To Die in Tuscany

by David P. Wagner

  “I have no reason not to, Señora. But I can assure you that the police here are not judging you, and they’re doing everything in their power to find the person who killed your husband.”

  She continued as if he had said nothing. “Manuel knew his health was not good and confided to me that this would likely be his last trip to Italy. The donation of the drawing was to be his tribute to his mother. That, along with paying for the opening of the Raphael exhibit, would be his final act of generosity to the art community here. He liked that people in Italy thought of him as a patron of fine art rather than just a wealthy factory owner, as he is known in Asturias. It was as if he had two separate lives.” She looked up at the castle where the late-afternoon sunlight reflected off the windows of the upper floors. “He was a different man when he came here, and he was in a bad mood for days after he returned to Spain. I must confess that I resented that. Can you understand?”

  Rick nodded but said nothing. Why was she telling him this? It had to be that she had no one else to talk to about her feelings. Pilar wouldn’t speak to her, and Garcia was still an underling, even if there was something between them. Rick was available and perhaps would be a sympathetic listener. But the cynic in him—or was it his Italian side?—said that she was simply trying to soften her image with the police, since she knew that what she said to him would get back to DiMaio.

  “I was hoping,” she continued, “that on this trip I would finally begin to see Italy the way he did, rather than as a rival for his affection. I was jealous and felt guilty for it. I was hoping that the jealousy would end.” She put her hands together as if in prayer and touched her fingers to her lips. Her eyes were downcast. “And then all this happened, and now I hate this country even more than before.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable, Señora.”

  She looked at Rick and appeared to be deciding what else to say. Or thinking she may have already said too much. “Thank you for being so understanding.” She started to extend her hand but then let it fall to her side. Her eyes darted toward the police station and back to Rick. “I trust that your police inspector is not assuming this crime must have been committed by an Italian.” She turned and jerked her chin to signal the driver.

  Rick stepped to the car and opened the rear door. The driver hurried over and got in behind the wheel before starting the engine. Isabella Somonte stared straight ahead as the car pulled out into the street and drove off. Rick watched it go and walked toward the police station to pass the widow’s concerns on to DiMaio, including her final comment. What else he would tell him about their conversation he didn’t know.

  Meanwhile, Betta was walking into the lobby of the Hotel Botticelli. As she approached the desk to pick up the room key she noticed Pilar sitting in the far corner, holding tightly to her cell phone and staring at the floor. Betta walked over and sat in the chair next to hers.

  “Pilar, are you all right?”

  “What? Oh, it’s you, Betta. I just got some news I wasn’t expecting.”

  “Bad news?”

  Pilar shook her head. “No, not really.”

  Given the look on Pilar’s face, Betta was not convinced. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “It might help.” She tucked her phone into a purse on the small table between them. “The call was from our family attorney about my father’s will. Apparently my understanding of the will was essentially correct. I remember vividly when my father called me in just after he remarried and told me exactly what I was getting and what would go to that woman. It was a very cold, very short meeting. But the lawyer just told me that something in the will was changed—added, really—about six months ago. Either my father didn’t want to tell me face to face, or he wanted it to be a surprise after he’d died. Or he may not have wanted Isabella to find out until he was gone.” She looked at Betta. “I’m not making any sense, am I?”

  “You’re making perfect sense. Take your time.”

  Pilar took a tissue from the purse and held it at the ready. “When I was a child my father spent even more time at work than he did later, because he was building the business. I now understand how difficult that was, but at the time I resented it. Summers back then were especially busy for him, and he never took time off, even on weekends. He believed that vacations for him would come once the business had grown, and he was correct. While he worked during those summer months, my mother and I went off to a tiny rental cottage overlooking the Bay of Biscay, all we could afford at the time. It was very rustic, with no electricity, and water from a well, but I loved it. My most treasured memories of my mother are from those summers. She read to me by candlelight and told me stories of when she was growing up. Every day we walked down to the small, rocky beach and splashed in the water.”

  She pressed the tissue to her eyes. “When the business became more successful my father rented a villa for us on Minorca near the one he eventually bought. I was thirteen at the time. Mamma was happy with the villa, of course. But I felt betrayed, and at first I refused to go. Part of it was my resentment that my father was still spending so much time at the office instead of with me. But I also understood that those times with my mother were coming to an end, though I didn’t want to admit it. My father couldn’t understand why I would not be happy to spend the summer at a beautiful villa.” She blew her nose in the tissue and pulled out another. “Betta, now I know that he did understand.”

  “That’s what the call was about,” said Betta.

  “Yes. The lawyer told me that six months ago my father heard rumors that the property where we used to rent the cottage could be up for sale and that a conglomerate would likely buy it, tear down the cottage, and build a hotel. He moved quickly, making a generous offer to the owner that was accepted.”

  “And now it will be yours.”

  Pilar nodded but took a minute to answer. “Betta, I’ll never be able to thank him.”

  “It was the way he wanted it, Pilar. From what you’ve told us, he was a private man, so you have to accept that. Just be thankful for a posthumous olive branch, and remember this gesture rather than the disagreements you may have had with him.”

  Pilar sniffed in a breath. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. Thank you for listening to me run on.” She rose to her feet. “I think it will help if I walk around, since my father loved this city so much. It will almost be like walking with him.”

  “Good idea,” said Betta as she stood and gave Pilar a warm embrace.

  Two minutes later Rick came through the door and spotted Betta in a chair in the corner. He walked over and sat down next to her.

  “I passed Pilar on the street, but she just smiled and waved. Did you see her?”

  “I certainly did.” She recounted what she had just heard.

  “Fascinating,” said Rick, when she’d finished the story. He stretched out his legs and crossed one cowboy boot over the other. “It appears that old man Somonte was not as hard-hearted as we’d come to believe. I got a bit of that from his widow as well. She claims that they had a wonderful marriage, based on mutual affection.”

  “She was all sweetness?”

  “Not exactly. She asked me to light a fire under Alfredo to find the murderer. And her last comment insinuated that he should not just be looking at Italians when making his suspects list.”

  “Meaning Pilar or Lucho.”

  Rick held up two fingers. “Or both of them. But it could just be the bitter and grieving widow talking, without any real basis for her suspicions.”

  “Or Pilar is, in fact, behind the murder, even if she didn’t pull the trigger herself. And now, after this gesture from her father in his will, she’s feeling remorse.” They both thought about that possibility for a few moments before Betta asked, “Did you tell Alfredo what Signora Somonte said?”

  “I was going to, but he wasn’t there. We’ll let him know about our meetings with the Somont
e women next time we see him.”

  Once in the room, Betta sat at the small desk and dialed her cell phone. Rick turned on his laptop, kicked off his boots, and propped himself up on the bed. Getting his emails was worth the effort: a message confirming that a check was on the way for a translation he’d done, and a request for his interpreting services. The interpreting job sounded interesting—an international seminar at a think tank in Rome on the long-term consequences of Brexit for Italy. Well, it would be interesting if not dominated by economist-speak, which was not much fun for the interpreters.

  Betta’s phone call with her boss was less satisfying.

  “He’s not happy with the lack of progress,” she said after pulling off her shoes. “I’m not pleased either, but they can’t expect this to be resolved in twenty-four hours. I know what they’re thinking, though. It’s like the murder investigation is for Alfredo. Every day that goes by without finding the murderer, the chances of solving the case decrease exponentially. Same with finding the drawing. We need to catch a break.”

  Rick got off the bed and walked over to stand behind the chair. He placed his hands on her shoulders and kneaded them lightly. “You’re too tense, Betta, and all that driving didn’t help. You need to relax.”

  “That feels good. Don’t stop.”

  “It’s the way I always show appreciation to my chauffeur.”

  “I will have to drive you around more often.” She closed her eyes and moved her head from one side to the other as his hands moved over her neck and shoulders. “This is wonderful, but with all the driving today, I think I should get more than a neck rub.”

  “Perhaps that can be arranged.”

  * * *

  The temperature was cooling when they left the Botticelli for the home of Cosimo Morelli. While Betta was taking a phone call, Rick had asked directions at the front desk and was given a map with assurance that it was an easy walk. As expected, the route started with an uphill climb. Like so many other Italian cities, Urbino was crisscrossed by main arteries that offered enough width to accommodate large carts when they were laid out and now cars and small delivery trucks. Splaying off these wider streets was a matrix of smaller ones, in some cases virtual alleys barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Fortunately the map from the hotel was detailed enough to cover everything in the web that was Urbino’s municipal grid. The desk clerk had drawn the route with his pen, like a line through the maze on the puzzle page in a newspaper. It was initially the same streets Betta had walked on her way to the art gallery of Signor Bruzzone, up Via Mazzini and then a steeper climb on Via Raffaello. Every Italian town of a certain size had a street named for Giuseppe Mazzini, who had helped create a united Italy, but very few honored Urbino’s most beloved artist. The lights were on in Bruzzone’s art gallery, and Betta toyed with the idea of dropping in to introduce Rick. Instead they continued up the hill past the house of Raphael.

  “Morelli’s name came up when I talked to my boss,” said Betta. “I told him we were going to see his collection, and he asked me to observe closely and let him know if there’s anything suspicious.”

  “How will you know?”

  “Good question. If Morelli has anything questionable it will be the Greek vases, and I am hardly an expert on things Greek. Not to mention that the man is not going to show me anything questionable since he knows where I work. I told my boss I’d keep my eyes open.”

  “I will too, Betta. Two eyes are better than one.”

  “What?”

  “Something my Tía Luz in New Mexico used to say. Now all the Montoyas use the expression.” They came to a corner, and Rick looked up before consulting his map. As in most Italian cities, the street name was inscribed on a stone plaque cemented to the corner building. “We turn here.”

  The new street was half the width of Via Raffaello, had no commercial activity, and had no incline as it followed the horizontal contour of the hill. The buildings were solid stone, two and three stories tall, with tiny windows and narrow, uninviting doors. The flat walk ended at the next corner when they turned once again up the incline. Rick stopped.

  “We’re almost there. Look at that.” A metal arrow indicated that if they were to continue on that street, the botanical gardens were a hundred meters ahead. “Interesting. On the way to Morelli’s house we pass close to the scene of the murder.”

  Betta took his arm. “In Italian hill towns, Rick, everything inside the walls is close to everything else.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” He checked the stone number on the first doorway. “This is the street—his place should be just ahead if the numbers run in the right sequence.”

  “Don’t count on that.”

  The sequence was correct, and their destination appeared on their right. It looked like every other building on the block, except wider. The street had steepened so much that a massive window on the right side of Morelli’s house looked out over the roof below it, even though both buildings were the same height. Morelli’s door was at the lowest point, heavy wood set in the stone facade next to another opening less than half the size. The smaller door was older, its hinges rusted and covered with dirt. Betta noticed Rick looking at it.

  “La porta del morto,” she said. “Haven’t you ever seen one?”

  “A door for dead people to enter the house?”

  “To depart the house. It was considered bad luck in the Middle Ages to use the main door when removing the casket of a family member. Something about the spirits staying inside when the body left the premises. It was a standard building feature during the plague years.” She rang the doorbell. “Let’s hope Morelli lets us use the big door when we’re leaving tonight.”

  The big door was opened by a man in the gray uniform of a household servant. He wished them a good evening and stepped back to let them enter before closing the door and walking quickly ahead to lead the way. A few steps inside was the start of a stairway leading up to the second floor. Wrought- iron hand rails were attached to the stone walls, and tiny lights lit every step. On reaching the second floor the steps passed a closed door, turned back toward the street, and climbed to the third. At the end of the stairway they emerged into a room that appeared to take up most of the entire floor. The picture window they had seen from the street covered most of one side of the room, and a stone fireplace that must have been in the house from the beginning dominated the far wall. On either side of it, back-lit glass cases held a collection of Greek pottery. A set of comfortable chairs and a large sofa faced the window, and a smaller seating arrangement was set before the fireplace. Paintings filled every available wall space. Morelli, wearing a blue blazer and tie-less white shirt, stood in front of the fireplace talking on a cell phone. He looked up, smiled at Betta, but squinted when he noticed Rick behind her. Saying something into the phone, he pressed the screen and put it into the pocket of his jacket before walking to them and taking Betta’s hand in both of his. His cologne and her perfume competed for air space.

  “How nice of you to come. And you’ve brought a friend.”

  The two men eyed each other. Rick’s smile was relaxed, Morelli’s forced.

  “This is Riccardo Montoya. Rick, Signor Cosimo Morelli.”

  They shook hands and Morelli turned to Betta. “I hope we can dispense with formalities. Please call me Cosimo. Riccardo, I don’t recall seeing you around the city, so tell me what brings you to Urbino.”

  “I came with Betta from Rome, and I’ve been assisting the police in the murder investigation.”

  “So you’re also with the art police?”

  “Not exactly.” Rick did not elaborate. He was enjoying Morelli’s discomfort.

  After an awkward silence Betta looked around the room. “Are we early?”

  “My other friends unfortunately canceled at the last minute.” He gestured toward a bar near the top of the stairwell. “Can Rino se
rve you something? I have an excellent prosecco open and chilled.”

  They accepted, and Morelli nodded to the man who was still standing at the top of the steps. Rino stepped behind the bar where a bottle sat in a silver ice bucket next to two flutes on a tray. He pulled a third glass from under the bar, filled the three with the bubbly, and carried the tray to Betta. After the two men claimed their glasses, Morelli offered a toast and they took their first sips while Rino disappeared down the stairs.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable.” Morelli motioned to the seating in front of the window. “The air is clear tonight, so the view is excellent.”

  Rick and Betta walked to the window. The roofs of Urbino formed an orange canopy pierced by chimneys and grooved with the lines of lamp-lit streets. The final rays of the afternoon sun painted the castle’s western facade in the distance, and lights twinkled far off in the darkening valleys. The window glass was thick enough to keep out any street noise, though it wasn’t needed. Later students and a few tourists might raise the noise level in some parts of the city, but now a tranquility had settled over everything. It was the Urbino of the Middle Ages.

  The sound of a cell phone broke the mood. Morelli pulled it out and checked the number. “Please excuse me; I must take this.” He walked quickly to the other side of the room and began talking in low tones so that his two guests could not catch even one word.

  Betta leaned toward Rick’s ear and spoke in equally low tones. “Did you see the look on his face when he saw you? Priceless. Listen, Rick, I want you to do something.”

  “For you, anything.”

  “You have your phone, don’t you? At some point I’ll distract him—”

  “For you, that should be easy.”

  “I’ll distract him, and I want you to use your phone to take a picture of that amphora.”

  Rick looked over her shoulder while she kept her eyes on the view. “The big one?”

  “Yes, the big one.”

  “Leave it to me.”