To Die in Tuscany

by David P. Wagner

  “Perhaps he’s concerned about his own safety,” Rick said.

  Bruzzone thought about it. “I hadn’t considered that, but it could be. Anyone who had contact with Somonte could be in danger, and there aren’t that many of us. That may have been why he asked about the police investigation.”

  “What did he want to know?”

  “He asked if you police had any suspicions about who took the shot at me. That would be a natural question if he’s worried about his own safety and he didn’t want to ask Inspector DiMaio directly.”

  Rick considered what Bruzzone was saying and found it curious that the man hadn’t put two and two together to realize that Morelli himself was a suspect. And as a suspect in the murder, he had to be a suspect in the botched shooting that morning. The gash on the head was clouding his thinking, after all. “What did you tell him?”

  Bruzzone held up his hand in a helpless gesture. “What could I tell him? I said the police were checking to see if the bullet was from the same gun that killed Somonte. Have you confirmed that yet, by the way?”

  “We haven’t talked to the inspector since we left here this morning,” Betta answered.

  Rick marveled at her deflection. “What else did he say?”

  “When I mentioned that you were here this morning with Inspector DiMaio, he said he’d met you both. He asked if I’d ever had any contact with the art theft squad before. Can you imagine such a question? Certainly not, I told him.” His eyes jumped to Betta. “I don’t want to give the impression that I’m against what your office does, Dottoressa. Obviously, if I can ever be of assistance, I—”

  “We understand perfectly, Signor Bruzzone.”

  The door opened behind them and a balding man dressed in a suit entered. He gestured to signal that he didn’t wish to interrupt the conversation.

  “An old friend and loyal client,” said Bruzzone. “Word travels fast around Urbino, especially when the news is something as exciting as this.” Again he raised his hand to the bandage, but stopped short of touching it.

  “We will leave you to your friend,” said Rick. “We’re glad you’re recovering quickly.”

  Bruzzone thanked them, and they walked out to the street. The policeman had changed his position from one side of the door to the other and gave them a conspiratorial nod as they passed.

  “Somebody could still walk in and shoot him,” said Betta.

  “But he wouldn’t get very far after he did.”

  They started down the street, which had been taken over by afternoon tourists. Just above them a woman carrying the standard tour guide umbrella was lecturing in Italian to a large group about to enter the house of Raphael. Another gaggle stood several doors down, in front of the San Francesco church, but for them the language was German. Rick noticed that every German listened intently to their leader while half the Italians talked among themselves while occasionally glancing up at the tour guide.

  “We have some time now, Betta—why don’t we visit the Casa di Raffaello?” At that moment, the group of Italians surged toward the door where at the most two people could enter at one time. It reminded him of lift lines in the Dolomites, but fortunately here nobody was wearing skis. Down the street the Germans were moving in orderly pairs into the portico of the church.

  “Too crowded,” answered Betta. “Maybe tomorrow morning. But I have an idea. You and I have been to the street behind the botanical gardens, but not the scene of the crime itself. Aren’t you curious to see it?”

  “I am, now that you mention it. Maybe we’ll run into DiMaio’s friend Florio.”

  They turned and started climbing. The street seemed to get steeper every time they walked it.

  “That was interesting what Bruzzone said about Morelli,” said Rick. “After listening to you interview him at the station, and meeting the man last night, I have a hard time picturing him as the concerned friend dropping in to give comfort. He was definitely probing.”

  “No question about it.”

  A sign appeared for the Orto Botanico, and they followed it.

  * * *

  “Wait here,” said DiMaio. “I just need to check messages.”

  The driver, a young policeman, nodded and turned off the engine of the squad car. His boss bounded up to the entrance to the commissariato and pushed open the door. Immediately, he realized his mistake. Why hadn’t he parked behind the building and come in the back door? Waiting in the main lobby was the journalist who had ambushed him two days ago, wearing the same earnest look on her face. At least she had changed sweaters, though the jeans looked to be the same.

  “Signora Intini, I don’t have anything new for you, and I’m in a great hurry.”

  “Our readers have a right to know what is happening, Inspector. It is not every day that we have a murder in our city.”

  DiMaio kept to himself his opinions about the public’s right to know. What he wanted to ask was her source for the details about how Somonte’s body was found, but he knew she wouldn’t tell him. As he thought about what tidbit, if any, to feed her, she spoke up herself.

  “I understand that you met with the Spanish consul. Can you at least tell me about that?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Just a journalist’s hunch. I called the Spanish embassy in Rome and they told me. So you did meet with the consul?” She pulled out her notepad and waited.

  She was obviously proud to tell him how she dug up a source, making him think that perhaps he could play on her ego and ask her who told her about the body. He rejected the thought as soon as it appeared in his head. “I did meet with the consul this morning in this very spot. We had an open and productive exchange. He assured me that the embassy will do everything possible to assist the Italian authorities to find the perpetrators of this terrible crime, and I expressed my appreciation and assured him in return that we will not rest until it was solved.” He waited while she scribbled in her pad.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s as much as I am allowed to tell you. Diplomatic entities do not have the same regard for the need of your readers to be informed as do you. As I’m sure you will understand, my hands are tied.”

  She looked down at her notes and back at DiMaio. “But—”

  “I really must go. Don’t worry, I still have your card.” He turned and walked quickly away.

  She called after him. “Is it true there’s someone from the art police here?”

  DiMaio had disappeared into the rear of the building.

  * * *

  When Rick and Betta arrived at the entrance to the gardens, they found a crowd of people sitting on the steps and others standing in front of the fountain. Without knowing the profile of a botany aficionado, it wasn’t clear to them if everyone was waiting to see the murder scene, the other plants, or both. Betta surveyed the group, nodded her head to Rick, and made her way through the people seated below the doorway. He followed, noticing the scowls on those waiting to get in. At the ticket counter they encountered another scowl, that of the woman sitting behind it.

  “We’re only letting in small groups at a time,” she said, and held up two pieces of paper with numbers written on them. “Wait for me to call; it will be about a half hour.”

  Betta looked at the numbers but didn’t take them. Instead, she pulled out her identification. “We’re from the police. Inspector DiMaio sent us to take a look at the crime scene.”

  The woman’s eyes widened, and for a moment she didn’t speak. Then she turned her head toward the garden depths. “Nino! Police!” A nervous smile tightened her face when she looked back at Betta. “He’ll be right with you.”

  They heard the crunch of shoes on gravel and a man appeared from among the fronds. He wore green overalls embroidered with the logo of the Orto Botanico over a darker green shirt. Perspiration covered his face and neck, but he made
no attempt to wipe it with the handkerchief protruding from his pocket. When he noticed that one of the policemen was in fact a policewoman, the handkerchief came out, but only to dry his hand that he extended to her.

  “Fantozzi, piacere. Inspector DiMaio was here this morning speaking with Professor Florio. I didn’t know that more police would be coming. Of course the inspector didn’t want to speak again with me, only with the professor.”

  Betta noticed the annoyance. “Which is why we are here, Signor Fantozzi. If you don’t mind going over again what happened that morning.”

  The man grinned. “Certainly not. If you could wait just a moment, I will get rid of the people looking at the plant now. Excuse me.” He hurried off into the greenery and a few moments later reappeared, herding a dozen people who glowered at Rick and Betta as they left the building. “Now, if you’ll come this way, please.”

  They followed behind him, Rick’s cowboy boots crunching as they dug into the gravel. Rick noticed the rise in humidity and temperature as soon as they stepped from the entrance area into the verdant garden proper. Both increased even more when they entered the greenhouse. The path took a sharp right turn, and Fantozzi stopped next to the Spanish Dagger.

  “Here it is. This is the exact place where I found him. I was a bit shaken up, I don’t mind telling you. I’m not used to finding bodies when I make my first rounds in the morning. My heart pounded, and I broke out in a sweat.”

  Even worse than normal? Rick was tempted to ask as he wiped his own brow with his handkerchief. Betta appeared not to notice the heat, reminding him that women don’t sweat, they glisten. “Tell us what you saw. We heard it from the inspector but would like to get it from your point of view, you being an eyewitness.”

  Fantozzi clearly relished the opportunity. “I came around the corner, past the cacti, and almost immediately knew that something was amiss. This was even before I saw the body. Since I spend so much time working here, I must have some kind of antenna system that alerts me to changes. The way leaves move, odors, whatever it is, I knew then that something was wrong. Then I saw the figure sitting there, and my immediate reaction was that some drunken tramp had somehow found his way in here and fallen asleep. When I took one step closer, of course, I knew who it was.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Signor Somonte, the very person who was to visit the gardens the next day. It was then that I realized that he was leaning against one of the very plants that he had donated. How…what’s the word?”

  “Ironic?”

  “Exactly. Thank you.”

  “Please tell us how the body looked,” said Betta. “You knew immediately that he was dead?”

  “Oh, yes. And not just from the bloodstain on his shirt. Even though he looked like he was sleeping, there was something clumsy about the way the body was arranged. I say arranged because he would not have ended up in that position on his own. Not on your life.”

  “How was he arranged?” Rick asked.

  Fantozzi looked around to be sure that nobody else was watching, then got down and sat himself in front of the tall plant. Leaning back, he tilted his head slightly to one side. “He was like this,” he said with eyes closed to give more authenticity. Careful not to put too much weight on the plant, he got back to his feet and brushed himself off.

  “That was when you called the police.”

  “Uh, it was Professor Florio I called first. He told me he would contact the authorities and to get out to the street and wait for them. He was adamant about not touching anything. He knows all about those things from the books he reads.”

  “So we’ve heard,” said Betta. “And you did what you were told.”

  “Certainly. But the professor arrived before the police. He must have been in his office.” He pointed behind him with his thumb. “It’s on the next street over.”

  “Yes, we know. How do you think the body got in here? You must have some ideas.”

  Fantozzi beamed. It appeared that nobody had asked him his opinion. “Well, as you know already, Signor Somonte had his own key to the gardens. Ceremonial, but it worked. I think that whoever killed him forced him at gunpoint to come here, made him open the gate, and shot him in front of his plant.”

  “Then propped up the body.”

  “Exactly, Signora.”

  “So it didn’t have to be someone he knew.”

  Fantozzi used a finger to wipe a drop of sweat from his nose. “I hadn’t thought of it, but that’s true. Just someone who knew that he had the key to get in here.”

  “Thank you for your insights, Signor Fantozzi. We should leave you to your work and let all those people come in to see the gardens.”

  “Most of them aren’t interested in the other plants, just Somonte’s. Yesterday a woman came in with her little daughter to show her. Disgusting. But it certainly is making Professor Florio happy.”

  Outside, Rick and Betta breathed in the cool afternoon air and splashed their faces with water from the fountain pool. “I wonder if they put this here just for the people coming out of the heat inside,” Rick said. “If I knew my Latin, I could read the inscription.”

  As usual, Betta had her mind on the missing drawing. “We didn’t get anything out of that except perspiration.”

  “Except that we’re pretty sure the murder was connected to the missing drawing.”

  She shook her hands of excess water and looked at Rick. “How can we be sure?”

  “How many people had seen the drawing?”

  Betta put some thought into the question. “Obviously all the people we’ve interviewed. But remember that there was an article in the paper a few days ago about the donation. Vitellozzi mentioned that when we talked to him. My guess is that there was a picture of it accompanying the story.”

  “It must also have mentioned that Somonte was stopping in town on his way to Sansepolcro and that the drawing was of great value.”

  Betta rubbed her eyes. “Too much of a temptation for your normal thief. All he had to do was track down where Somonte was staying and shadow him. And by carrying the drawing around, our victim made it easy.” She sighed. “We’re back to suspecting half the population of Urbino in a robbery that turned violent.”

  “Not exactly. I believe what we just heard back there in the humidity brings the suspects list back to the serious art experts.”

  “Nothing he said could have been different from what he told Alfredo that morning.”

  “Perhaps, but Alfredo might not have spotted it. I refer to Fantozzi playing the role of a cadaver, and playing it well. Didn’t it remind you of something? He closed his eyes and tilted his head.”

  “O Dio, of course. The sleeping soldier in Piero’s painting in Sansepolcro.”

  “Whose face just happens to be the subject of the missing drawing. Which means that our murderer not only knew about the drawing but also knew that it was a study for the painting. And he was familiar enough with it to set up Somonte’s body to mimic the sleeping soldier. Pretty macabre.”

  “Also pretty sophisticated. Our suspects list remains small.”

  “And, Betta, it increases the chances that the drawing is in the hands of someone who understands both its artistic and monetary value.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Palazzo Ducale was made for nights like this. During his reign, Federico da Montefeltro staged scores of events here that were the height of elegance and ceremony, but those were different times. Tonight’s opening would not approach the duke’s flair for decadent opulence, but the massive structure was doing its best to re-create something from its past glory. The piazza in front was lit by a line of torches inserted into wrought-iron sconces flanking the shuttered windows of the second floor, casting pale, flickering light onto the stone pavement. Raphael would have felt right at home in this atmosphere, though perhaps puzzled by the single spotlight illuminating his young face on the exhib
it banner.

  Rick and Betta walked through the square toward the entrance. Fortunately, they had both packed something a bit more formal for the trip, just in case something came up that required more than business casual. Rick had a blue blazer, his only white shirt, and a favorite burgundy tie, along with his dressier pair of cowboy boots. Betta, whom Rick decided could look good in a flour sack, wore the classic black cocktail dress and low heels. In place of business-hour gold studs in her ears, small hoops, which he’d never seen before, hung below her close-cropped black hair. At the hotel she had thrown him a curveball by not using her usual Dahlia Noir and challenging him to name what she’d sprayed on. He’d nailed it—Habanita—and now as he caught another whiff of it he was tempted to warn her never to question his perfume acumen. He resisted, not wanting to spoil what he hoped would be a very pleasant evening.

  Another pleasant evening.

  Since she’d moved to Rome to join the art theft squad, there had been ups and downs in their relationship, but lately it had moved into a very relaxed phase. Not that they took each other for granted. Each had other friends, both from their work and going back to before they’d met, but there was an unspoken understanding that they would be together whenever they could. Was it time to have a chat about where it was all going? Betta was not one to keep things inside, he told himself; when it becomes an issue for her, she’ll say something.

  Garlands of flowers festooned the grand staircase leading to the second floor where museum guards directed them toward the room of the special exhibit. It was the route they had taken on their previous visit, and it was impossible not to stop and admire some of the paintings they passed. One was La Città Ideale, the ideal city, attributed to Piero della Francesca but not definitively identified as his, despite the rigid perspective for which the painter was known. Unique for its long, rectangular shape, it showed pristine lines of buildings on either side, drawing the eye to the round structure in the very center. An already haunting canvas was made more so by the total absence of human beings. Rick wondered out loud: “Could that have been the artist’s message, that the ideal city would lack people?”