Return to Umbria

by David P. Wagner

  LoGuercio slipped his notebook into his pocket along with the pen. “That’s very kind of you, Professor, but we must be on our way back to Orvieto. You have been very helpful.”

  He got to his feet, followed by Rick and the host, but all three stood where they were and looked out over the water. The afternoon sun had come from behind a low cloud and was bouncing its rays off the water.

  “Can you tell me what became of Rhonda after college?”

  After a nod from LoGuercio, Rick answered. “She was a potter in Arizona and apparently was quite successful at it. Less successful in marriage, unfortunately; three of them ended in divorce. She came on this trip with her daughter and a friend who told us she wanted to see Italy one last time.”

  The professor put his hands on the railing and stared toward a tiny island in the distance. “I can’t help wondering if she knew what awaited her in Orvieto.”

  ***

  While Rick and LoGuercio drove back from Bolsena, Betta strolled the streets of Orvieto. The training period with the art police in Rome had offered her little time off during the day, so she welcomed the chance to walk through a shopping district when the businesses were actually open. Not that she needed anything; the only item in her mind was a postcard to send home to her father. In a country where national chains had not taken over completely, shops were unique from one city to the next, giving each town its own feel. Orvieto and Betta’s native Bassano were known for their ceramics, but here the emphasis was on a local style of pottery passed down through the centuries. It featured floral patterns, often with a green tint, and swirls of delicate animal figures, especially roosters. Lots of roosters. Interesting, she thought, but certainly not on the level of our artists in Bassano.

  The street was near the Duomo, and as would be expected for such a location, most of its shops catered to the tourist trade—from day-trippers up from Rome to international travelers. It was a zona pedonale, allowing shoppers to wander freely from one store to the next without fear of being run down by cars or motorbikes. Betta walked slowly, admiring the colorful ceramic plates and masks decorating the doorways of the shops. She came to a tabaccaio, the establishment in Italy which traditionally sold not just tobacco products but postage stamps. Sheets of plastic cases holding postcards hung from this doorway, and she stopped to pick out one for her father. Most of them featured the Duomo from various angles, a few pictured the art inside the cathedral, others had shots of the city taken from below its cliffs. She pulled one showing a detail of the Luca Signorelli Last Judgment frescoes from its case and walked in for a stamp. Her father, who owned an art gallery, would appreciate seeing Signorelli’s masterpiece.

  The inside, like most tobacconists in Italy, was small to begin with, and adding to that were shelves with magazines and smoking paraphernalia, making it positively cramped. A woman was standing near the counter, talking on her cell phone. Betta noticed more postcards on a low shelf and leaned down to see if she liked any of them better than the one she’d brought in from outside. She heard snatches of the woman’s conversation, something about when she’d be back, which would be soon. Talking with her husband, Betta assumed. The woman ended the call and started to put her cell phone in her purse when the man behind the counter spoke.

  “There you are, Signora Aragona, that will be—”

  Betta gasped and her shoulder jerked upward, catching the woman’s arm. The cell phone clattered to the floor and slid under the counter. Both women reached down to get it and their heads collided.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Betta, rubbing her head. “Please let me get it.” She bent down, reached under the counter, and found the phone. After blowing off a bit of dust that had stuck to it, she handed it back to the woman.

  “It’s quite all right, my dear, there isn’t much room in this place.” She turned to the man, who had watched the scene in horror. “You need a larger shop, Vito.”

  He shook his head and was struggling to find a response when Betta spoke. “It was my fault, Signora. I hope your telefonino was not damaged.”

  “I’ve dropped it before and it survived. But are you all right?” She looked at Betta’s head. “With that short hair you don’t have as much padding to your skull as I do.”

  The woman, who was fighting valiantly to avoid turning fifty, appeared to have come directly from the beauty parlor, and not a cheap one. Her hair, dark with a few accents of blond, fell perfectly to the shoulders. The coiffure alone, leaving aside her expensive clothes, shouted high maintenance.

  “I’m all right,” Betta said. “It was clumsy of me.”

  “No harm done.” She paid the man and strolled out the door.

  Betta threw down some euro coins for her postcard and followed.

  ***

  The driver dropped Rick and LoGuercio at an intersection of the street where Bianca Cappello’s office was located. It was a pedestrian street, and even though the police car could have driven directly to the address, or anywhere else in town, LoGuercio preferred to walk the two blocks rather than squeeze through all the foot traffic. In addition, he and Rick were ready to stretch their legs, even if it was only for a few dozen meters, and LoGuercio wanted a cigarette. The store fronts on this street had more appeal to locals than tourists: a jeweler, a fruit seller, a pharmacy, a shoe store, a salumaio, a women’s clothing shop, a bank. The only one that caused the two men to stop was the salumaio, its window filled with cheeses, fresh pasta, and other delectables. For a moment, thanks to a basket of porcini mushrooms, Rick’s mind shifted from the murder case to dinner. LoGuercio’s voice pulled it back.

  “Her office should be a couple doors away. On the other side.”

  As with every real estate office in Italy, this one’s window was covered with framed pictures of properties for rent or sale. Basic information such as price, square footage, and location appeared underneath the photos. An elderly man standing on the street reading the notices looked at Rick and LoGuercio as the two reached the doorway. The policeman reluctantly stubbed out his cigarette and they entered the office.

  The room was the size of Professor Tansillo’s balcony. It had two desks, one occupied by a woman working the mouse on a PC and peering intently at the screen through half glasses. She looked up when she heard the door open and assessed the two who came through the door. Rick watched her face and could almost hear her mind working. Are these men possible clients or are they bringing a problem? She rose from her chair.

  “How can I help you?” She took off the glasses and they hung by a thin gold chain over the front of her striped silk blouse.

  “Signora Cappello?”

  “Yes?”

  The police identification card came out. “I’m Inspector LoGuercio and this is Signor Montoya. We’d like to ask you a few questions if you have the time?”

  She motioned to the two chairs in front of her desk. “Of course, Inspector, please sit down. What is this about?”

  They settled into the chairs, a modern metal and leather design which fit in with the rest of the décor. “You may have read the news of the murder that took place last night.”

  She shuddered. “Yes, of course, the American woman. I talked about it this morning with my assistant.” She waved a hand at the empty desk. “I didn’t see the newspaper but she told me about it. It’s terrible to say, but we were wondering if it could have a negative effect on business. We rent apartments and villas to Americans all the time, and—”

  “Was this woman’s villa one of your rentals, Signora?”

  “No, no. I . . but I didn’t know she was staying at a villa. Is that why you’re here? You thought she had rented from my company?”

  LoGuercio didn’t answer immediately, instead pulled the notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. “No, we didn’t, Signora Cappello.” He uncapped his pen and glanced at Rick who took the hint.

  “Signora,” Rick began, �
��we think you may have known the victim.”

  “I don’t think so, my assistant said the name in the—” She stopped when Rick held up a hand.

  “The name in the paper was Van Fleet, but when she lived here many years ago, before she married, it was Rhonda Davis.”

  The reaction was immediate. She gasped, and one hand went to her mouth while the other gripped the arm of the chair. Had to be genuine, Rick concluded, unless she was very good at acting. She took several short breaths before being able to speak.

  “I can’t believe it. Rhonda was here in Orvieto? I didn’t know she was coming.”

  “Had you two kept in touch?”

  She stared at the desk before realizing that she’d been asked a question, then looked at Rick and shook her head. “No. Not for a long time. The first few years, after she went back to America, there were letters back and forth, but after that we lost contact. Was she still living in Arizona?”

  “Yes, she was. Would she have been trying to find you?”

  She held her palms up and shrugged. “She could have. But I believe I’d written to her about taking a job in Milan, and after that we lost touch. I spent twenty years working in a bank there before I returned to Orvieto to run this business. She must have assumed I was still in Milan.” She was struggling to maintain her composure, but her hands trembled.

  “Would she have been searching for someone else?” LoGuercio asked.

  “Inspector, you don’t think someone she knew back then could have done this, do you?”

  “We’re just trying to find out as much as we can about the woman,” LoGuercio answered. “Who else from that time could she have wanted to see again?”

  Her eyes closed in thought. “Professor Tansillo, of course. He ran the program back then. A kind man, but more of a scholar than an administrator.”

  “We talked to him. He gave us your name.”

  “I see. The only other person I recall from those days was Amadeo. Amadeo Crivelli. He was the pottery instructor. Did Professor Tansillo mention him?”

  “He did,” said Rick. “Is there anyone else you can think of?”

  She shook her head while trying to remember. “I don’t think so. It wasn’t a large program, and most of the instructors were professors who came over for a semester or two from Arizona. Amadeo was one of the few Italians.”

  “And your position in the program?”

  “I had just come back from nursing my sick grandmother outside Milan and had gotten a job at the tourist office. The office was glad to let me work part time for the program, helping the American students find their way around the city, learn the sites, and generally get acclimated. My English was good and most of them had little Italian, so whenever they had some question about Orvieto, they came to me. It was before I went off to the university myself, so we were about the same age. I made some good friendships.” The thought brought her hand back to her mouth. “Rhonda was one of them.”

  “What can you tell us about Signora Van Fleet when she was a student here?” asked LoGuercio, his voice calm, almost soothing.

  A hint of a smile showed on Bianca Cappello’s face. “Rhonda was very different from the rest. Never afraid to say what she thought, even though it might offend someone, which it often did. Liked to socialize, especially over a bottle of wine. And she liked to socialize with Italians, in particular Italian men, which shocked some other students in the program, especially the women. Those were different times.”

  “Were any of her relationships with those men…?” Rick searched for the right word.

  “Serious? I don’t recall any. I remember talking with her about that, and she told me she had no intention of getting serious with anyone. Apparently she’d been disappointed in the past and didn’t want it to happen again.” She blinked and rubbed her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m remembering this. It was so long ago.”

  “We’re glad you can remember it,” LoGuercio said before leaning to the edge of the chair and putting his card on the desk. “If other things come to mind, please call me.”

  She glanced at the card and placed it next to the keyboard. “Of course, Inspector. Is there anything else I can help with now?” The demeanor of the efficient businesswoman had returned.

  “It’s routine, of course, but can I ask you where you were last evening?”

  Her face was a blank until she realized the implication of the question. “Oh. Of course. I…I was at home. I worked here until seven, our closing time, then made my own dinner and went to bed. It had been a busy day, and I was very tired.”

  “You live alone?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment, perhaps deciding whether it was any of the policeman’s business. “Yes, I do. My mother moved in after my divorce and lived with me until she passed away a few years ago.”

  “This has been a shock,” LoGuercio said, “so we won’t ask any further questions at this time. It is likely that after more thought, other things may occur to you that could help us with the investigation. You have my number.”

  They all stood and the two men expressed their condolences for the loss of her friend.

  “Thank you,” she said. She seemed to want to say something else and they waited. “I know you aren’t required to do this, but if you could tell me when you find who did this, before it gets in the news, I would be grateful. Rhonda was a dear friend.”

  By the time they stepped outside, Bianca Cappello was once again studying the screen of her computer.

  “Not a dear enough friend to stay in contact,” LoGuercio said when they got to the street. “But her reaction to the news was genuine enough.” He stopped and took his cell phone from his pocket. “Let me find out if they’ve located Crivelli.” He dialed and moved away from two women strollers who had paused to gaze at the merchandise inside a clothing store.

  Rick walked to a shoe store to see if the latest fashions being offered to the shoppers of Orvieto was the same as what he’d been seeing in Rome. As with so many shoe stores in Italy, the entrance to the store itself was at the end of a line of display windows, women’s shoes on one side, men’s on the other. The cold weather would be arriving soon, which meant that on both sides, shoes with heavier heels and higher sides had appeared in the line-up, as well as boots. He searched for a pair of cowboy boots, but the only ones to be found were on his feet. If they knew how comfortable they were, Rick thought, everyone would be wearing them. He turned and started back toward the street when a male figure in a long, white coat rushed past the store down the street. He watched as the man disappeared through a door a few businesses down the street.

  “Did you see that?” Rick asked when LoGuercio was putting his phone away.

  “See what?”

  “Livio Morgante just went by in his pharmacist coat.”

  “Yeah, his pharmacy is right over there.” He tapped the pocket where he kept his phone. “We’re in luck, Riccardo, Crivelli splits his time between his shop in Todi and the one here, but he’s in Orvieto today and it’s only a couple blocks from here. He’s expecting us.”

  “That’s great. Let’s go.” They started off toward the corner where they’d been dropped earlier. “Paolo, about Morgante—”

  “Forget Morgante. You know, Riccardo, I have to get you some kind of identification. I don’t know what I would have told that woman if she’d asked who you were. You need something to show you are official.”

  “I’m not official, Paolo.” He pulled something from his wallet. “But how’s this?”

  “What is it?”

  “Pass to get into the questura in Rome when I go to see my uncle. He got tired of having to come down to the entrance to get me.”

  “This could work.” LoGuercio took the small plastic card and looked at both sides. “It’s got your picture, and even an official seal. Not a very good picture.”

  “You sh
ould see my passport photo.” Rick slipped the card back into his wallet.

  “Hold your thumb over where it says “Building Pass” when you show it to anyone.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Rick.

  They turned a corner onto the street leading to the Duomo, and the number of tourist shops immediately increased, as did the number of tourists. Their demographics had changed from the high season of July and August, when schools were closed and families with children roamed Italy. Now it was an older, graying crowd, unencumbered by kids. To the delight of the merchants, these visitors were also more inclined to purchase higher-ticket souvenirs. Ahead Rick spotted a ceramic sign hanging on chain links from a cast-iron pole: Studio Crivelli.

  “Before we go inside,” Rick said, “when I saw Morgante—”

  “I’m certainly glad he didn’t see me or he would have been breaking my coglioni.”

  Rick held LoGuercio’s arm to stop him. “Paolo, when he walked by us he went straight to Bianca Cappello’s office.”

  ***

  Tullia Aragona, despite what she’d said on the phone, did not appear to be in any hurry to get home. She meandered along the street, her purse over one shoulder and the small bag from the tabbacaio swinging from the other hand. Every store window got her attention, though she spent more time in front of shoe stores and those selling jewelry. Betta hung back, keeping one eye on merchandise displays and the other on Tullia. As she did, she asked herself why she was following the woman. Perhaps she could gain some insight into what made her tick, and thereby help Rick resolve the Fabrizio problem. But maybe it was just the policewoman coming out in her, wanting to get involved. She watched the older woman disappear into a dress shop and realized it could be a long wait.

  As it turned out, it only took ten minutes. She emerged from the shop carrying a small bag, likely not something that needed to be tried on, like a blouse or belt. The other smaller bag was not evident, so she must have stowed it inside the new one. Tullia checked her watch—its round, silver face so large that Betta could almost read it from a distance—and continued down the street. Her pace picked up. Betta followed a safe distance behind, helped in keeping inconspicuous by pedestrian traffic. After fifty meters the woman turned off the shopping street into a smaller one. When Betta got to the corner she could see that it was almost an alley, but it bent just past the corner. On a straight street, it would be almost impossible to stay hidden, but if there were more bends she could continue to follow without being noticed. When Tullia disappeared, Betta stepped onto the stones of the narrow street and followed. As it turned out, there were no more bends, but it didn’t matter.