Murder Most Unfortunate

by David P. Wagner

  Rick walked to the elevator and was about to press the call button when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

  “Buon giorno, Riccardo.”

  “Buon giorno, Caterina. Nice to see you again.”

  “Altretanto. I so enjoyed meeting you and Betta. You make a lovely couple.”

  Rick almost returned the compliment, but opted against it. Instead he let his curiosity get the best of him. “I didn’t recall your saying last night that you knew Sarchetti.”

  She glanced back at where they’d been sitting. “You are very observant, Riccardo. In fact I hadn’t met him, but since his name came up at dinner I made a point of doing so this morning. We are both in the art business.”

  “I never heard exactly what part of that business you’re in.” Was the smile on her face forced or genuine?

  “Buying and selling is what I’m involved in, Riccardo, like Franco Sarchetti.”

  “I wouldn’t think the arts community is that large in Milano. You hadn’t met him before?”

  “I’ve only recently moved to Milan from Rome, so I’m getting to know the players. Your questions make you sound like a policeman, Riccardo.” She turned and walked away.

  ***

  The Museo Civico di Bassano del Grappa was one of the oldest city museums in the Veneto region, dating to 1828 when a local natural history scholar donated his collection to the city. Over the decades it grew from plants and animals to include archeology, sculpture, and painting, as well as its extensive collection of Jacopo da Bassano. The museum was blessed with a building that was a work of art in itself, the ex-convent of Saint Francis. Rick and Betta sat at a stone bench at the edge of its cloister, enjoying the open square of sky and grass.

  “Why didn’t you tell me last night, Riccardo?”

  “You were so upset I didn’t want to add to it.”

  Two boys from a school group ran out into the perfectly manicured grass to peer into a round, stone well at one corner. One whispered something and the other giggled. Their teacher called out and the two scurried back under the cloister roof.

  “You probably did the right thing.” She watched the kids march into the main part of the museum. “You are sure that the car was the one that passed us when we stopped to look at the villa yesterday?”

  He held up a hand. “I didn’t say I was sure. There are a lot of dark sedans in Italy, and especially here in the Veneto. But that’s my hunch.”

  “And when we were stopped, with our visors up, the driver recognized us—”

  “Likely me.” No need to alarm her more, he thought.

  “Recognized one of us, and then followed us that evening. But why?”

  “I’d love to know. In the afternoon he could have been following Sarchetti, and we got in the way.”

  “Then why would he care about where we were going for dinner?”

  He shrugged. “Your mentioning Sarchetti reminds me. I ran into Caterina in the lobby this morning.”

  “Just getting back to the hotel?” She chuckled. “Sorry, that was not nice.”

  Rick forced a frown. “Certainly not. But the interesting thing was that she was chatting with Sarchetti.”

  Betta’s eyes widened, making them even more attractive. “But she said last night…”

  “She came up to me while I was waiting for the elevator. I asked her about it, and she said that after learning Sarchetti was in town, she made a point of meeting him. I believe her. I think.”

  “There’s something very strange about that woman, Riccardo.”

  “Mysterious is the word I would use.” He got to his feet. “Except for one private viewing of the Jacopo collection, I never got out of the conference room during the seminar, so I’m looking forward to seeing the rest of the museum with your guidance. I’ve never had a museum guide whose beauty matched the artwork on the walls.”

  She took his arm. “You do have a way with words, Riccardo.”

  “It’s my life’s work, Betta.”

  They entered a long corridor. Paintings hung on both walls, those on one side positioned between the rectangular, curtained windows which looked out on the cloister. Rick pictured nuns walking the corridor when it was a convent, whispering prayers with beads in their hands, an occasional crucifix hanging from the walls rather than brightly colored paintings.

  Betta gestured toward the walls. “This section holds paintings of the sixteenth century, including several by Jacopo’s sons. The religious themes are typical of the period, and similar to the style of the master.”

  “His sons copied him.”

  “Derivative is the term art historians use. Doesn’t sound as harsh.”

  They were viewing one of the larger paintings when a man entered the corridor and stepped rapidly along it deep in thought. His eyes followed the tiled floor rather than the paintings. When he got to the two visitors he looked up and paused.

  “Riccardo. I didn’t know you were coming to the museum today—you should have asked for me.” He shook hands with Rick.

  “Dottor Tibaldi, I didn’t want to be a nuisance, we’re just playing tourists. This is my friend Betta Innocenti. Betta, Dottor Tibaldi is the curator of the museum and was the organizer of the seminar where I interpreted.” Another handshake was exchanged.

  “Why don’t you come into my office for a moment? Then I’ll let you get back to your tourism.”

  Along the hall and up a flight of stairs they passed through a “staff only” door and eventually to a room overlooking the courtyard. Rick wondered if it had once belonged to the mother superior, but didn’t ask. Two paintings with a religious theme hung on one wall, a newly framed poster for the seminar on another. The desk was metal and glass. Tibaldi invited them to sit in two of the modern leather chairs arranged in one corner of the room. Modern furniture was virtually a requirement for any office in Italy inside an ancient building. The curator offered coffee which they politely declined. He sat, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and turned to Betta.

  “Are you new to Bassano, too, like Riccardo?”

  “No, in fact I live here.”

  Tibaldi squinted his eyes. “You do look familiar. Could we have met before?”

  “I come to the museum often.”

  “Excellent. First and foremost our museum is for the residents of the city. But of course we welcome outside visitors, Riccardo. You have recovered from the seminar? I can’t imagine how exhausting interpretation must be.”

  “That’s why we insist on having at least two of us so we can take breaks. The seminar went well, Dottore, from your point of view?”

  Tibaldi leaned back and steepled his fingers together. “Unquestionably. The museum can’t stand still, it must constantly demonstrate its relevance, not only to the city but also to the arts community in general.”

  The man was sounding like some of the university fund-raisers Rick had known in Albuquerque. “What are your future plans?” he asked, “to demonstrate that relevance.”

  “Continuing to be the foremost center for the study of local artists, as this seminar demonstrated. And expanding our collection of works is paramount.”

  “Including the acquisition of more paintings by Jacopo da Bassano?”

  Tibaldi’s face showed that Betta’s question took him by surprise, but he quickly recovered. “Unfortunately, there are few Jacopos on the market, if any, Signora Innocenti.”

  “But Riccardo mentioned hearing about some missing works. What about them?”

  Once again Betta’s technique impressed Rick. He couldn’t have asked that question, but with a smile as innocent as her name, she pulled it off.

  Tibaldi cleared his throat before answering. “It is unfortunate that some of the precious time in the seminar was devoted to paintings that have not been seen for decades, and unfortunately may be destroyed, rather than concentrating on kno
wn works such as those in our collection.”

  ***

  “It was interesting that Dottor Tibaldi didn’t mention the death of Fortuna.” Betta led Rick through the main gallery.

  “But understandable. If it had been just the two of us, he might have brought it up, but not with you there.” Rick looked around as they entered a new room. “Here’s the Canova room; tell me about him.”

  Betta returned happily to her role of docent. After viewing the sculpture they spent a long time with the Jacopo works, walked through an archeology section, passed quickly through rooms reflecting the natural history interests of the museum’s first benefactor, and then viewed paintings from the nineteenth century. Rick found once more that what Americans might consider very old art was considered modern in Italy. Every term is relative, especially in the art world. Betta checked her watch and told Rick that she had to get back to the gallery to help her father. As they walked toward the entrance they passed the door to the large room they had seen earlier, the one featuring the works of Jacopo da Bassano.

  “Just a moment, Betta.” On the single couch in the middle of the room a man in a rumpled suit stared at the painting before him. “It’s Professor Gaddi. You remember which one he is. I should go over and talk to him.”

  “Of course, Riccardo.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Call me. Ciao.”

  Rick watched her disappear around the end of the corridor before walking toward the professor. The old man’s eyes never wavered from the picture before him, a colorful scene filled with figures gathering around Christ, who knelt on the pavement before the only woman in the grouping. Merging columns behind the figures gave the impression they were in a temple or other public building. In the distance, idyllic landscape added a Leonardesque touch.

  “Professor, may I join you?”

  Gaddi snapped out of his reverie. “Ah, Riccardo; of course, please do.”

  Rick took a seat and turned his attention to the painting. “I sense that this may be one of your favorite Jacopos in the collection. Am I right?”

  He smiled at Rick before returning his eyes to the painting. “One of many favorites, it recounts the story of Christ and the adulteress. He is pestered by the scribes to make a pronouncement on the woman and her punishment, and his reply is that he who is without sin should cast the first stone. It is a memorable phrase, at the same time unfortunately a sad commentary on mankind.”

  “But a true one.” He noted the contrast between the faces of the Philistine men who surrounded the adulteress and that of Christ.

  Gaddi nodded in silent response. They continued to study the work until the old man spoke again. “It is always a pleasure to spend time with Jacopo, but I hope this investigation is ended soon. I must return home.”

  “Classes to teach.”

  Gaddi shook his head. “Classes are the least of my concerns. The students can wait, and usually would prefer to wait. No, Riccardo, my concern is more personal. My wife is ill, has been for several months, and I cannot leave her side for long. Our daughter is there now, but she should return to her own family.”

  “Is your wife receiving the medical care she needs?”

  Gaddi kept his eyes trained on the canvas. “The doctors of the health service try their best, but she doesn’t improve. I can’t afford to take her to a private clinic or out of the country. Not on a professor’s salary.” He turned to Rick with a wry smile. “I didn’t mean to burden you with an old man’s problems, Riccardo, but there is something about you that makes me feel comfortable talking about it.”

  Rick didn’t know how to respond. He could do nothing for the poor man, but if letting him talk about his problems had helped, he was glad to listen. There was one thing that Rick could do, which at least would get Professor Gaddi back to his home sooner—he could help solve the murder of Fortuna.

  ***

  Rick found the police station easily. Ever since the time of the Red Brigades, heavy security had been added to questure around Italy, and bureaucratic inertia made it impossible to draw it down in more tranquil times. An armed and body-armored policeman, a bored look on his face, stood in front of the building, facing a triangular square below the castle which dominated the highest point on Bassano’s hill. Perhaps in ancient times the work of keeping the peace had been lodged behind the castle walls. Now it simply moved outside them to make it less imposing for the average citizen. Once inside the station Rick realized he could be in any police station in the country—like going into a McDonald’s and finding the same atmosphere, uniforms, and aromas. He walked to the desk where a bored sergeant sat reading a magazine with pictures, the pages barely visible below the counter.

  “Riccardo Montoya to see Detective DiMaio. He may be expecting me.” That wasn’t true, but Rick didn’t think DiMaio would mind, and it got the attention of the sergeant. He asked Rick to please wait, and disappeared through a door behind him. A few moments later DiMaio’s face popped from a door of the waiting area, and he waved Rick toward him.

  “Riccardo, I thought you might have skipped town. I was about to send your photo to the border guards.” He slapped Rick on the back and led the way down a corridor into a windowless office that held a desk with one chair on either side, a metal filing cabinet, and a coat rack. “This room used to be a broom closet, but there wasn’t enough room for the brooms. Please sit. What news? Have you discovered Fortuna’s murderer?”

  Rick sat in a metal chair that creaked slightly under his weight. “I came by to ask you the same thing. I’ve been trying to find out something about those two missing paintings.”

  The policeman nodded slowly. “I see. An interesting diversion while you wait for us to solve the homicide. It will be embarrassing if you find your paintings before we find the murderer.”

  “I assumed that you and Occasio would have had the culprit in shackles by now.”

  DiMaio shrugged. “Things don’t move as quickly here as in Rome, which is quite ironic, really. No, we do not have even a strong suspect yet. Still sorting out the details.” Rick leaned forward and waited, and the detective took the hint. “The place where the body was found has been thoroughly checked out—oh, but you don’t know where poor Fortuna was found, do you? It was in a side street, an alley really, near the museum.” He noticed Rick’s reaction. “Which would put suspicion on someone from the museum, you’re thinking. Not necessarily. It could be that the murderer wanted us to think that a museum employee was involved, or he wanted the death to be connected with the site of your little seminar.”

  “Or just coincidence.”

  DiMaio snapped his fingers and pointed one at Rick. “Bravo. So the murder scene is irrelevant. Especially since our forensic people think he was brought there from the place where he was, in fact, done in. Could have been anywhere.” He glanced around the room and grinned at Rick. “Well, likely not here.”

  “So he was killed somewhere else and then dumped. From a car?”

  “That is most likely. He was bleeding from a stab wound, and we unfortunately did not find a smeared trail of blood where he was dragged through the streets, leading us back to the site of the murder. That would have helped.”

  “Indeed.”

  DiMaio rubbed his chin. “We interviewed the waiters at the restaurant, and they confirmed what we’d heard from the others, including you. The way they remembered it—and we showed them a photo of the victim—Fortuna talked with everyone at the end when you were all standing around drinking grappa. One waiter said he recalled our victim spending a long time at the very end with two of them. He wanted everyone to leave so he could go home.”

  “Who were the two?”

  “From the description it was Sarchetti, the art dealer from Milan, and he confirmed that when I talked to him this morning. The other was Tibaldi, of the museum.”

  “So they closed the place up.”

  “It appe
ars so. Tibaldi stayed in the private dining room to thank the waiters, since he was the nominal host. The waiters confirmed that. And Sarchetti says he talked with Fortuna for a few minutes outside the restaurant before our victim went his way, which was not toward the hotel.” He paused for effect and lowered his voice. “Off to his appointment with murder. Un omicidio sfortunato, you could say.”

  Rick was impressed by the play on words with Fortunato’s name. “Very unfortunate indeed, for him.”

  “So true.”

  A harsh voice interrupted the conversation. “What’s he doing here?”

  Rick turned to see Inspector Occasio in the doorway, eyes squinted and mouth twisted into a frown. Both men got up from their chairs.

  “I had some more questions for Signor Montoya, Inspector. I wanted to cross check his answers with what we’ve gotten from the other witnesses.”

  His expression unchanged, Occasio looked at Rick and then back at his detective. “Finish up with him. I have something for you to do.” His short steps were audible after he left. DiMaio listened for a moment before turning to Rick.

  “Probably needs coffee. But Riccardo, I have told you what is happening, now you must give me your thoughts. The nephew of Commissario Fontana must have something to tell me since he has taken the trouble to come my office. Or is this purely a social call?”

  “I wish I could help, Alfredo. The mystery man here, as you told me yesterday, is Franco Sarchetti. He shows up at the conference as something of an interested non-academic, and now he is, by his own admission, the last person to see Fortuna alive.”

  DiMaio leaned forward, glanced at the door and back at Rick. “Perhaps you could nose around a bit, get to know Signor Sarchetti better. You being, of course—”

  “Yes, I know, Alfredo, the nephew of Commissario Fontana.”

  “Exactly. But don’t tell Inspector Occasio I suggested it.”

  ***

  After the darkness of DiMaio’s office, Rick took a few moments to adjust his eyes to the sunshine in front of the police station. The small square had been filled with cars jammed every which way when he’d walked through it earlier, and it seemed even more congested now. He watched an old cinquecento as it tried to squeeze between two larger cars to claim enough space to be out of passing traffic. Even if the driver is able to do it, Rick wondered, how would the man get out of the car? Through the canvas sunroof?