Murder Most Unfortunate

by David P. Wagner

  “Gisa says they have files on the final days of the war, so there could be something in them about the missing paintings. There is also an archive on Jacopo da Bassano that could be useful.”

  “I’ll bring out what we have, Riccardo, and if you don’t find what you need I can try somewhere else.” Gisa waved her hand at one of the tables. “Why don’t you two sit here and make yourselves comfortable.” She gave Betta a wink and walked off.

  “What was that about?” Rick asked.

  “She’ll be calling me tonight to find out all about you.”

  “But you don’t know all about me.”

  “What little I do know she’ll pry out of me.”

  About half the places at the tables were occupied. Rick noticed that the age of the researchers fell into two groups: quite young or quite old. The gray heads were salted among the youth who were either university students or the upper class from the liceo. The younger studiosi were evenly divided by sex, while the older ones were mostly men. Another indication of changes going on in Italy.

  Gisa appeared after a few minutes, her arms filled with files which she placed on the table between them. “Buona lettura.”

  She left, and Rick and Betta started to go through the materials, she taking those dealing with Jacopo, he the war history.

  Mixed among lists of names and dates were stories of the final months of the war. Rome had been liberated in June of 1944, after which the Allies continued their slog up the Italian peninsula, but Bassano remained under German control until the following spring. The stories told of a city in chaos, withering under the iron hand of the occupying power with dreadful consequences for those who resisted. But the Italians had eventually won their city back. Since he knew history was written mostly by the winners, Rick could not help wondering how much of these accounts was accurate. And as importantly, what stories had remained untold and never reached the archives. After a half hour he found something and tapped Betta on the arm.

  “Here’s something interesting.” He ran his finger down a page of names and stopped at one. “A German infantry battalion, stationed east of here before finally withdrawing into Austria, had an oberlutnant named Karl Muller. That’s the name of the German participant in the seminar, and he told me that his grandfather had been in this area during the war. Do you think that he was named after his grandfather? The ages would be about right.”

  Betta leaned back in the chair, removed her glasses, and rubbed her eyes. “I’m not an expert in German names, Riccardo, but I think both Karl and Muller are quite common.”

  “You’re probably right. Have you found anything in your Jacopo materials?

  “The two paintings went missing in April of 1945, which we knew already.”

  “That’s about the time Lieutenant Muller was here in the province.”

  “Along with thousands of other armed men and women. But you’ll like something else I found—the villa from which they were taken is just east of here, near Fossalunga.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  She held up her hand. “I don’t think it’s where we had dinner, but it’s possible. The names of these villas change when someone buys them, as you’d expect, unless the original owner was famous enough that it adds prestige to the new owners and they keep the old name.” She realized that her voice had gone back to normal, and looked around to see if anyone was listening. No one was. “But there are quite a few villas around this province,” she whispered. “There is a folder of clippings from the time about the paintings. The family didn’t have them insured, not that they would have been covered anyway.”

  “War and insurrection. Standard disclaimers in insurance policies.”

  “There was some talk that the family had sold them before the war when they were in trouble financially, but didn’t want to admit it. Then they claimed the paintings had been stolen to save face. But that could be some journalist inventing a good story. The family denied it.”

  “I’d be shocked if that really happened.”

  Betta frowned. “That they’d sold the paintings?”

  “No, that an Italian journalist would invent a story.” He put his hand over hers. “I think we’ve done enough research. Unfortunately I have to check my e-mails at the hotel. I’m expecting a contract from America to do an Italian version of a magazine article. It’s morning in America, and that’s when people back there usually send me messages. It is the weary lot of a professional translator, always waiting for the next job. But I will be done by dinner time.”

  “I should go back to the gallery.”

  “While you’re working, think about where I’ll be taking you for dinner.”

  ***

  As Rick started up the Viale dei Martiri gathering clouds began blocking out the view of the mountains, perhaps in anticipation of a late afternoon shower. He had brought a raincoat on the trip, but his umbrella sat in the closet of his apartment in Rome. It had been wishful thinking, assuming the weather would be perfect. Now he might have to buy one. His phone rang, a local number.

  “Montoya.”

  “Riccardo, this is Alfredo.”

  “I forgot that you had my number, Detective.”

  “We are the police, we know everything. I need to talk to you, and it would be better not on the phone.”

  “That sounds serious.”

  “Not really. I just don’t want anyone walking by the broom closet and listening to what I’m saying.”

  “Do you want me to come to the station? I’m close.”

  “No, not here, Occasio is prowling. Why don’t we meet at the castle? Have you seen our wonderful castle yet?”

  Rick turned and looked toward the highest point in the city where an ancient stone tower rose stiffly from the surrounding buildings. “I can see it from here.”

  “I’ll be at the gate in two minutes.”

  Rick hung up, turning in the opposite direction from the hotel. He reached the piazza and walked up a narrow street to the castle entrance where DiMaio stood, looking at his watch. “You’re late.”

  “I stopped for a coffee.”

  They passed through a set of heavy wooden doors into a courtyard. Ahead was the duomo, the city’s oldest church and a sanctuary in former times of danger when the thick, high walls of the castle gave welcome protection to the people of Bassano. Another massive structure, likely the barracks, was built out from another part of the wall. Rick looked up and saw that the sky was still clear. “What did you want to tell me?”

  They walked together on the stones, the heels of Rick’s boots tapping softly. A group of tourists stood near the entrance to the duomo, but otherwise the courtyard was deserted. “Inspector Occasio is finding it peculiar that you have been poking around the city, talking with people.”

  “Is he having me followed?”

  DiMaio studied the pavement as he walked. “If he were, he likely wouldn’t tell me. No, he found out in another way. The inspector always makes a point of cultivating the pillars of the community, and apparently Dottor Porcari mentioned that you’d been to see him at the bank.”

  “Porcari neglected to mention that it was he who invited me to stop in.”

  A wispy cloud came into view over the high wall. “That detail did not reach me, and I don’t know if it got to my capo. Have you been seeing other names on our suspect list?”

  “Of those few people I know in Bassano, almost all are on your suspect list, Alfredo. And you’ll remember I’ve been looking into those lost paintings, so the people from the seminar are the logical ones to talk to about them.” Rick tried to keep the annoyed tone from his voice, but was unsuccessful. “Is that all you wanted to ask me?”

  “Well, that, and if you’ve had any contact with Sarchetti.”

  “I called him, and we’re meeting for a grappa tonight at the bridge.”

  DiMaio sto
pped and slapped Rick on the back. “Excellent, I will look forward to hearing what he has to say. Your uncle would be proud of you. Don’t let Nardini’s grappa cloud your mind.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “And speaking of clouds, it appears that we are going to have a shower. I would love to continue our chat, but I should let you return to the shelter of your hotel. There was something else I wanted to ask you, but it can wait until you call me this evening. You’ll call me immediately after seeing Sarchetti, will you not, Riccardo?”

  “You’ll be the first to know of our conversation.”

  The tourists had noticed the clouds and were hurrying out of the gate ahead of the two men. When Rick and DiMaio parted ways at the edge of the piazza, the first fat drops hit the pavement.

  ***

  Rain had fallen hard on the tile roofs of the city, spilling out of drain pipes into the stone streets where it gushed downward, eventually finding its way to a river already swollen from the storms upstream. The afternoon shoppers took their time indoors or waited under the protection of the covered walkways for the deluge to stop, as they knew it would. After an hour the sky brightened and the last light of the afternoon led people to their homes. Rick had missed most of the meteorological excitement, safely tucked in his hotel room, bent over his laptop.

  Now he and Betta faced each other at a table in a room crowded with diners. The storm brought a cold front behind it, but inside the restaurant the atmosphere was anything but chilly. Betta looked fetching, wearing a slightly brighter shade of lipstick that accented her green eyes and dark hair. Her white silk blouse was opened just enough to show a pearl pendant dangling from a gold chain. There were no rings on her fingers, and her nail polish was clear. The same perfume Rick had gotten to know so well on the back of the motorcycle drifted toward him across the table. Again he tried to identify it, and again he failed.

  “Gisa called me, as I knew she would. I couldn’t tell her much but promised I would learn more this evening.” Betta picked up her wineglass and eyed Rick over the rim as she drank. It was a cue, if Rick had ever seen one, and he took it.

  “Not a whole lot to tell. My father was an exchange student in Bologna where he met my mother. He went into the diplomatic service and managed to be assigned to Rome, which is where I spent my early years. We did some tours in South America and came back to Rome where I went to high school. Then on to the University of New Mexico, following in my father’s academic footsteps. Studied languages, most of which I already knew thanks to where I’d lived, and then started working life as a professional translator. Decided to move the business to Rome. It is doing well, bringing me to remarkable places like Bassano del Grappa where I meet beautiful and exotic women.” He picked up his glass, tilted it at Betta, and drank.

  “No, uh, women in your life, at the moment?” She showed a perfect row of white teeth. “It’s not important to me, but Gisa will ask.”

  “Not before yesterday. Will that satisfy Gisa?”

  “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  Rick tilted his head and gazed deeply into green eyes. “And you, Betta, any men in your life at the moment? Present company excluded.”

  The light in her face dimmed for an instant and then returned. “Not at the moment, Riccardo. I did, but it didn’t work out.”

  He reached across the table, placing his hand over hers. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it was for the best.”

  Betta took a breath and forced a smile. “It was. Sometimes you think you know someone and then suddenly you find that they’re very, very different.”

  Rick didn’t want to know the details. “Well I, for one, am very happy that you’ve moved on.” He picked up the menu on his plate. “So what do you recommend for a first course? All I had for lunch today with your father was a tramezzino, so it has to be substantial.”

  “Polenta e salsiccia, it’s very good here. But you may not have room for anything else.”

  He closed his menu. “It’s the chance I’ll have to take.”

  Betta decided on the zuppa pavese, and after taking their order the waiter refilled their glasses from the carafe of house white, a smooth Soave. Rick purposely steered the conversation to more trivial things—TV personalities, the latest movies, and the inevitable subject anywhere in Italy, the differences between living in Rome and elsewhere. No politics, and certainly nothing about the murder or the lost paintings.

  Her first course arrived in a wide bowl, a crusty piece of rustic bread topped by an egg floating in a the hearty broth that had cooked it. The waiter enhanced the dish with spoonfuls of grated cheese. Rick’s golden-yellow polenta spread over most of his plate, topped with two links of thick sausage.

  “You may be right, Betta, this is clearly not the child’s portion.”

  She laughed and asked Rick about going to college in America. He told her a few stories, but confined them to some tame anecdotes about professors and classes. Perhaps when he knew her better he would get into the seedier side of Albuquerque. He’d prided himself in being at home in both biker bars and lecture halls. She recounted her years at the University of Padova, commuting from Bassano while working part time in the gallery. They concluded that despite the contrasting geography and languages of the respective colleges, there were as many similarities as differences. When their primi were finished, Betta brought the conversation back to business, such as it was.

  “Riccardo, my father told me you’re meeting with Sarchetti tonight. It sounds very mysterious. What do you hope to get from him?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know, really. I’ll ask him about the paintings. I’m sure he’ll bring up Fortuna’s murder. He sounded interested in talking, so perhaps he’s got something to say. Or wants information from me.”

  After the waiter removed their dishes, she spoke. “Tell me what you did this morning after I left you at the museum.”

  Menus appeared again for them to order the second course, and Rick studied his. “I talked with Professor Gaddi there in the museum. The man is in some difficulty due to the illness of his wife, but he acted fatalistic about it. His behavior in the afternoon didn’t seem in character with that, but we don’t know what he was up to when he rushed out of the ceramics museum. It could end up being completely innocent. Then I talked with the detective about the murder case. They’re not making much progress. He asked me to find out what I could from Sarchetti, so he too will be anxious to hear if anything comes from this meeting tonight.”

  “Does he suspect Sarchetti in the murder?” Concern spread over her face.

  Rick wondered if he’d said too much, and decided it would be better not to mention Inspector Occasio’s annoyance with his meetings around the city. “They suspect no one and everyone. I think it’s normal to go back and talk with everyone involved more than once. That would include me.” She didn’t appear satisfied with the answer so he chose to avoid the subject of the murder. “Then I got a call from Porcari and he invited me to have a coffee at his office at the bank.”

  “You went to the bank?”

  “Quite a building, I was impressed.” He noticed her face and stopped. “Betta, what’s the matter?”

  She picked up the menu. “Nothing really, Riccardo. Only…well, the relationship I mentioned that didn’t work out? He’s an employee at the bank. You wouldn’t have met him.”

  Rick ordered spinach warmed in butter for his second course, claiming that, as she warned, the polenta had filled him up.

  ***

  After walking Betta to her apartment, Rick stopped in the middle of the piazza and looked upward. A quarter moon lit the night sky despite a row of round clouds that marched one by one in front of it. The stone pavement glistened under his boots, wet from the shower, and puddles forced him to zigzag before reaching the protected sidewalk on the other side. He had time before meeting Sarchetti, which he needed to sort his thoughts. Was he the only one who
saw a connection between the missing paintings and the murder? DiMaio certainly did not, and if it had crossed Betta’s or her father’s mind, they didn’t let on. There was no firm evidence linking the two cases, only the victim’s expertise and Rick’s hunch. Intuizione was the word in Italian that came into his interpreter’s head, but the translation didn’t do “hunch” justice. What could emerge that would join the two cases? He tried to focus on the facts and block out the distractions, like Erica’s surprise return, poor Gaddi’s financial problems, and now this guy he’d seen in the bank who had to be Betta’s former flame. No, worry about the right stuff, like whether Beppo’s uncle was involved in shady dealings, or what the Savona woman had to do with anything. The ideas bounced around in his brain, but after walking a few blocks they finally came to rest with a conclusion. Better to put your efforts into the mystery of the missing paintings for the moment and hope for some break in the murder case.

  He turned onto the Via Campo Marzio, reminding him that Bassano was, nominally at least, founded by the Romans. The Campo Marzio in Rome, the Field of Mars, was the area where the soldiers were quartered and trained. No doubt the legions needed somewhere to march in Bassano, so it must have been nearby. The street sloped downward toward the river, changing its name on the way, and passed the ceramics museum where Gaddi had vanished earlier in the day. The street was joined by two others at the eastern end of the bridge. Two buildings on the sides of the entrance were in fact one, joined at the upper floor to form an arch for pedestrians to pass under and onto the bridge. On the left was the entrance to the Grapperia Nardini that, according to a plaque outside, was founded in 1779.

  The interior looked like it still used the original furnishings. The wood of the bar and rustic tables shone under decades of varnish and wax, its dark hue covered in one spot by a crude painting of a man drinking grappa. There were enough bottles of grappa lined up on the shelves behind the bar to supply the French and Austrian armies, which the place claimed to have done in the nineteenth century. Above the bottles, almost touching the wood-beamed ceiling, a row of small copper vats stood at attention. Every surface—wood, glass, and copper—was polished to brilliance, as were the marble tiles on the floor.