Rick stole a look at Erica to see if her English had progressed enough to know the meaning of “muckamuck,” but her expression showed nothing. “I’m just as much in the dark about it all as you, Jeff.”
“I, for one, think the murder is somehow related to the seminar.” Randolph’s voice remained conspiratorial. “And even, mind you, connected to the two missing Jacopos.”
Erica asked the question before Rick could. “What makes you think that, Jeffrey?”
“There was a very heated exchange the final day between Fortuna and Paolo Tibaldi, the museum curator, about the missing paintings. I had the distinct impression, listening to your translation, Rick, that there was more to it than just an academic difference of opinion.”
“Jeff, do you think Tibaldi could be responsible for Fortuna’s death?”
The professor blinked, realizing what he’d said. “I probably wouldn’t go that far. But there was definitely friction. Perhaps you couldn’t see their expressions from inside your translation booth. Or see the faces of the other participants. Every one of them was glaring at Fortuna, clearly agreeing with Tibaldi.”
Rick changed the subject slightly to put Randolph at ease. “What is your opinion about the missing paintings? Do you think they’ll turn up?”
The reply was not what Rick expected.
“I do. And I don’t think we’ll have to wait another sixty years. Something is going on, otherwise we would not have seen these dust-ups. The art history community is like an extended family, and we exchange e-mails and letters frequently. There’s been a lot of comment about this.”
It sounded to Rick like chatter in terrorist cells, but he didn’t voice the thought. Could this be the “rumblings” that Beppo had mentioned? He looked up and found his excuse to take leave of the couple. “There’s the person I was going to meet. I hope you have a nice lunch.” He waved goodbyes and hurried to a man standing at the reception desk. When the man saw Rick he smiled, thanked the desk clerk and walked to meet Rick. He wore the same drab suit but with a striped shirt and brown tie.
“Salve, Riccardo, how are you?”
“Bene, grazie. Were you looking for me, Signor Innocenti?”
“I was. Something has come up that I must tell you about.”
“Is Betta all right?” It came out without Rick thinking. The old man smiled.
“Yes, yes, she’s fine. Though I worry about her riding her brother’s motorcycle.” They walked to a group of chairs at one side of the lobby but when they reached them, the older man stopped. “Have you had lunch, Riccardo? There is a small place around the corner that makes excellent tramezzini. Unless you’d like something more elegant.”
“That sounds perfect.”
Rick pushed the door of the lobby to let Innocenti step to the sidewalk. In the time Rick had been inside the hotel a thick cloud had pushed across the sky from the west, bringing with it a drop in the temperature and a few gusts of wind. They walked to a small bar a block away where a knot of teenagers, unfazed by the chill, sat at their sidewalk tables eating their sandwiches, sipping soft drinks from cans, and chattering. The two men squeezed past them, entered the bar, and walked to the glass counter behind which sandwiches of varied fillings were neatly stacked between moist napkins. Rick chose tuna with pieces of green olives, Innocenti the sliced hard-boiled egg and lettuce, and each asked for a glass of white wine. The man behind the counter went to work: tramezzini were carefully removed from the stack with wood tongs, placed on small plates over paper napkins, and passed across to the two customers. Plates and glasses in hand, they walked to a round table in one corner and sat. After they tapped wineglasses and exchanged the appropriate meal wishes, Innocenti got down to business.
“What I wanted to tell you has to do with our little investigation. Unofficial investigation, I should add. I had an unusual visitor to the gallery this morning, Professor Gaddi from the seminar. I hadn’t met him during that program—you’ll remember I sat in the back. Not sure how he found the shop, but perhaps he’s visiting various art galleries.”
Rick finished his first bite of the tramezzino. “It’s as good a way to spend one’s time as anything else, when you can’t leave town. Especially if you have an interest in art.”
“Perhaps. He began by commenting on the exhibit we have on the walls at the moment; a local artist, you’ll remember. But then he began asking about older works of art, if we ever sold paintings of old masters from the Veneto. He was curious about how it all worked, if such items come on the market often, that sort of thing.”
“Did he ask specifically about buying or selling?”
“Neither, or both, depending on how you might take his words. He never came out and said he wanted to buy or sell anything. It was all very curious.”
“It sounds like Professor Gaddi could be suspicious of something, just as we are, and has taken it upon himself to investigate.”
Innocenti sipped his wine. “A second unofficial investigation? But he could have heard something about the missing paintings, and as a serious scholar of Jacopo, he would want to find those two missing works as much as anyone. Who knows, he may be a chapter short of the definitive book on the artist and needs them to finish it.”
“Or he could be bored and is walking around Bassano. Perhaps I should keep an eye on the man.”
Innocenti finished his sandwich. He’d been hungry. “Already taken care of. Elizabetta is following him right now. I would have asked you but you would be easily recognized. Unless you have some training in tailing people.”
Rick thought about the question. His uncle had talked about surveillance many times, which Rick had found fascinating. “No. Has Betta?”
“She’s done it a few times.”
“A woman of many talents, your daughter.”
Innocenti nodded. “What about Sarchetti? He’s still the mystery man here, Riccardo. Have you had a chance to talk to him?”
First DiMaio, now Innocenti, wanting him to cozy up to Sarchetti. He pulled out his phone and dialed the hotel. “Let’s see if I can track him down.” The operator put him through to Sarchetti’s room, but Rick was not optimistic he’d find him there.
“You’re late calling.”
Rick was taken aback by Sarchetti’s greeting. “Signor Sarchetti? This is Riccardo Montoya.”
The man on the phone laughed. “Ah, Riccardo. Excuse me, I was expecting another call. Thanks for not hanging up. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’m always looking for feedback on my work, and since we are all stuck here for the time being, I’ve been asking everyone if the translation worked well for them.” He grimaced at Innocenti, who smiled back.
“I thought your translation was excellent, Riccardo, but let’s get together and chat about the conference in general. I’d like to hear what you thought of it. And it would be good to talk to someone who isn’t a stuffy art professor.”
“When would be convenient, Signor Sarchetti?”
“Riccardo, I’m not much older than you, so I’m Franco. I have appointments this afternoon and a dinner engagement. How about after dinner? A grappa at that famous bar at the end of the bridge at say, ten o’clock?”
Rick held up a thumb, and Innocenti returned the gesture. “Va bene. I’ll see you then, Franco.” He clicked his phone off. “That was easy.”
“I could hear some of what he was saying, and got the impression he wanted to talk.”
“Let’s hope so.” They both looked up when they heard the bang of the barman emptying the coffee grounds from the espresso machine. “A coffee, Signor Innocenti? Perhaps a piece of pastry to go with it? Those tramezzini were small.”
The older man stroked his chin. “To clear the palate. I noticed a crostata next to the cookies, perhaps a slice of that.”
Rick rose to his feet. “I noticed it, too.” He walked to the counter, put
in the order, and came back to his chair. “He’ll bring it.” Innocenti nodded and smiled as Rick settled into his seat. “Signor Innocenti, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you get into this business with helping the art police?”
Innocenti sighed. “It was many years ago, when my wife was still alive, bless her.” His eyes focused on something outside the window, which Rick suspected was the image of Signora Innocenti. “It was a simple case, really. A man showed up at the gallery with some artwork to sell. It was by an artist who, by coincidence, I knew well, even to the extent that I was aware of who owned which of his canvases. To make a long story short, he was arrested and I came to the attention of the culture police.”
“And Captain Scuderi?”
The barman appeared with a tray and placed the espressos and desserts on the table, along with a bowl of sugar. The crostata had the usual thin-edged pastry base covered by a yellow custard and decorated with sliced fruit: kiwi, strawberry, and grapes. The triangular slices on their plates were colorful works of art, but not colorful enough not to eat. They both added sugar to their coffee and picked up forks. After a bite, Innocenti answered Rick’s question.
“That was well before Captain Scuderi joined the office.”
Rick assumed it was also before Beppo had arrived at the ministry and begun his swift rise through the art police bureaucracy.
“It was quite small then,” Innocenti continued, “but as you know it has grown considerably. The press always finds out quickly when a major work of art is recovered due to their efforts, and that doesn’t hurt their efforts to grow their budget.”
They finished the desserts, picking up the errant crumbs with the tines of their forks, and sipped the last drops of coffee.
“It has been a pleasure, Riccardo. And I will be anxious to hear about your encounter with our Signor Sarchetti at the bridge.” He slipped on his overcoat and they walked out to the sidewalk. The outdoor tables and chairs stood empty under the gray sky, a chill wind weaving its way through their metal legs. The two men started back toward the hotel, pulling their coats around their necks. Rick looked up to see Caterina Savona coming toward them, wearing a long wool coat and boots, her uncovered head bent against the cold wind. As she got close she noticed him and stopped.
“Riccardo, we meet again. And again in passing.” She pulled a hand out of her coat pocket and pushed back the hair from her face. “Perhaps it is time we actually sit down and talk. Though I can’t now.”
“Fate seems to be telling us that, doesn’t she?” Rick replied before tending to his manners. “Caterina, I’d like you to meet Signor Fabio Innocenti, Betta’s father. Signor Innocenti, this is Caterina Savona, also a recent visitor to Bassano, with whom we had the pleasure to dine at Signor Rinaldi’s villa.”
As the two shook hands a strange look spread over the face of the older man as he murmured a greeting.
“Signor Innocenti, it is my pleasure.” She turned to Rick. “I’m afraid I’m late to a meeting, but we really should meet other than to say hello, Riccardo.”
“Absolutely.” They watched her continue down the sidewalk away from the hotel entrance. “An interesting woman,” Rick said. “At least I think so, not really knowing her.” He looked at Innocenti’s puzzled expression. “Had you met her before, Signor Innocenti? She did not seem to have recognized you.”
“No, no. I’ve never seen her before. There’s just something…” He shook his head quickly before turning to Rick. “I must get back to the gallery. With Elizabetta out I had to put up the closed sign, and now there are probably dozens of clients milling around the door, anxious to buy paintings.” He shook Rick’s hand. “My pleasure seeing you again, Riccardo.”
He crossed the street and hurried in the direction of the gallery while Rick stood on the sidewalk watching. One thing was sure—Betta had not told her father about being forced off the road the previous night. That would be expected—she didn’t want him to worry. What Rick found strange, however, was the man’s reaction to meeting Caterina. The enigmatic Signora Savona now became even more mysterious.
Chapter Nine
Italian fashion, like fashion everywhere, swung on a long pendulum. What was di moda one year would inevitably fade, replaced by something else which held its place for a few years before something new appeared or, just as likely, the previous fashion returned. Cynics would say that the industry rather than the consumer drove the fashion, and they would be correct. Nowhere was the pendulum more evident than in men’s ties. As Rick studied a long rack of them, he was grateful that in Italian tie fashion, traditional had regained its proper place. It was a mere few years ago that every man in Italy was wearing ties that looked like they’d been copied from the canvas of an abstract impressionist. Now the selection, thankfully, included stripes and sedate prints. Since he was picking out something for Uncle Piero, traditional was a requirement. He finally settled on a tie with stripes of various widths and colors, pulled it off the dowel holding the display, and walked to the cash register. His cell phone rang as he handed over his credit card, and he smiled when he read the number.
“Ciao, Betta, dové sei?”
Her voice was so low he could hardly hear her. “I’m here at the ceramics museum, watching Professor Gaddi. I was starting to think that following him was a waste of time, but he just got a phone call and seemed to get quite agitated. Now he’s looking at the exhibits, but his mind isn’t on it. He keeps checking his watch.”
Rick pushed the phone to his ear while he signed the slip. “It sounds like he’s going to meet someone. I’m close by, I’ll come over there but stay out of sight.”
“All right, but—wait, he just looked at his watch again and now is walking toward the exit. I’ll talk to you later.” She was gone.
Rick turned off his phone, took the small bag from the salesgirl, and asked her the location of the ceramics museum. As he’d thought, it was only a few blocks away. He thanked her and left the store, folding the bag carefully and slipping it into his coat pocket. A few minutes later he reached the street he wanted, narrow and one way, on a hill sloping down toward the river. He could see what he assumed was the museum entrance in the distance, a wide gate in the high stone wall guarding what had once been a patrician residence. He kept close to the stores on the opposite side of the street, ready to duck in if Gaddi materialized. Instead he saw Betta appear at the gate, an annoyed look on her face. She was surrounded by a gaggle of children, all dressed in the same school uniform. Rick strode quickly down the hill. When he reached her the kids were all talking at once.
“The old man? He was picked up by blue Fiat.”
“No, it was a Simca, and it was gray.”
“Dark green.”
“Purple. It’s my favorite color.”
“Lady, are you a cop?”
“Is the old man a criminal?”
“Did he rob a bank?”
Betta was about to attempt an answer when a nun appeared, glared at Betta and Rick, and shooed the brood away. They giggled and chattered as they were led down the street.
“That’s the problem with eyewitnesses,” Rick said. “They’re never reliable.” He was grinning but Betta was not.
“I waited for a few moments so I would not be right on his back, but when I got out he was gone. All we can be sure of, it appears, is that he got into someone’s car.”
“I hope it was red, that’s my favorite color.”
She poked him. “Now what do we do?”
“I don’t think there’s much we can do about Gaddi, and it’s now late afternoon. Why don’t we do some research? We may find out more about the paintings that way than from following these people.”
“I know the perfect place to do it.”
***
Rick was hoping that the perfect place for research was at the computer in Betta’s apartment, but it turned out to be the
city archives. They were housed in a seventeenth-century stone building which, along with a baroque church, took up one side of a wide piazza. The structure had once housed a religious school for the wealthy male youth of the city, connected not just structurally, but also spiritually and administratively with the adjacent church. In the last century, when the school closed, its building had been taken over by the municipal government and everyone agreed that the school library was the perfect space for the archives. Two stories high and domed by a multicolored skylight, wood bookshelves ran along its walls, the top volumes reached by a rolling ladder. Circling the room was a balcony with more shelves, some of them encased in glass. Grouped on the floor below, desks with gooseneck lamps allowed the scholars to pore over their work, though today they were armed with computers rather than quilled pens and parchment. To make things easier, the entire center of Bassano, including the archives, was a WiFi hot spot.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Betta spoke in almost a whisper, in keeping with the atmosphere.
“It certainly is. Are all those books real, or are they painted on?”
“You can go check while I see if Gisa is here.” She went off in search of a friend who was the assistant director of the archive. Rick walked to the shelves and couldn’t resist pushing the tall ladder that was attached with rollers to rails at both top and bottom. A man looked up from his book when it squeaked, flashing an annoyed grimace. Rick ignored the man and checked out the books, which were indeed real—hand-tooled leather spines embossed with gold leaf titles. He recognized none of them. Betta appeared at the door with an attractive woman her same age, dressed in jeans and a baggy sweater. Reading glasses with leashes were her only concession to the librarian stereotype. Betta introduced her and they shook hands.
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