piacere, Betta Innocenti. This is Riccardo Montoya. Ours is not an official visit to your museum; we were in Monterchi on other business but of course had to come by to see the Madonna.”
“Other business? Dottoressa Innocenti, this is a very small town. What could you be doing in Monterchi that would be of interest to the Cultural Ministry?”
“I work in the office that looks into stolen art, and we’re investigating a missing drawing by Piero della Francesca.”
The woman flinched. “It couldn’t be the sketch of the sleeping soldier, I hope. I am very familiar with it. But I thought it was going to be donated to the museum in Sansepolcro yesterday. Are you telling me it’s been stolen?”
Betta looked at Rick, deciding how to reply. “We’re not sure,” she said. “The man who was donating it died in Urbino two nights ago, and the drawing hasn’t been located.”
“I got back into Monterchi this morning after visiting my mother in Milan, so I haven’t heard any of this. I was invited to the ceremony in Sansepolcro, but because of my mother’s illness I wasn’t able to attend.”
“It was canceled,” Rick said.
“How did the man die?”
“The police are certain that he was murdered,” said Betta. “Riccardo has been assisting the investigation in Urbino.”
Tucci gripped her hands together. “That’s terrible. Someone killed him to get the drawing? It is a beautiful piece, and valuable, certainly, but enough to kill for?”
“Had you seen it?” asked Betta.
“Certainly. I was the person who certified its authenticity. I have studied Piero’s work extensively, which is how I came to be the director here.” She looked at her watch. “I would appreciate if you could tell me more about the investigation. Are you returning to Urbino immediately? I feel an attachment to that drawing after spending so much time studying it.”
“And I would like to hear about your work with it,” said Betta. “We were going to have lunch before driving back. Perhaps you could join us.”
“That would be perfect.” She managed a stiff smile. “This comes as quite a shock. If someone killed that man to get the drawing, could I have been in danger during the time I had it?”
“That’s highly unlikely,” Rick replied. “When you had the drawing nobody knew it had any value.”
Rick’s logic had a calming effect. “Yes, you’re right; that makes perfect sense.” She took a deep breath. “You haven’t seen our masterpiece yet. Let me show it to you.”
They went from a bright room to one that was almost completely darkened. The only lights were those illuminating the Madonna on the far wall, giving the impression that the fresco floated without means of support. The composition was uncomplicated: the pregnant Mary stood in the center flanked by two identical angels holding back the folds of a tent-like pavilion. Her plain blue gown, which extended to the ground, opened slightly where her hand touched the top of her belly. Rick noticed the same haunting features on the Madonna that he’d seen in Piero’s other works. Her eyes were cast downward, in contrast with the two angels, who looked directly at the three people staring back at them through the darkness. After several minutes the museum director broke the silence.
“It is believed that Piero completed the work in seven days, though we don’t know for sure. What is certain is that he was in Monterchi for the funeral of his mother, who was from here. It is not illogical, given the subject and the reason he was here, that he painted it in homage to his mother. There are features of the fresco that indicate that it was done quickly. Or the lack of features, one could say. The subject of the pregnant Mary had been used by other painters of the time, and most of those included religious symbols such as Mary with a book, pendants, or other items that added biblical allusions. Piero’s work has very little of that.” She was standing between Betta and Rick and turned to him. “Also, do you notice anything about the two angels? Besides their being shorter than the Madonna, which you would expect.”
“I imagine you’re asking me because you know Betta has the answer.” He leaned toward the wall. “They look like twins.”
“Bravo, Rick,” said Betta. “Piero used the same paper cartoon for both angels. The technique at the time involved making the drawing and then punching tiny holes along its lines. He attached the paper to the wall and poked the holes to make marks in the surface, then used the dotted image it produced to paint the figure. But in this case he simply flipped over the cartoon and used the holes again on the other side of the Madonna to create a mirror-image angel. Because of that, not only are the faces the same but also the folds in their clothing as well as the position of their arms. Everything.”
Rick’s eyes moved from one angel to the other and back. “Very clever. And he used different colors on the clothing so the trick wouldn’t be as obvious. But that would have certainly allowed him to work quickly.”
“I didn’t mean to give the impression that the work is void of religious symbolism.” The museum director went on to point out other aspects of the fresco and how they fit in with or expanded the iconography of Piero’s time. By the time she finished, Rick knew enough to take over tour guide duties, and the three of them were on a first-name basis. As they stood on the steps just outside the door of the museum, Tucci asked Betta how she got into the art theft squad.
“My father, who owns an art gallery, had cooperated with the office on occasion, so I knew about their work. Thanks to Rick, I became acquainted with the office more directly, and they were recruiting women with an arts background. My degree in art history finally paid off. What about you?”
“I started off as an artist, working in Milan and thinking I could make a living from my work. I did for a while, but soon it became apparent that I needed the stability of a regular salary. I went to the university, got a degree like you in art history, and started working my way through the bureaucracy.” Where they stood offered a view of the green fields that squeezed against the edge of the town. “Sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision. I still miss the Milanese art scene, the excitement when a new artist appears, gossiping over a coffee at a bar near the Brera.” Her eyes looked over the flat land to the northwest, as if straining to see the spires of the duomo. “Shall we be off?”
Tucci had suggested a restaurant just to the north of town, and they followed her black, late-model BMW. It was a car Rick had long coveted but out of his price range even if he ever decided to have a car in Rome. She led them back down the hill, across a small bridge, to the east–west road. They started west toward Arezzo but at the edge of Monterchi turned north in the direction of Sansepolcro. The residential buildings soon disappeared, replaced by the occasional agriculture structure or farmhouse, including a long, low food-processing operation. The passing fields sprouted with sunflowers, corn, and waving plants, most of which Rick was unable to identify. Clumps of trees bordered the cultivated land, some dense enough to be called small forests, but mostly the terrain was open, providing views of distant hills.
Ten minutes into the ride, Tucci signaled for a turn onto a narrow dirt road. Moments later the cars drove up to a three-story brick building that centuries earlier had been built to store crops and livestock on the lower fl
oor and house the family above. They parked and climbed the steps to a porch and the entrance. A waiter spotted them as they came in and pointed to a table near a window overlooking the fields. The large room was half full with a mixture of ages and genders. It was the kind of place that would be packed with families on Sundays, but today the din was benignly low despite cement floors which amplified the smallest sound.
“I hope you enjoy this,” said Tucci while spreading a napkin over her lap. “And that you have an appetite. Their portions can be quite generous.”
“I’m ready,” said Rick.
The rustic setting—brick, dark wood beams, farm implements decorating the walls—called for an appropriately rustic start to the meal. They decided to share an antipasto platter with a bottle of the house red.
“Loretta, how did you come to evaluate the drawing?” Betta asked. “Did the woman who found it come to see you at the museum?”
“No, it wasn’t that way at all. She had no idea that it was by Piero, nor even knew who Piero was. She knew about our Madonna, of course, like everyone in town, but it hadn’t occurred to her that it was by the same artist. No, when she found the sketch she called an art dealer in Urbino.”
“Bruzzone.”
“Yes, Bruzzone.” The wine arrived and was poured. After a quick toast she took a sip and returned to the story. “It was Bruzzone who contacted me when he came down here himself after the woman had called him. He recognized the face immediately as the sleeping soldier, but he wanted to be sure it was authentic. I was the nearest Piero specialist.”
The waiter set a platter in the center of the table. Arranged on it was an assortment of sliced prosciutto, salami, and bresaola, next to a row of toasts covered with a meaty spread. Rick nodded to the two women, who picked up forks and transferred some of it to their plates. When they finished serving themselves he took his portion.
“Was there any doubt about its authenticity?” Betta asked before taking a bite of the toast.
“At first I didn’t want to get my hopes up. As you can imagine it was very exciting when Bruzzone pulled it out of the envelope. But it didn’t take long to confirm it. The composition, the lines, everything about it pointed to Piero. I did tell Bruzzone he should have the paper and charcoal tested and dated, just to be sure, and he did that. I think he took it to a specialist in Milan after I had studied it for a few days in my museum office and called him to confirm my evaluation.”
“Did it have the little holes?” Rick asked.
Tucci gave him a blank look and then understood. “Oh, you mean what is called pouncing, like the angels you saw. No, it was a study he did before coming up with the final idea for how the figure would look. In fact there are some subtle, minor differences between the drawing and the finished work in Sansepolcro. It looked like it was out of a sketchbook, so there may have been others. Maybe they’ll turn up sometime as well.”
“It’s unfortunate that the drawing could not have been put in your museum, having been found in Monterchi.”
“I agree, Betta. We could have put it in a place of honor. But the city didn’t have the funds to buy it, and the woman was not in a position to donate it. Signor Bruzzone told me she was of very modest means, so it is good that she was able to benefit from the discovery. If it was going to be put in a museum, Sansepolcro was where it belonged, next to the painting it was drawn for.”
“Let’s hope it is eventually found and put there, as the donor intended,” Rick said. “These toasts are excellent. What’s on them?”
“It’s usually game of some sort. Possibly pheasant.” She took a bite. “Maybe duck. Have you been able to see some of Urbino’s art while working on the case?”
Betta cut a slice of prosciutto and put it on a piece of crusty bread. “We were at the Galleria Nazionale this morning to interview the director and saw a few works.”
“Vitellozzi? He’s getting ready for that big exhibit.”
“He was doing just that when we talked to him,” said Rick. He’d finished his share of the antipasto and was thinking of the pasta course. The waiter was on his wave length, appearing to ask what they would like next. Perhaps some freshly rolled pici in the sauce of their choice?
“This is filling me up,” said Betta. “I think I’ll skip the pasta and go directly to a secondo.”
“I agree with that,” said Tucci. “But Riccardo, you go ahead and order some pici. They’re very good here.”
“No, no,” Rick answered with a sigh, “I’ll also pass on the pasta.”
“He loves playing the martyr,” Betta said before turning to the waiter. “What do you suggest?”
“The chef made an excellent cosciotto di maiale al chianti this morning.” Perhaps for Rick’s benefit, he added, “It comes with roasted potatoes.”
The order went to the kitchen.
“If you’ve been to the Galleria Nazionale you’ve seen the best that Urbino has to offer,” Tucci said. “The house of Rafaello is interesting from a historic point of view, but there’s not much to see there as far as art.”
“We’ll be seeing some privately-owned art this evening,” said Betta.
“Oh, really? Whose collection?”
“A man named Morelli.”
Tucci looked past Betta and then back. “Sorry, I thought it was someone I knew from Sansepolcro. Did you say Morelli? I think I’ve heard of him. What does he collect?”
Rick wondered if Betta would say “women,” but instead she answered: “I’m not sure, but he apparently is one of the largest private collectors in Urbino. I met him this morning, and when he found out I worked for the ministry he extended the invitation.”
There was no response from Tucci. She took her wineglass in hand and brought it to her lips just as the plates of their next course were brought to the table. Each had thin slices of pork lightly spread with the dark red sauce from the wine in which it had been roasted. Crisp squares of roasted potatoes completed the dish. That the pork leg was cooked in Chianti—almost the official wine of Tuscany—reminded Rick they were in that region, albeit on its most eastern edge. He tried to identify the spices wafting from his plate, but they had merged too well in the cooking process. Cinnamon? Cloves? It didn’t matter; the combination was perfect. Conversation turned naturally to food and the specialties of the area, which, according to Tucci, were quite different from those of Urbino despite its proximity. Betta talked about the cooking in her native Veneto, and Tucci that of Turin, where she had been born and raised. By the time they returned to art, the plates were empty. They turned down the waiter’s suggestion of dessert and ordered coffee.
“I hope you are successful in finding the drawing,” said Tucci as they stood by their cars later outside the restaurant. “And Riccardo, good luck in finding the murderer. The man was Spanish, I understand. I saw his name on the invitation to the donation ceremony.”
“Yes, he was. We assume that if the drawing is found his widow will honor the donation and it will be given to Sansepolcro.”
Tucci laughed. “Perhaps she’ll decide to give it to my museum. Wouldn’t that be an interesting turn of events.”
They said their goodbyes and drove off to different destinations. They were barely out of the parking lot when Betta said, “That last comment was curious, don’t you think, Rick?”
“What was more curious was her reaction when you mentioned your invitation to see Morelli’s art collection this evening.”
* * *
It was late afternoon when Betta pulled the car into a space in front of the commissariato. They considered going in to brief DiMaio on meeting the two women in Monterchi, but Betta felt the need to call her office, and Rick wanted to check his emails. As they opened the doors, a dark blue car driven by a man in a suit and tie pulled up two spaces away. In back sat a lone passenger.
“Betta, go ahead to the hotel and make your calls.
I may be needed here.”
The driver of the car had emerged from his seat and was coming around to open the door for his passenger. Betta noticed who it was, nodded to Rick, and started to trudge up the hill, glad to stretch her legs after spending so much time in the car. Rick walked a few steps to where a woman was getting out of the back seat and switched his brain to Spanish.
“Señora Somonte, can I be of assistance?”
She tried to conceal her surprise at seeing him, quickly replacing the initial startled look on her face with a smug smile. Her dress clung to her hips, and she smoothed it down, perhaps without realizing she was doing it. “Señor Montoya, your appearance at this moment is perfect. Now I won’t have to deal in two languages with that unpleasant policeman. I was going to express to him my annoyance that nothing has been done to find my husband’s murderer. Or if it has, I’ve been kept in the dark about it.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the car. Her driver had discreetly moved out of earshot.
“I just came back to town myself, Señora. If there is news about the case I’m not aware of it. I will be glad to express your concerns to Inspector DiMaio if you don’t wish to speak to him directly.” He could see that her mind was working and waited for a reply, likely something sharp and nasty to match the other two encounters he’d had with her.
She stared at him for a full minute before speaking. Her words were not what he expected.
“Señor Montoya, I loved my husband. People have always assumed otherwise, and that is understandable, given the difference in our ages and his wealth. I could see that same skepticism in the eyes of your inspector when you both came to the hotel. I know that look well, since I’ve been dealing with it for years in Spain. But I am a good judge of character, and I sense that you just might believe me.”
To Die in Tuscany Page 10