To Die in Tuscany

by David P. Wagner

  Betta looked to see DiMaio standing silently with arms folded while Vitellozzi moved his hands and talked. At the end of what had to be his explanation of something, the director gave the policeman a “What’s the big deal?” shrug. Whatever he’d said, Alfredo did not appear to be convinced. His face indicated that the discussion was ended, and he looked around the room. He spotted Rick and Betta, said something to Vitellozzi, and strode toward them between the invitees.

  “It didn’t appear that you were congratulating our museum director on the event,” Rick said when he reached them.

  “Ciao, Betta; ciao, Rick. No, I was asking him where he was at the time Bruzzone was shot at, and he didn’t have much of an answer. I also inquired about something I found out when we did a check of travel records.” He looked even more fatigued than when they’d seen him at lunch. The circles around his eyes appeared darker, as did his unshaven face.

  “And that would be?” asked Betta.

  “Vitellozzi flew to Madrid twice in the last couple years.” DiMaio flagged down a waiter and took a glass from the tray. “The first trip was around the time Somonte purchased the drawing, the second a few months ago, just before it was announced that the donation would go to the Sansepolcro museum.” He took a long drink of the wine. “This is just what I needed.”

  “I suppose he told you he was consulting with his major donor about support for the museum, including this exhibit.”

  “That’s precisely what I expected him to say, Betta, and he didn’t disappoint me. He also said that losing Somonte, such a great benefactor, will be a major blow to this museum.”

  “Meaning,” said Rick, “‘I didn’t kill him so take me off the suspects list.’”

  “Exactly. And he has a point. But guess who else has been traveling to Spain.” He started to raise the half-empty glass to his lips.

  “Morelli?”

  DiMaio lowered the glass and looked at Betta. “How did you know?”

  “Do you think we’re just here to enjoy the art? He told us a few minutes ago.”

  “And, Alfredo, Betta got it out of him without any heavy-handed interrogation methods, I might add. He said he was buying olive oil in the south, the other end of the country from Somonte’s wool mill. Which rings true. It’s not as if he and Somonte were close friends, Alfredo.”

  DiMaio let out a deep sigh that immediately turned into a yawn. “Sorry.” He looked around the room. “What other information have you two dug up?”

  Rick and Betta exchanged looks.

  “Tell him,” Rick said.

  She recounted her visit to Vitellozzi’s office, which didn’t appear to concern DiMaio greatly, perhaps because he was too exhausted to become upset. “You get points for the initiative, Betta, but there isn’t much there for me to work with.”

  Rick was about to say that his reaction was the same, but he held his tongue. Instead he said, “You missed the excitement when an inebriated Signora Somonte addressed the group.”

  That got the policeman’s interest. “Really? What did she say?”

  “Not much, except that she blamed Italy for her husband’s death and almost said that she thinks someone present this evening is responsible. Then Garcia hustled her off the podium.”

  “The rant of a grieving widow. I wish I could have seen it. She could have at least done me the favor of narrowing it down to a half dozen names.” He deposited his glass on a passing tray. “You two enjoy the art. I’m going to do my best to avoid our mayor and that journalist, both of whom I spotted when I came in. I’m going to slip out and return to the office.” He left their side and took a circuitous route to avoid encountering Pilar Somonte, who was talking with a woman twice her age.

  “Betta, has something crossed your mind about Vitellozzi’s trips to Spain?”

  “That he went there to convince Somonte to donate the sketch to his museum, and when the man refused, he found other means to get it? Which is why he had the book in his office marked with Somonte’s card, one that he must have been given on one of those trips.”

  Rick kept his eyes on Pilar. “That’s possible, of course, but it’s not what I was thinking.”

  She took his hand. “And what were you thinking?”

  “That Vitellozzi may have gone to Spain to see someone else.”

  * * *

  Betta and Rick had eaten enough canapés so that regular dinner didn’t sound appealing. Nor did the idea of going back to the hotel, thanks to all the theories about the investigation running through their heads, none of them making much sense. A wine bar they’d passed earlier seemed like a good alternative to a full restaurant meal and would give them the opportunity to unwind and talk about what they’d heard during the exhibit opening. Located near their hotel, the place was not much wider than the window and door that faced the street, but went back deeply into the building. Behind the bar that ran along the right wall, two women in long white aprons served up wine and small plates of food to go with it. The clientele was young and casually dressed, likely university students, making Rick feel aged in his jacket and tie. The air was filled with animated conversation and the smell of what in Spain would be called tapas. The largest tables could accommodate four people, but most of them held only two. One had just emptied, and Betta took possession of it while Rick turned to the bar.

  “After that prosecco, I’m ready for something red,” she called to him as she sat down. The height of the table was matched by stools with sturdy backs. Rick asked the barmaid for two glasses of a local red of her choice, and returned to the table holding a scribbled card with the evening’s fare. He passed it to Betta.

  “It may be the aromas in this place,” said Rick, “but all of a sudden I’m hungry.” He looked at the plates at other tables.

  “After that big lunch we had, you’re hungry again?”

  “We didn’t have pasta at lunch.”

  “Did you always have pasta at lunch when you lived in America?”

  “This isn’t America.”

  She shook her head and moved her eyes over the menu card. “Some bruschetta, for sure. Oh, and look at this: formaggio di fossa. That’s a local specialty. I remember having it years ago when I came here with my parents. I thought it was a funny name. If those two aren’t enough we can order something else.”

  She passed the menu back to Rick, who perused it quickly. “Cave cheese?”

  “It’s semisoft, made with sheep or cows’ milk, and has a sharp flavor. According to tradition, the cheese was stored in pits inside caves to keep marauding armies from discovering it. But they still let it mature in them today to give it the unique taste.”

  “Sounds like a gimmick.” He walked to the bar and put in their order. The wine had been poured so he brought the two glasses back to the table. “She said this is a Rosso Piceno from a vineyard owned by her brother-in-law. We’d better tell her it’s wonderful even if it isn’t.” They tapped glasses and sipped. “Fortunately, it’s good.”

  They didn’t talk for a few minutes until Betta broke the silence.

  “We have to admit it; this investigation is going nowhere. The Piero drawing could be in someone’s suitcase halfway to China, for all we know. If it never goes on the market, it’s gone forever, or at least for our lifetimes. The only result of this investigation is that it will show up as a negative report in my personnel file.”

  “Not every case ends successfully, Betta. They can’t hold this against you.”

  Her lips formed a bitter smile. “I work in a bureaucracy. Anyone who wants to get past me on the promotions list will be sure the system remembers that Betta Innocenti was the one who lost the Piero drawing. I can easily name a few who are watching this case very closely, ready to pounce.”

  This line of conversation would not go anywhere, he knew. Better to get her mind on something other than the backstabbers in her office. �
��Why don’t we go over the various players in this affair, Betta? Maybe something will jump out. That’s what they do in the crime novels.”

  She laughed, but it was not a happy laugh. “We should be consulting with Florio…he’s the expert on crime novels.” She took another drink of the rosso, which seemed to help her attitude. “You’re right. Then let’s start with our museum director. We just found out that he has also made some trips to Spain, and you have insinuated that he may have been interested as much in Pilar as her father.”

  “Just a thought.”

  “They did seem pretty cozy tonight when she came in. If we take your line of thinking to its logical conclusion, Pilar didn’t get along with her father and wanted to take over the business, and Vitellozzi wanted the drawing for the museum, thinking he could talk the widow into changing the donation.”

  Rick nodded. “The drawing conveniently turns up, he gets the widow’s ear, and it ends up in Urbino’s Palazzo Ducale, after all. Of course she could sell it again. That would be what I’d expect of the woman. Probably sell it to another Spaniard.”

  A young man wearing a white apron appeared at their table carrying two dishes that he put between them. He looked so much like one of the women behind the bar that he had to be her brother. From the apron pocket he extracted silverware wrapped in napkins, placed them next to the plates, and wished them a buon appetito. The bruschetta was what Rick expected: a meaty paté spread over toasted slices of crusty bread. The other plate was different, and they both leaned closer to take in the arrangement of items. Pieces of the same crusty toast overlapped each other on one side, a white slab of the cheese was in the middle, and a small cup of what looked to be fruit preserves sat on the other side. Betta explained that a slice of the cheese went on the toast, and then a bit of the preserves—which they realized were cherry—would be spread lightly over the cheese. The sweetness of the fruit, she assured him, would be a needed contrast to the tartness of the cheese.

  Rick followed the directions and found that she was exactly right. “What about Florio?” he asked after his second bite. “I know he’s difficult to take seriously, but the murder did take place in his gardens, and he is definitely milking it to the maximum.”

  “Not to mention that he knows all about planning a murder from reading mysteries.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “No, Rick, I’m not. Let’s move on to Morelli.”

  He tried the bruschetta. It was unlike and perhaps better than the bruschetta at lunch yesterday. “It’s a good thing there’s an even number here so we won’t have to fight over the extra piece.”

  “Take one of mine. You said you were hungry.”

  “You are too kind, Betta. All right, back to Morelli, the man you love to hate. He does make a good villain, I have to admit, and he doesn’t have a real alibi for either the night of the murder or this morning’s attempt on Bruzzone. His motive, of course, is the drawing. He wanted it, didn’t get it, and held a grudge for missing out. By killing Somonte, he both gets revenge for being humiliated by being out-bid, and he gets the drawing that he can enjoy in the privacy of his own home.”

  Betta sipped her wine. “I may be wrong, but I don’t think his ego would allow him to possess a work of art that he couldn’t show to his guests.”

  Two people left the table behind them and were quickly replaced by a pair of students who squeezed past Rick and Betta to lay claim to the empty places. Groups stood by the door keeping an eye on the room, ready to pounce. The place was getting more popular as the evening progressed.

  “Thank goodness we got here when we did,” said Rick. “Do you want another wine? We can try a glass of something different.”

  “Why not? At least I can tell the people at my office that I discovered some new wines, even if I didn’t discover who took the drawing.”

  Rick was not happy with her self-pity. It wasn’t his favorite side of Betta, but he just shook his head and took the two steps to the bar. After consulting with the barmaid, he returned to his seat. “I told her the Rosso Piceno was excellent and asked for something else local. She’s pouring something from the hills between here and Pesaro, called Focara Rosso. You did want to stay with red, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, for sure.” She took another bite of the cheese on toast. “Who’s next? How about the Spanish contingent? Signora Somonte may have a strong motive, especially if Garcia was more than just her husband’s special assistant. With Somonte out of the picture, she gets a hefty inheritance and her boyfriend full-time as a bonus.”

  “It would have been easy for Garcia to follow him as he left the hotel and then pulled the gun.” Rick raised a hand to hold a thought. “Wait, how about this: knowing his boss had a key, he might have talked Somonte into showing him the gardens and then done him in when they got there. We’ve always assumed that the murderer forced Somonte there at gunpoint, but perhaps that wasn’t necessary.”

  “And the grieving widow is waiting for him back at the hotel. That’s possible.”

  Rick noticed that the woman behind the bar was pouring two glasses of red wine. He got off the stool and asked if it was theirs, and when she nodded, he brought them back to the table. When he put one in front of Betta, he noticed that the two serving plates were almost empty. “Do you want me to order something else?”

  “Not for me,” Betta said, “but go ahead if you’re still hungry.”

  “No, this glass of wine will do it. Where were we?”

  “Discussing the Spaniards. But because of the attempt on Bruzzone, it makes more sense that our murderer is someone from here in Urbino, which brings us back to our favorite private collector and museum director. And that takes us to Bruzzone’s own theory that the person who shot him found out that he’d suggested to me that the police talk to Vitellozzi and Morelli. One of them got word of what he’d said to me, was not happy about it, and stormed into his shop with the gun.”

  Rick put down his glass after a drink. “You’re forgetting the other possible motive, Betta. Alfredo came up with it after they took Bruzzone off to have his head bandaged up.”

  She was about to take a drink but lowered her glass. “And that was?”

  “The person who shot at him was not upset about what he’d said to the police but rather by what he might say. Bruzzone may well have more information to tell the cops, and the murderer wanted to be sure he kept quiet.”

  “He would have kept very quiet if the bullet had hit him rather than the wall.”

  “If that theory is correct, it’s no wonder he was so nervous tonight when we talked to him.”

  “Let’s see how nervous he is tomorrow when we speak to him again.” She stared at the glass but didn’t drink. “Do you know what worries me the most, Rick?”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “It’s the drawing, isn’t it?”

  A half smile formed at the corner of her mouth. “You know me too well.” She squeezed his hand, then withdrew it to pick up her glass. “I think this is better than the first one.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The ring came at the perfect time. Rick stopped, leaned forward with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, and pulled the phone from his pocket. As he expected, the call was from his uncle, the only other early riser he knew. He guessed that Piero had reviewed the case on his computer screen and thought, correctly, that now was a time his nephew would be free to talk.

  “Commissario Fontana, it is an honor to speak with you.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Riccardo. From your voice I suspect I have found you, as I expected I would, in the midst of your morning run. I hope this is not inconvenient.”

  “Not at all. I have just climbed one of the steeper streets of Urbino and can use the respite, if you’ll excuse my panting. I imagine you are calling to see how the case is progressing.”

  “You imagine correc
tly. I have been following DiMaio’s reports, and reading between the lines I get the sense that he has reached a dead end.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell. Last night at the big art opening at the Palazzo Ducale we spoke with several of the people involved, but we didn’t get much from them.”

  Piero took a moment to respond. “The reports I read don’t say much about the missing drawing, but I suspect that there is nothing new there as well. How is Betta taking it?”

  It was just like his uncle to worry about Betta. Piero didn’t disguise his fondness for her, and would be more than happy if she were to become part of the family, but he would never say that to Rick. Such meddling was something an Italian mother would do, not an Italian uncle. At least not this Italian uncle.

  “She’s frustrated, as you can imagine. She thought Sansepolcro was just going to be a ceremonial event, representing the ministry at the donation of an important work of art, and then it turned into an investigation. You could see her excitement. But that’s starting to wane, even though it’s been only three days.”

  “Homicide cases start to go cold immediately, and I would assume it’s the same with stolen art.” Again there was a short pause. “Do you think DiMaio is handling this case well?”

  Rick recalled that after the Bassano investigation he had asked his uncle to put in a good word about Alfredo. He hoped Piero was not having second thoughts about doing so. “As far as I can tell, I would say he is, but you probably see more than I do from reading his reports.”

  “Reports never tell the whole story.”

  The whole story would include DiMaio’s initial relationship with the daughter of the victim. Rick would wait until getting back to Rome to mention that detail to his uncle. If then.

  “Riccardo, I have to go. Let me know when you’re coming home. Baci per Betta.”

  “Ciao, Zio.” He stuffed the phone into the small pocket, took a few jumps in place, and started back toward the center of town. Running downhill, especially down a steep hill, required considerably more care than staggering uphill, as Rick had done at the start of his run. He was at the end of the loop, which had taken him to the tops of both of Urbino’s principal hills and now descended Via Raffaello. The street was starting to come to life, making the avoidance of groggy pedestrians another concern. He slowed as he passed the house of Raphael, vowing that this would be the day to make a visit. It was almost across the street from Bruzzone’s art gallery, where they would be making a call after breakfast, so why not visit the birthplace of the city’s most famous native as well? He passed the gallery and didn’t see any movement inside, but that was to be expected given the early hour. A few steps later he made the turn to start down Via Mazzini, and a minute after that he turned onto the Hotel Botticelli’s street. When he got to the room, Betta had already gone to breakfast. He showered, dressed, and went down to join her. As always after his morning run, he was in need of calories.