The phone call ended just as Rick and Betta sat on the wide leather sofa and placed their glasses on a low carved table in front of them. Morelli eased himself into one of the chairs and took a pull of his prosecco.
“I’m very sorry about that, Betta. You have been keeping occupied with this case, I trust?” Rick, it appeared, was to be ignored.
Betta crossed her legs under the attentive eye of the host. “Yes. My concern, of course, is the missing Piero drawing, and I’m trying to find out as much as I can about it. Today we drove down to Monterchi to interview the woman who found it in her attic, but we were able only to talk to her daughter.”
“Was that revealing?”
“Not really. She didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know.”
“You don’t think the woman who discovered the drawing could have anything to do with it going missing now, do you?”
“Likely not, but I had to check all the possibilities. We also spoke with the director of the Madonna del Parto Museum in Monterchi.” She paused to take a sip of her wine, allowing Rick to observe Morelli’s reaction. Was there something? He couldn’t tell.
“It was she who authenticated the drawing at Bruzzone’s request.”
“Aha,” said Morelli. “I knew someone had done the authentication but didn’t realize it was the museum director. But that would make sense.”
“Have you met her, Cosimo?”
The question forced him to recognize Rick. “The arts community in this part of Italy is not as small as you might think, Riccardo. I have not had the pleasure of meeting this Dottoressa…?”
“Tucci.”
“Tucci. The name sounds familiar, but I meet a lot of people and immediately forget them.”
Like me, Rick could not help thinking. “What business are you in, Cosimo? You must be very successful in it.”
“Oil.” He glanced at Rick’s cowboy boots, and added, “Olive oil, that is, both domestic and imported.” He waved his hand toward the display cases. “Which is how I became interested in Greek pieces, from my frequent visits to that country. It began with oil lamps, as would be expected given the places I go to buy it, and then moved to larger objects.” He returned his attention to Betta. “Would you like to see them?”
She got to her feet. “Certainly. That’s why you invited me up here, wasn’t it?”
Morelli didn’t answer but stood and walked with her to the display cases. Rick trailed behind them. Except for the one case that held the tall amphora, the others were all a smaller size. Unlike those found in museum collections, the pieces were not identified, as if their beauty was more important than date and location. Not a big fan of pottery, Rick found them to be interesting but nothing more. He was curious about the details but wasn’t about to ask Morelli, assuming the man wouldn’t need any prodding. He was correct.
“I see that the amphora has caught your eye, Betta. It is the prize of my collection, sixth century BC, found on the island of Mykonos. Given its decoration, size, and shape, most likely it was used for wine, and on festive occasions. But I would like to think it contained olive oil at some point in its life.”
The pointed base of the pear-shaped vase sat on a wire stand. A mirror on the wall behind it allowed a total view of black figures painted on a light brown background. Women in flowing robes carried vases similar in shape and size, forming a circular parade around the widest part of the vessel.
“It is very beautiful,” she said. “And these?” She pointed at a row of ceramic pieces somewhere in shape between a saucer and a cup. Some had handles, and all were decorated with figures, both male and female.
“Drinking cups, from different parts of Greece.”
“Do you have one dealer you always use in Greece?”
Morelli could not conceal his annoyance. Was it Rick’s question, or just his presence? “I have several who know my interests. They contact me when something comes on the market that I might wish to acquire.”
“As with the Piero drawing? I assume Bruzzone called you.”
“Had he not, Betta, I would have been very unhappy.” He walked to the next case. “And these are the oil lamps. I have too many of them, perhaps, but can one really possess too many objects that have both function and beauty?”
Morelli did not see Rick squeezing Betta’s arm, nor her poking back.
“This one is interesting,” she said. “It’s bronze rather than terra-cotta.” She leaned forward to get a closer look at an oil lamp with a leaf-shaped handle and floral etching on the top and sides.
“Roman third century. It’s not genuine, but I love its character.”
“That de Chirico I’m certain is genuine.” Betta was looking at the paintings on the opposite wall.
“And it would be my pleasure to show it to a member of the art police who should certainly be able to verify its authenticity.”
The two walked across the room while Rick stayed where he was and slipped the phone from his pocket. Seeing that Morelli was giving all his attention to Betta and the painting, he took two pictures of the amphora and then, for good measure, several of the other display cases. After checking his work he put his phone away and returned to the table where he picked up his flute and had another drink. It was an excellent prosecco and somehow tasted even better after he had played undercover art cop. He walked to the window and saw that the sun was gone, bringing darkness to the highest parts of Urbino and causing a few stars to appear in the cloudless sky. Light pollution was a big issue in communities around New Mexico, he recalled, with regulations requiring outdoor lighting be directed downward. Could Urbino have the same rules? The streetlights he could see from the window fit the bill their rays went straight to the pavement.
Rick returned to the issues at hand. Did Morelli really have some hot art? If Betta could not track down the missing drawing, it would be helpful if she could at least snare some other malefactor, and Morelli just might be the one. But was he evil enough to be the murderer as well? Somehow Rick couldn’t see him shooting el viejo Somonte. No, the oil merchant, as oily as he was, just didn’t fit the bill. After reminding himself that he wasn’t a specialist in criminal behavior, Rick walked to where Betta and Morelli were standing in front of the de Chirico.
Like most works by the artists, this one was without people, animals, or indeed anything that could be called living. The results of human activity were evident, however: an open plaza, the columns of a classical building, and a distant statue. Late-afternoon—or possibly early morning—sun cast long shadows. The position of the few objects and a clear vanishing point allowed for well-painted perspective, but somehow everything did not line up the way it should, adding another surreal aspect to a picture that was already unearthly enough.
“Do you like it, Rick?”
“Not really my style. I prefer the masters, like the Pieros we saw today.”
Morelli said, “Piero’s Flagellation, which is at the Galleria here in Urbino, has some aspects of this style: an open square, a few silent figures, a certain eerie quality. It could have influenced de Chirico.”
“But look at the perspective here and compare it with Piero’s works,” said Rick as he continued to study the work. “I prefer the master of perspective.”
“Often artists bend the rules just to show they can do it.” Morelli’s voice had assumed a tone of condescension. “That was the case with de Chirico. If you had ever studied—”
Betta stepped in. “Cosimo, it would be rude of us to get into a heated discussion when we’re guests in your home, even over such a fascinating topic as the qualities of surrealism. And unfortunately we can’t stay; we have a dinner engagement with Inspector DiMaio.”
The mention of the policeman took Morelli’s attention away from the painting, but he quickly regained his composure. “I am sorry not to be able to enjoy your company longer, but it was a pleasur
e to see you nonetheless.” His words were to Betta. Rick had once again become invisible.
They complimented him on his apartment and the art collection, and he accompanied them down the stairs to the street.
“You must be sure to give my warm regards to Inspector DiMaio.”
Betta promised they would. The door closed and they started down the street.
“That was certainly enjoyable,” said Rick as Betta took his arm.
“He does have a certain reptilian character, but his collection is impressive. Were you able to get a picture of the amphora? That was my main reason for going.”
“He was so enthralled with you that I photographed not only the amphora but also several of the other items. I can send the photos to your phone.”
“And I’ll forward them to my office. It’s a bit of a long shot, but who knows? It might be on the list of missing amphorae, but I doubt it. He’s got a huge ego, but he’s intelligent enough not to show a stolen item to someone from the art police.”
“He knows Greek is not your specialty, and besides, his desire to get you alone must have clouded his thinking.”
Betta smiled. “Did you notice that he claimed not to know Loretta Tucci?”
“At lunch today she gave the impression she didn’t know him either.” He glanced down at her face, which was still smiling. “Betta, I may be just a naive American, but it occurs to me that perhaps they really don’t know each other.”
She shrugged.
Rick moved on. “I didn’t know we were having dinner with Alfredo.”
“He doesn’t either. He thinks he’s dining alone with Pilar. That was the call I took at the hotel.”
“Dinner probably won’t be a good time to tell him about my meeting with the widow.”
“No, Rick, it won’t.”
Chapter Eight
The restaurant was near the Palazzo Ducale, not exactly around the corner from Morelli’s house but still within the city walls and therefore walking distance. They strolled down his street and retraced their route to get back to Via Raffaello. The shops on it were already shuttered or about to have their gates rolled down and padlocked. In only one could they see any customers, a salumaio with last-minute shoppers picking up something for dinner. At the bottom of the hill they passed the small square in front of the municipal building, and a theater across the street showing a French film that neither of them recognized.
The street name changed to Via Vittorio Veneto, but unlike its wide and tree-lined Roman namesake, this one was narrow and steep, barely wide enough for two cars. Which was likely why it was in a pedestrian area. And pedestrians there were, mostly young people whom Rick guessed to be students at the university, heading in the opposite direction, down the hill. Perhaps the cheaper restaurants were down there, away from the tourist area surrounding the duke’s palace. As they got to the top of the hill, the street widened slightly and on the right were steps leading up to the cathedral. Betta looked at her watch.
“The restaurant is close and we’re early. Do you want to walk down toward the university?”
Rick looked up at the cathedral facade, a clean white marble showing the required features of the classical style. He was certain there had been a church on the site for more than a millennium, given the age of Urbino, but he was equally sure that this was not the original structure. Two people emerged from the right door.
“The duomo is still open; why don’t we check it out?”
“I recall you telling me that when you were a kid you dreaded being dragged into churches by your parents.”
They started to climb the steps. “I also didn’t like girls when I was in grade school. A guy can change, can’t he? I am now grateful that my parents insisted on taking me into all those churches; it gave me my first appreciation of history, art, and architecture. This one, however, looks like the classic case of taking a wonderful ancient church and renovating it into the stylistic flavor of the moment.”
They went through the door and immediately decided his assessment was correct. A panel just inside gave a short history of the building, which they read after dipping their fingers in the font and crossing themselves. The first cathedral on the site had been constructed in 1021, but it was rebuilt by Duke Federico da Montefeltro in the fifteenth century. A devastating earthquake in 1789 required another total renovation, and it was done in the neoclassical style popular at the time. The overriding impression of this renovation was mass rather than space, thanks to thick, square columns supplemented by Corinthian decoration and the same color—white—covering everything. Lighting was minimal, except for what illuminated the coffered cupola visible in the distance over the main altar. Rather than walk straight down the central nave, they started along the right aisle. Columns and arches ran along their left, the outer wall on their right. Opposite the arches were altars under tall paintings done in the style of the early nineteenth century, with dark figures and darker backgrounds. It was not Rick’s favorite. He could not help wondering what the Duke of Montefeltro’s church was like before the earthquake spelled its destruction.
As they stood before the first painting, raised voices echoed from the opposite side of the church. Rick squeezed Betta’s hand and held up a finger over his lips. The conversation reached their ears in disjointed words, but one thing was clear: the two people were speaking in Spanish. Rick guided Betta behind the nearest column.
“That’s Pilar’s voice,” whispered Betta after they had listened for a minute.
“And the man is Lucho Garcia, Somonte’s assistant.”
Rick held up his hand and strained to hear what they were saying, which was not easy since two rows of columns and the nave stood between them. The lack of ornamentation and the stone floor allowed sound to bounce off the surfaces, but it reached Rick’s ears only intermittently. What was clear, however, was that the two Spaniards were not having a friendly chat. As the moments passed, Pilar’s voice raised and Lucho’s was edged with anger.
“Can you get anything they’re saying?”
“Only a few words,” Rick answered. “The factory, her father, the inheritance—”
He was interrupted by Pilar’s raised voice, the unmistakable sound of a slap, and Pilar’s heels clicking on the stone as she hurried toward the door.
“What did she just say?”
“That, I heard. She called him a rude name. Just before hitting him.”
“You can’t stage a more dramatic exit than that. Do you think he followed her out?”
Rick peeked around the pillar. “I see him. He’s walking toward the door, very slowly, and rubbing his face. Let’s amble down toward the altar and wait a while. We don’t want to run into either of them outside.”
“Rick, do you think she’ll be at the restaurant?”
“I don’t see why not. Thanks to the confrontation, she’s probably worked up an appetite. But I doubt she’ll bring Lucho.”
They walked along the side aisle to the main altar, looking back to be sure the two Spaniards didn’t return, though there seemed little chance of that. Under the dome the altar was a simple stone table draped with a white cloth, a gold cross in the middle. Above it on the wall hung another dark painting, but larger than the others. They took the other aisle for their return to the door, and on reaching it, Rick peeked out. No sign of either Pilar or Lucho.
“We should tell Alfredo about this, Rick.” They stood outside at the top of the steps. In the small square between the church and the palace, three people studied the poster for the Raphael exhibit, then started down the hill.
“Let’s think about it. If I recall correctly, Pilar said that she was likely to keep Lucho on at the family wool mill. So it would make sense that she would want to talk to him about his position there. She had only talked to him on the phone since her father’s death and must have wanted a face-to-face meeting. I will admit
that it did not appear they were exclusively discussing wool back there, but what do we really know, except that they were having an argument? It could have been about anything. Why don’t we wait to see if she says something at dinner? And if she doesn’t, to coax out what might be going on, I can ask her some seemingly innocent questions.”
“Such as, ‘Does your hand still hurt?’”
He laughed. “That would work.”
“Rick, what you’re really concerned about is Alfredo’s disappointment if he finds out that his new flame is a possible suspect. Pilar and Lucho could have planned the murder together. It’s even possible that the three of them could have done it. They all benefit from the old man’s death, and the animosity between the widow and the daughter could be an act.”
“If they were going to kill him, why do it in another country? It would have been less complicated if Somonte had met his fate in an accident at home, or at his wool mill. They could have simply pushed him into a vat of dye.” He put his fingers to his forehead. “Wait, it just occurred to me that the words in English for die and dye are homophones.”
“What?”
“Sorry. The musings of a professional translator. Why don’t we see what she says at dinner, and if she’s not there, we’ll tell Alfredo what happened. We can also tell him about my meeting with Signora Somonte.”
She took his arm and they started down the steps. “Agreed.”
Ten minutes later they came to the Ristorante La Balestra. It would have taken them five minutes, but it was difficult to find among the winding alleys of Urbino. One person they asked for help turned out to be a tourist, so Rick ducked into a bar where he got detailed instructions. Adding to the search time, only a small and dimly lit sign marked the entrance, and when they finally spotted it they realized they’d walked by it twice. After they passed through the door it became clear that the hidden location wasn’t an issue—the place was full and loud. The dining room was on a slightly lower level from the entrance, giving them a full view of the animated scene spread out below them. The decor went with the restaurant name: ancient crossbows decorated the walls, each mounted next to a collection of short, dart-like projectiles that the balestre shot. Two couples waiting for a table glanced at Betta and Rick before returning to their conversation. Betta looked down and saw DiMaio waving from a corner table with Pilar next to him. He was seated with his back to the wall, facing out, like he was expecting trouble.
To Die in Tuscany Page 12