To Die in Tuscany

by David P. Wagner

  Florio kept his voice subdued. “A very nasty business, indeed. A man was found dead there. Surprisingly, people have been coming to the garden the last few days just because of that. And what brings you two to Urbino? The art, I would imagine.”

  Rick answered. “Certainly that, but I’m an interpreter. In fact, it looks like I’m about to go to work, if you’ll excuse us.” He took Betta’s hand and they walked toward the small stage where Vitellozzi had just stepped to the microphone. Behind him a man surveyed the crowd like he owned them, and Rick guessed him to be a politician. It was the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, after all, so it would make sense that a representative of the region be present. Next to him stood the Widow Somonte, fortunately without a glass in her hand. Lucho was a few steps away watching her carefully. A man with a deep tan stood next to the director. He wore a meticulously tailored suit and looked vaguely familiar. “Betta, do you know either of those two men with Vitellozzi?”

  “The one on his right is the undersecretary of culture. I heard he was going to be here.”

  “So you know each other.”

  “Be serious. He’s probably never even met my boss, let alone people like me. We’re not even in the same building.” She glanced back. “What did you think of Professor Florio?”

  “Not exactly the cold-blooded murdering type. Alfredo should cross him off his suspects list.”

  “I think he already has. You really should have told Florio we went to his gardens today. It would have been fun to see his reaction. Look, he’s over talking with someone else. I’m guessing he’s searching out the visitors to tell them the real action in Urbino is among the plants.”

  The guests were starting to notice the people who had taken their places on the podium and began to quiet down. The waiters also sensed that the formalities were about to begin and retreated behind the bar. While the dignitaries spoke, the waiters would fill glasses for their next turn around the room. Rick squeezed Betta’s hand and walked to the rear of the podium, ready to step up when needed. He hoped that the Widow Somonte had changed her mind about speaking, but she was still next to Vitellozzi. Lucho continued to hover nearby. The director stepped to the microphone, tapped it a few times to be sure it was working, and identified himself before welcoming everyone to the event. Then he began to describe the planning that had gone into bringing all the works of art together, making Rick wonder how long he would drone on before introducing others who would no doubt drone on as well. He thought Betta had to be wondering the same thing and looked out into the crowd to catch her eye. She was nowhere to be seen.

  * * *

  A series of similar corridors led to Vitellozzi’s office, making Betta glad she had paid close attention to the route that morning. In case she ran into a museum employee, she was ready with the excuse that she had gotten lost on the way to the ladies’ room. The palace had hundreds of rooms, after all, so it would be understandable that a visitor could get confused, as long as there was a bathroom somewhere in the vicinity. Fortunately, she met no one, and the halls were almost silent except for the sound of Vitellozzi’s voice just barely audible far behind her. After a turn down another hallway even that sound faded to nothing—when the duke built the palazzo he had made sure the walls were thick. She came around what she remembered to be the last corner and spotted the office, marked by a simple direttore nameplate in brass next to the closed door. Would it be locked? She turned the handle, pushed it open, and stepped inside. Better to close it, since her excuse would look weak if someone walked by and saw her inside. This was not a room anyone could have mistaken for the toilette.

  Fortunately, Vitellozzi had left the lights on, and she could see that everything looked the same as it had that morning. Her eyes again darted to the ceiling, but she forced herself to keep her attention on the desk and surrounding furniture. If she was to find anything of interest, it would be there. The outside view was less of a distraction at this time of day. Dusk had turned the hills from shades of green to grays and blacks, and the sky had darkened so much that a single star shimmered high above the horizon. She walked quickly to the desk. The files that had been stacked on one side were still there, perhaps lined up even more neatly. She took the top one in hand and found it stuffed with spreadsheets that she realized were income and expenses for the museum, arranged by months. Such was the drab reality of running a public institution, even a glamorous museum like this one.

  The next file was thicker and more interesting. It held correspondence to and from the museums that had lent works for the exhibit Vitellozzi was speaking about at that very moment. As fascinating as the letters were, they would not get her any closer to finding Piero’s drawing, and time was passing quickly. She put the file back under the first file and noticed that something at the bottom of the pile was different in size, small enough that the files hid it from view. Logic—and neatness—would dictate that the smaller item be placed on top. She lifted the stack and found not another file but a paperback book with a white cover. Immediately, she recognized it as one in a series on famous artists, several titles of which she had read as a student at the university.

  This one analyzed the works of Piero della Francesca.

  Why had it been tucked in at the bottom of the stack? It had to be so that she wouldn’t notice during her morning visit. However, the museum was famous for its works by Piero, so it would be logical that Vitellozzi should keep a reference work about him on his desk. Did he simply want to avoid the discomfort that would come with a question from his police visitor? Somehow, he didn’t seem the kind of person to be bothered by such things. If anything, he would put it out in the open to provoke her.

  She was about to slip it back under the files when she noticed a card peeking out of the middle of the book. Her finger opened to the marked page, revealing a color print of one of Piero’s more famous works, the very one she and Rick had seen two days earlier in Sansepolcro.

  Below the standing figure of Christ lay the sleeping soldier with the face from the missing drawing.

  Why was the page with this particular illustration marked? Once again it was at the very least curious, and possibly suspicious, but still merely coincidental. Before replacing the card between the pages, she turned it over and found that it was the business card of Manuel Somonte, with his contact information printed in Spanish. Had Somonte left it when he’d called on Vitellozzi just before his murder? Betta ruled that out since the card was bent and smudged. Even if the card had just been inserted to mark the page, the museum director had received it from Somonte longer than three days ago. She noticed faded letters under the printed words that she strained to read.

  Her concentration was broken by the faint sound of applause. Were the ceremonies over? She couldn’t have been away from the exhibit hall that long, but maybe she’d lost track of time. She quickly replaced the card and put the book back under the stack of files. More applause.

  Betta hurried from the room and closed the door behind her.

  Rick stood ready behind the riser and kept an eye on the door at the far end of the room. After Vitellozzi’s opening remarks, the culture undersecretary had conveyed the minister’s anguish in not being able to attend and then offered his own two cents—or was it two euros?—about the importance of the event to the cultural life of Italy. His talk was mercifully short, but the next speaker’s was not. The president of the region expounded on the artistic patrimony of Le Marche, starting with Raffaello and going through a long list of worthies whose names meant nothing to Rick. He was reminded of the cynical Italian phrase illustri sconosciuti—illustrious unknowns. As the man appeared to be winding down, Betta came through the far door and flashed Rick a thumbs-up sign. He gave her a theatrical frown and head shake in return. His attention snapped back to the formalities when he heard Vitellozzi talking about Manuel Somonte, the late benefactor of the museum and contributor to this fine exhibit, recently and tragically st
ruck down. Rick stepped quickly to Isabella Somonte’s side and began giving her the Spanish translation in a low voice. She gave him a blank stare and then realized why someone was whispering in her ear before she looked back at Vitellozzi, who was asking everyone to welcome Signora Somonte. There was polite applause.

  “It is time for you to say a few words,” Rick said gently.

  Lucho appeared at her side, took her arm, and guided her to the microphone. The crowd waited patiently, unsure what to expect, while Isabella stared back at them. Seconds passed.

  Rick leaned toward her. “If you’d rather not—”

  “I will speak.” She began to sway, clutching at the microphone, and might have fallen if Lucho and Rick had not steadied her. “Translate every word,” she ordered.

  Rick nodded and looked at Lucho, whose face was grim.

  “My husband is not here tonight,” she began. “Had he not come to your beautiful city, he would still be alive.”

  Rick put her words into Italian, but without the derisive tone she’d given to the word “beautiful.” This was not going to be easy.

  “I could never understand Manuel’s fixation on Italian art. After all, we have great Spanish artists. Why did he have to come here? His mother was Italian, but was that reason enough? It would not be for me, but I am one hundred percent Spaniard.” She pounded her fist on her chest and again nearly lost her balance. Lucho was there to steady her.

  As Rick translated, he noticed Pilar standing in the back of the crowd, enjoying the spectacle while everyone around her watched in transfixed disbelief. Vitellozzi stared at the ground, his arms folded over his chest. The regional president, perhaps used to dealing with awkward situations in public, maintained a stiff smile, while the culture undersecretary stared at the ceiling. Rick finished translating the sentence and turned back to her. For a moment he wondered if she was finished, but she snapped out of her daze and continued.

  “I know…” she began and started to sway, causing Lucho to step forward and take her arm. She stared at him almost without recognition, before looking back at the people standing in front of her. Her eyes seemed to be searching. “I think…no, I am certain…that someone in this room—”

  Rick was wondering how to interpret when Lucho leaned toward her and spoke into her ear. His voice was soft but firm. “Isabella, it is time to go. You have had a long day.” He shook his head at Rick and led her to the rear of the riser. She didn’t resist. A museum guard helped her down the step and the two Spaniards walked slowly to the door. The eyes of everyone in the room followed them until they were out of sight.

  Vitellozzi stepped to the microphone. “As you all can understand, Signora Somonte has been under a great strain since her husband passed away. It was courageous of her to come this evening, and we are very appreciative that she did. This ends the formalities; please enjoy the art.”

  The waitstaff took the words as a green light to begin circulating among the invitees, but everyone else stood planted in their places. It took several moments before anyone spoke, and when they did it was in low voices. Vitellozzi stepped off the platform and waded into his guests, smiling and shaking hands, even of those he had greeted previously. He broke the ice to some extent, as did the waiters, whose flutes of prosecco were quickly snatched from their trays. Before the ceremonies, everyone had appeared more interested in each other than the art. Now, almost reluctantly, they honored Vitellozzi’s request and turned their attention to the paintings. Rafael’s self-portrait, which had graced the poster seen around Urbino, drew the largest numbers.

  Rick stayed a few moments on the riser surveying the scene. Betta was back to chatting with the two out-of-town museum directors. Morelli was sipping prosecco and looking deep into the eyes of a woman, but a different one. Florio had cornered two couples and was likely expounding on the wonders of his gardens. Bruzzone was nowhere to be seen, nor was the man whom Rick had suspected to be his police guard. The man had been showing signs of nervousness earlier, and Signora Somonte’s rant might have persuaded him and his wife to head for home. Intini, the journalist, had somehow found Pilar and was scribbling into her notebook as they talked. Or had Pilar found the journalist? Rick stepped down and walked toward Betta, picking off two glasses from a tray on the way. She noticed him, excused herself, and met him in the center of the room, taking the glass.

  “Thank you, Rick.” She smiled and took a sip.

  “Please tell me that you weren’t snooping around the palace during the speeches.”

  “I may have gotten a bit disoriented while searching for the ladies’ room.”

  “Well?”

  She told him what she had found, doing her best to make it sound like the book and bookmark were the equivalent of a smoking gun. He wasn’t convinced.

  “The director of a museum that specializes in the works of Piero della Francesca has a book on his desk about Piero, and a card in the book is from one of the museum’s benefactors? Not exactly overwhelming evidence. Alfredo won’t need to take out his handcuffs quite yet.”

  “But the painting on the page that was marked? The Resurrection, from the museum in Sansepolcro? It’s a lot of coincidences.”

  Rick shrugged. “Maybe it’s his favorite Piero painting.”

  She was about to argue but nodded instead. “You’re right. It proves nothing.” She sipped her wine and looked over Rick’s shoulder. “Here comes Morelli.”

  “I can almost smell his cologne.”

  Morelli walked to them and bowed slightly. “Good evening to the Rome contingent. Are we here to enjoy the Raffaello exhibit or to arrest someone for stealing some masterpiece?”

  “We would love to do both, Cosimo,” Betta answered. “Are you here to enjoy the art on the walls or to find a buyer for your newly acquired drawing?”

  Morelli forced a smile. “As you well know, Betta, my collection does not extend to pencil sketches, even those of great artists. I prefer other kinds of art, especially art that will last centuries.”

  “You tried to buy it, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yes, and when I didn’t get it, I recognized my error and returned to the collecting I know best: paintings and Greek artifacts.” He turned his attention to Rick. “It was a shame you did not translate the final words of Isabella Somonte. From the little Spanish I know, it might have been of interest to those gathered.”

  “Have you spent much time in Spain, Cosimo?” Rick asked.

  “A few business trips, though I mostly deal in Italian and Greek olive oil.”

  “You must have visited your friend Manuel Somonte.”

  Morelli’s smile faded. “Olives are grown on the Mediterranean shore of Spain, Riccardo. Somonte lived in the north, which is mostly known for mountains and sheep.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Rick. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Questions posed in jest do not need an answer. Have you found your drawing, Betta?”

  “Is that question asked in jest as well, Cosimo? If we had the drawing, you and everyone else in town would have heard about it.”

  He nodded. “Very true. I hope it turns up before tomorrow afternoon. I’m leaving on a trip to Greece and will be there for ten days. It is very difficult to get news from Urbino when one is on an isolated island.”

  “You may want to check with Inspector DiMaio before you leave town,” said Betta with a sweet smile.

  “He called me earlier to ask where I was early this morning, but he didn’t tell me why. Police harassment, I’d call it. Why would I want to check with him about my trip? It’s none of his business.”

  “Not that you are a suspect in his homicide case, of course, but you know how police are. They don’t like people connected to an investigation flying off to other countries, especially isolated islands.”

  “Our mayor is here tonight. I will talk to him about whether
I can be allowed to leave or not. And since I may not see you before my departure, have a pleasant trip back to Rome.” After another slight bow, he melted back into the crowd.

  “A delightful fellow,” commented Rick.

  “I’d love to catch him at something. I haven’t heard back from my office on the amphorae you photographed. Of course they’ve only had the picture for a day.”

  The noise level in the room had increased, thanks to the wine which continued to flow. Canapés also circulated on trays, but the waiters carrying glasses were more popular with the guests who now gathered in front of the artwork. One of the paintings, a portrait of a woman, only had a few people studying it, and Rick suggested that he and Betta go over so that the subject wouldn’t get an inferiority complex. It was the picture Morelli had been standing in front of when they arrived.

  “La Muta,” said Betta. “It is the more important of the two Raffaellos in the museum’s permanent collection, so most of the people here have already seen it.”

  The woman was seated with her hands folded on her lap, looking directly at the artist with Mona Lisa–like indifference. The plain background accentuated the elegance of her dress, its folds picking up the light coming from her right. A long neck mirrored other works in the room, including the artist’s self-portrait, but her most striking feature was her hands, adorned by rings and holding what appeared to be a piece of parchment.

  “Why is she called the silent one?” Rick asked.

  “It’s unclear, if I recall my Raffaello course at the university. It could be the way her lips are tight, like someone who is averse to speaking, but it may refer to us not knowing the identity of the sitter, though there are various theories on that. The positioning of the hands was almost certainly influenced by those of the Mona Lisa, which Raffaello saw before painting this portrait.”

  “The hands are beautifully painted. I doubt if she’s washed many dishes.”

  “Probably not.”

  They studied the painting for a few more minutes before Rick noticed two people carrying on an animated conversation near the door. “Alfredo has arrived.”