To Die in Tuscany Read online

  Also by David P. Wagner

  The Rick Montoya Italian Mysteries

  Cold Tuscan Stone

  Death in the Dolomites

  Murder Most Unfortunate

  Return to Umbria

  A Funeral in Mantova

  Roman Count Down

  Copyright © 2021 by David P. Wagner

  Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by The BookDesigners

  Cover images © ermess/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Wagner, David P., author.

  Title: To die in Tuscany / David P Wagner.

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2021] | Series: A

  Rick Montoya Italian mystery; book 7

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020029979 (trade paperback) | (epub) |

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3623.A35623 T6 2021 (print) | LCC PS3623.A35623

  (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020029979

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Wine and Food

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  This book is for Maria Luz Puente Garcia Somonte Cabeza Wagner, who passed to her sons a proud Asturian heritage.

  “Drawing is not what you see, but what you must make others see.”

  —EDGAR DEGAS

  Chapter One

  “Buon giorno, Nino.”

  Giving a serious nod in keeping with his position, Nino Fantozzi acknowledged the greeting of the woman at the cash register. It was, after all, his botanical gardens that drew no small number of tourists away from the more famous attractions of Urbino to this narrow street. Many of those same visitors found their way into this bar before or after a delightful visit with nature, his green oasis dropped in the midst of stone buildings and cobbled streets.

  Who did the real work of keeping the plants healthy and everything in order? He did, of course, not those botany professors who were more interested in counting leaves than keeping the place neat. Without his gardens, this would only be a neighborhood bar, like so many others in odd corners of the city. Not that all the visitors to Urbino put the gardens high on their list of sites, going straight there after seeing the collection of masterpieces at the Palazzo Ducale. Far from it. But it did bring in a certain type of tourist. Lovers of natural beauty was the way Fantozzi characterized those who paid the one-euro entrance fee. In addition, the gardens drew botany students, but they needed only to show their credentials to get in without paying. Nino’s boss, Professor Florio, had just yesterday reviewed the attendance numbers, which were considerable. Even those who didn’t pay to get in the gardens added to the foot traffic on the street. How many of those people came into this bar?

  They really should offer me a discount.

  He paid and moved sideways where a man behind the counter in a white shirt and black tie nodded a silent buon giorno before beginning the noisy process of producing Nino’s cappuccino. He had toyed with the idea of having a pastry to go with it but, after glancing down at his stomach, decided against it. The barman placed the steaming cup in front of him and pushed over the sugar bowl. Three times, the long sugar spoon traveled to the cup before Nino picked up his smaller one, stirred the granules into the foam, and took a sip. It was his second caffeine jolt of the morning, the first, prepared at home by his wife, a caffe latte, accompanied by two pieces of dried toast. This coffee was considerably better, but he wouldn’t say that to his wife.

  He drained the cup and patted his lips with a small paper napkin. A moment later he was out on the street, pulling a cream-colored handkerchief from his pocket and cleaning his glasses. Returning them to his nose, he breathed in the early spring air and looked to the sky. It hadn’t rained in several days. Perhaps the clouds he saw could bring some needed showers, both cleaning the air and giving his beloved plants the natural moisture they preferred. Urbino’s city water was adequate, but it was not the same as rain. Nino walked up the street to a fountain set into the wall just below the entrance to the botanical gardens. The stone papal shield of Benedict XIII hung high above the pool, a reminder to anyone using the fountain who ran this part of Italy in the early eighteenth century. Nino dipped his fingers in the water and dried them on the handkerchief from his pocket.

  From another pocket he pulled a large key as he glanced up at the metal letters—Orto Botanico—attached to the brick above the entrance. The tall metal door creaked open and then banged shut behind him once he was inside and the key returned to his pocket. The heavy scent of plant life wafted over him as he emerged from the entranceway into the gardens themselves. He cast a critical eye over the path through the greenery with leaves dangling above it on both sides. It would need another sweeping before Manuel Somonte’s visit the next day. Nino’s boss had insisted that everything be in perfect order for one of the orto’s most loyal benefactors, especially noted for the yucca gloriosa that Somonte had donated two years earlier. Nino approached the greenhouse where that magnificent plant was housed with other semi-tropical plants donated by the wealthy Spaniard. The glass panes had been cleaned, but from where he stood, the plants appeared to be surrounded by fuzzy halos thanks to the humidity inside.

  Nino noticed that the door to the greenhouse was slightly ajar and made a mental note to check its latch and hinges. He pushed it open and closed it carefully behind him, breathing in the earthy odor that was even stronger in the glass-enclosed environment. The yucca’s white flowers dangled over the tops of lower plants from its place of honor in the corner. He walked down the narrow gravel path and made a right turn. It was a hardy plant; the only care needed was pulling off any of the jagged leaves that might have turned brown and died. It had to be perfect for the visit of Somonte. Nino’s eyes moved from the topmost flowers down to the base when his chest tightened and a wave of nausea washed over him.

  On the sandy soil sat the body of the plant’s donor, Manuel Somonte, dressed in a brown suit. He was propped against the plan
t, his head leaning to one side. His eyes were closed, as if sleeping, but the dark red stain on his shirt said otherwise. A small plaque noted that the yucca was a gift from the generous Spaniard. Above the plaque, written in larger letters, was the plant’s Latin botanical designation followed by its popular name: Spanish Dagger.

  Chapter Two

  Rick Montoya blinked open his eyes when the car left the tunnel and sunlight poured over his face. He rubbed his neck, sat up in the seat, and looked out at the scenery of eastern Tuscany. The terrain was similar to what they’d passed through north of Rome earlier that morning. The wooded hills of the Alpe di Poti, some of them almost a thousand meters high, formed a natural barrier until engineers had gouged through them to shorten the route between Arezzo and Sansepolcro. The road would soon be flatter as it swung north, skirting the border with Umbria before reaching the broad valley below Anghiari. He unsuccessfully stifled a yawn and glanced at Betta Innocenti, whose hands were lightly gripping the steering wheel.

  In profile, her smooth neck drew his attention. Did she keep her dark hair short to accentuate the beauty of her neck? Knowing Betta as he did, he doubted it. The cut, almost boyish, was perfect for someone as busy as she, someone who didn’t want to spend time on her hair. Having perfect features and thick, healthy hair didn’t hurt, Rick thought. Today the earrings were, as always, understated: tiny dots of gold. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen anything dangling from those ears, and could not. He inclined his head toward her and caught a hint of her perfume. Dahlia Noir, the same she’d been wearing when they’d met in her home town of Bassano del Grappa more than a year ago.

  She downshifted through a curve. “Back among the living, Signor Montoya? You’ve been dead to the world since we left the autostrada.”

  He couldn’t help lightly stroking the back of her neck before stretching his arms toward the windshield. “I was up late last night finishing an extremely tedious translation so that I would be free to spend a few days with you, cara.”

  “You could have skipped your morning run and slept in. I didn’t pick you up until eight thirty.”

  “Miss my run? Not a chance. Are we there yet?”

  A truck going back toward Arezzo passed them as they began climbing a hill into a grove of trees. Their car was a dark blue Fiat, standard issue from the Ministry of Culture where Betta worked at the office of cultural property in the section popularly known as the art cops.

  “We are close.”

  “Tell me about this guy Somonte. I may not have focused on details the other night when you invited me to tag along today.”

  “You’re here to translate when needed, which is the way I justified it to my boss.”

  “You told me that Somonte speaks Italian.”

  “I forgot to mention that to my capo.”

  Rick grinned. “Well, all I remember is that he’s a rich Spaniard.”

  “Very rich. Self-made man who started out working in a wool mill and ended up owning it and many others.” She eased into a higher gear as the car came off the hill. “He’s from northern Spain, Asturias, where there are a lot of sheep.”

  “I know about Asturias, Betta. I had a great uncle—a Puente, not a Montoya—whose ancestors came from there. It is a rough, mountainous region. I remember him telling me that Asturias was the only part of Spain that the Moors were unable to subjugate.”

  “Because of the mountains?”

  “No, because of the tough Asturianos, if you are to believe my uncle. So what else about Somonte?”

  Betta pushed up her sunglasses, rubbed her eyes, and let them drop back on her nose. “Manuel Somonte. Father Spaniard, but his mother was Italian. His parents met when she was hiking the pilgrim trail that goes through northern Spain ending at Santiago de Compostela. Coincidentally, she was from Anghiari.”

  “Coincidentally?”

  Betta pointed across acres of flat fields to a town clinging to the side of the hill in the distance. “That’s Anghiari there. Which is why we’re driving to Sansepolcro, now just a few kilometers ahead. Manuel learned from his mother to love Italy and feels he has deep roots here as well as in Asturias.”

  Rick looked, but his view was quickly cut off by the fence surrounding a long warehouse. They were entering an industrial area where factories, gas stations, and big-box stores lined both sides of the road. It was the same as in almost any Italian town, where space in the historic center was at a premium and commerce spread out like lava, taking over farmland in the name of progress.

  “And his mother also taught him the Italian language that your boss wasn’t told about.”

  “Precisely. He also got from her an appreciation for Italian art, which is the real reason we are going to Sansepolcro. If his mother’s hometown had a museum, he’d likely have donated this work to them. But Sansepolcro is the next best thing, since it’s virtually next door, and especially since it was the birthplace of Piero della Francesca.”

  “Who also did the sketch Somonte is donating, and happens to be one of your favorite Renaissance artists.”

  “Bravo. Which is why I was selected to represent the Culture Ministry when Somonte, in honor of his late mother, hands it over to the Museo Civico of Sansepolcro.”

  “After which you take a few days off to see the sights with your trusted interpreter. I like this. What else about the guy? Since I’ll be meeting him.”

  “His other passion, besides art and making money from wool, is plants. I’m not sure where he picked that up—it wasn’t explained in the bios I read on the internet. My only interest in him is the art, especially this Piero drawing.”

  “What do you know about the drawing?”

  “I’m anxious to see it. It is one of the sketches he made for The Resurrection, one of his most famous paintings, which is in the museum here. Christ is seen stepping out of the Holy Sepulcher above the sleeping soldiers. The drawing was a study for the face of one of the soldiers.”

  “How did Somonte get his hands on it?”

  “The drawing surfaced fairly recently, and rather mysteriously, with a dealer in Urbino. Somonte comes to Italy often, buys art, and is a great admirer of Piero. He must have known the dealer, who then tipped him off that it was for sale. That’s often the way dealers work—they know the tastes of their best clients. I’m sure it wasn’t inexpensive, but it being only a small sketch, he could afford it.”

  The Fiat slowed for another traffic circle and continued toward Sansepolcro. It crossed the Tiber River, barely as wide as the two lanes of the bridge, and drove under the SS3 highway into the suburbs of the town. The traffic slowed, and they seemed to hit every red light along what had changed from a highway to a street. When the car reached the city walls Betta followed them to the northern side of the city and turned in through one of the narrow gates, ignoring the signs indicating that they were entering a pedestrian zone. After a few turns she pulled up next to the entrance to the Museo Civico. From the glove box she took a large card with the seal of the Carabinieri and placed it against the windshield.

  “Here we are, Rick. The last time I was here I was a student, and we had to park outside the walls and walk in. This is much easier. And we’re here with time to spare.”

  The way Betta drove, Rick was not surprised.

  The outside of the city museum did not distinguish itself from the other buildings on the block. They all had bars over the windows, though the museum’s were more forbidding, and all were covered with the yellow-orange color that was standard throughout the country. Two stone planters filled with bright flowers flanked the entrance, and a discreet banner hung down one side to indicate what was inside. Rick pushed open the door for Betta and they entered a large rectangular room bathed in light from windows built into modern barrel vaults high above the floor. All very twenty-first century, unlike the art collection the museum held. Stanchions and red velvet ropes showed the way
to the desk where visitors paid their entrance fees. A woman in a dark business suit talked in a low voice with the man behind the desk. She looked at her watch and then up at the two new arrivals. Her face showed concern, but she forced a smile and approached them.

  “You must be Dottoressa Innocenti.” She extended her hand to Betta. “I am Tiziana Rossi, the director of the museum. Welcome, and thank you for coming.”

  “It is my pleasure to return to Sansepolcro, Dottoressa Rossi. May I introduce Riccardo Montoya, who will help interpret for Signor Somonte should the need arise?”

  The museum director shook Rick’s hand, but the mention of Somonte returned the concern to her face. “I was expecting him and his wife to be here by now. We were going to give him a tour of the entire collection before the formal donation of the drawing.” She looked at a man standing in the corner carrying a camera. “This is quite an occasion for us. The mayor and other city officials will arrive later for the ceremony. I hope nothing has happened to Somonte. The drive down from Urbino is not that long, but it does twist and turn.”

  “I’m sure he’ll arrive soon,” Rick reassured. “The Spanish idea of punctuality is sometimes different from the Italian.”

  “I hope you’re right. In the meantime please feel free to check out the collection. The Pieros are in hall number five.” She gestured toward a ramp that led to the older part of the museum complex. “I’ll stay here and wait for Signor Somonte.”

  They thanked her and walked up the ramp and through a door that had been opened in the wall to connect two buildings whose floors didn’t coincide. A few moments later they found themselves in the room that held the most important pieces in the museum. A uniformed guard eyed them carefully. Rick noticed the door-sized glass panel at one end, outside which two people stood peering into the room. He took them to be tourists and, from their dress, probably Scandinavians.

  “That’s a wonderful feature, don’t you think, Rick? There are steps on the street leading up to that little porch where people can look inside without having to pay the entrance fee. At night the painting is lit. It’s a way the locals can show their pride for a work that has become a symbol of Sansepolcro along with the town’s coat of arms.”