To Die in Tuscany Page 13

  They walked down the steps and worked their way through an obstacle course of tables and diners to where DiMaio was now standing. He kissed Betta on both cheeks, shook hands with Rick, and waited while they greeted the seated Pilar.

  “I was so glad to hear that you two were going to join us,” DiMaio said as he pulled out Betta’s chair.

  “I’m sure you were,” answered Betta while smiling at Pilar.

  “I ordered a bottle of Bianchello del Metauro,” said DiMaio, “a good local white. I trust that will work for everyone.” He was about to take his seat when a waiter hurried up to him.

  “Can I bother you for a moment before you sit down, Inspector?”

  “Of course.” He turned to the others at the table. “It’s impossible for a policeman to go incognito in a town this size. And what can I do for you?”

  “Can you reach one of those bottles on the shelf behind you? No, the other one. The Chianti. Thank you; please excuse me.” He hurried off with the bottle in hand.

  DiMaio sat down and spread a napkin on his lap. “It took special police skills to remove that bottle.”

  “No doubt something you learned at the police academy,” said Rick. “Like the skills needed to find this place.”

  “That’s the way we like it,” answered DiMaio as he poured water and wine into the glasses of the new arrivals. “We don’t want any tourists wandering in here.”

  “I don’t think there’s much danger of that,” said Betta while picking up her wineglass. “Salute.” The others tapped her glass and everyone took a drink.

  When the glasses were back on the table Pilar began the conversation. “Alfredo was telling me about your friend Morelli, so we’re anxious to hear how the visit to his art collection went.”

  “Both his home and his collection are impressive, but I can’t say the same for him. As you would imagine, he was not overjoyed at seeing Rick, but since there was nothing he could do about it, he dutifully played the good host. Before I forget, Alfredo, he sends warm regards.”

  “Very kind of him. Were you able to spot some contraband?”

  Betta shook her head. “I’m afraid not. He knows where I work, of course, so I didn’t expect to make a seizure. There were no empty spaces in his display cabinets. If he put something away for the night, then he must have added another piece in its place.”

  “And that wouldn’t surprise me,” said Rick while looking at food on the tables nearby. “Alfredo, you must come here often. What’s good?”

  “They only make a few dishes each night, and there’s no printed menu. Our waiter will be back in a minute, but he told us the specials today are the maccheroncelli alla campofilone for your primo and petto di pollo trifolato for the main course.” He pointed at the bottle of white wine. “Keep in mind that I ordered this local bianchello, but our second bottle can be a red.”

  “Those both sound good to me. How about you, Betta?”

  “I’m in. Pilar?”

  “I am, as well. For some reason I have a large appetite. As I recall from my years in Italy, when they push you toward a daily special, it will be good. And we’ll make it easier on them if we all order the same thing.”

  The waiter appeared and was pleased to hear the order. He complimented their decision and assured them that they would not be disappointed. Like all good Italian waiters, he wrote down nothing.

  “I haven’t seen you two since this morning,” DiMaio said. “What did you get from Vitellozzi?”

  “Not much,” said Betta. “He was busy setting up the big exhibit, so we talked with him among the crates. He said Manuel Somonte had visited him in his office the day after arriving in Urbino and talked about donating the drawing to the museum in Sansepolcro. Vitellozzi had the feeling he was apologizing for not giving it to him.”

  “I think my father supported the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, so the man couldn’t complain that much.”

  “That’s true, Pilar. In fact he paid for part of the exhibit opening tomorrow night.” Betta turned back to DiMaio. “Vitellozzi didn’t have an alibi that could be corroborated; he said he was working late on the exhibit.”

  The waiter returned, laden with plates and a platter, which he put on a side table next to theirs. The platter was piled high with what looked like thin, flat spaghetti in a tomato meat sauce. With a fork and spoon between the fingers of his right hand, he deftly transferred portions of the pasta onto the four plates and whisked them in front of each of the diners. After wishing them a buon appetito, he took his cutlery and platter and headed back to the kitchen.

  Everyone stared at their plates while breathing in the flavors.

  “I thought maccheroncelli would be some local type of maccheroni,” said Rick. “This looks suspiciously like tagliatelle or fettuccine. Not that I’m complaining—it smells wonderful.”

  “Riccardo,” said DiMaio, “yesterday you wanted to call the vincisgrassi lasagna, so you are hardly the person to give them lessons on naming pasta.” He picked up his fork. “Buon appetito.”

  A collective analysis of the pasta sauce followed. It was a tomato base, with minced chicken and veal, flavored by nutmeg and onion. Bits of carrot and celery could also be detected. The combination of it all, they agreed, worked quite well. When most of the plates had emptied, talk went back to where it had left off, with Betta and Rick in the duke’s palace.

  “After we left Vitellozzi to his picture-hanging,” Rick said, “I bumped into Signora Somonte and Lucho Garcia. They were looking at a painting by Piero.” He watched for any reaction from Pilar and detected none. “She said something that surprised me.” Still no reaction. “If the drawing is found, she is undecided about donating it to the museum in Sansepolcro. It would be hers to do with whatever she wishes, in her opinion.”

  “Is that true?”

  Betta considered Pilar’s question and shook her head. “I couldn’t say. It would depend on what kind of agreement the man had with the museum, and if his heirs are bound by it. Do you have any interest in the drawing?”

  Pilar waved a finger before taking a drink of wine. It was a very Italian gesture, and Rick wondered whether it was one common in Spain as well. “Tell me, Pilar, have you decided yet if you’re going to retain Garcia at the mill? Last night you were leaning toward a yes.” He looked at Betta, who was carefully placing her fork at the top of her empty dish, avoiding his eye.

  At that moment the waiter arrived, and they paused while he removed their pasta dishes. DiMaio tapped on the almost empty wine bottle, and the waiter gave him a confirming nod.

  “I’m not sure, Riccardo. I talked with some of my section managers back in Spain this morning, and their reaction was mixed. It made me think that it might be time for a complete change in personnel. My father’s death was not something I was expecting, of course, so I hadn’t put any thought into what I would do differently if I became the owner. So as far as Lucho, I’m still leaning toward retaining him, but thinking about it.”

  “If I were in his shoes,” said DiMaio, “I’d be worrying about my position and doing some lobbying with the new boss.” He glanced up. “But we should be trying to keep your mind off such decisions and get back to the important business of enjoying this meal. Our chicken has arrived.”

  Like the first course, the second came on a large serving platter along with four plates. The chicken breasts, topped with thin slices of prosciutto and melted cheese, rested on pan drippings that had been swirled with cognac. The smells of the other flavors, rich as they were, played second fiddle to the shaved truffle sprinkled on the cheese. The waiter put a piece of chicken on each plate and spooned sauce over it before placing the plates in front of the four diners, who instinctively leaned forward and sniffed.

  “Truffles can be overpowering,” said DiMaio, “but here they add just the right amount of flavor so that it works.” After initial tastes, they al
l agreed and became so engrossed in their enjoyment of the dish that they barely noticed the arrival of the second bottle of Bianchello del Metauro.

  “When are you planning to return to Spain?”

  Betta’s question prompted an exchange of looks between Pilar and DiMaio.

  “I’m in no rush, really. The mill is in good hands, and, despite the reason for this visit, I have to admit that I’m enjoying being back in Italy.” She told them about her first experience, as a student in Florence, and how it had made her decide to pursue textile design as her life work. At the time she had considered staying in Italy, but her father had insisted she come home because of her mother’s illness. It had been the right thing to do. By the time her mother died, Pilar was making all the design decisions at the company and thoughts of living in Italy had disappeared, or at least been suppressed. Now they flowed back. “I’ll have to return to Spain. There is no alternative.”

  “But not immediately, I hope.”

  “No, Alfredo, not immediately.”

  An awkward silence was broken by Rick. “We also went to Monterchi. Don’t you want to hear about that, Alfredo?”

  “Oh, of course. How did that go?”

  “The woman who found the drawing is no longer alive,” Betta said, “but we talked to her daughter. The way she described the transaction is what I would have expected, since we’ve seen this kind of thing before. Work of art found in an attic, art dealer contacted, art authenticated, art sold for a lot of money. The daughter didn’t know about it until the drawing was sold and her mother bought the house where the daughter is now living.”

  “End of story.”

  “Not exactly. We dropped in to see the Madonna del Parto and met the director. She turned out to be the Piero expert who verified the drawing as authentic. We had a pleasant lunch with her but didn’t learn anything more of interest.”

  Pilar finished her last slice of truffled chicken. “What’s next for you, Betta?”

  “I don’t know, Pilar. I need a break in the case. Something. Anything.”

  DiMaio nodded. “You could say the same about my case.”

  * * *

  Rick and Betta looked up and down the street when the restaurant door closed behind them and took deep breaths of the cool evening air. It felt good on their faces after the wine and rich food.

  “I should have dropped a trail of bread crumbs to find our way back,” Rick said.

  But they easily made it out to the main street, helped by the occasional sign for the Palazzo Ducale. The square in front of the palace was brightly lit, a single spotlight trained on the banner for the exhibit opening the next night. Only a few people were about at this hour, groups of university students and the odd worker on his or her way home from the late shift. Betta held Rick’s arm as they looked at the massive outline of the building. She turned her face to the cathedral, also bathed in light.

  “Rick, we’ll have to say something to Alfredo about what happened there earlier. It may be nothing, but it could have some bearing on the case. Alfredo has to be the judge of that.”

  “Pilar certainly didn’t appear upset at the restaurant. She is either very good at recovering from unpleasant incidents, or it may not have been anything serious. That could be the way factory owners normally treat their employees in Spain.” He felt a pull on his arm. “Or perhaps not. It was interesting that she still is leaning toward keeping Lucho on the payroll.”

  “That’s what she says. Who knows what she really intends to do.” They began the walk down the hill to their hotel. Except for the last fifty meters, it would be all descent. “Have you ever wondered why Pilar came here at all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she said she was estranged from her father and that she detests the second Signora Somonte. Why not just let the widow and Garcia take care of what needs to be done to bring the body back to Spain?”

  “Come now, Betta. It’s her father, and the man was murdered. She wants to find out what happened. You’ll recall that it was Lucho who called her to give her the news, and I imagine he asked her to come.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I’m trying to read too much into it. That slap has me inventing all kinds of scenarios, but that’s the way we Italians think. There has to be something sinister behind everything, especially if it’s as dramatic as what happened in the cathedral.”

  “One person’s drama could be another’s normal behavior.”

  “In that case, Alfredo had better behave himself.”

  Rick squinted toward the dimly lit square that ran along the side of the palace, where the obelisk planted in its center cast pointed shadows over the cobblestones. At the far end, a figure hurried into one of the narrow side streets and disappeared.

  “Was that who I think it was?”

  Betta turned and looked. “I don’t see anyone. Who was it?”

  “I’m pretty sure it was Loretta Tucci. I don’t remember her mentioning at lunch that she was coming to Urbino today.”

  Betta inclined her head toward the banner hanging from the wall of the museum. “I’m sure she got an invitation to the opening tomorrow. She must have decided to come up a day early.”

  They went from the lights of the cathedral facade to the relative darkness of the street leading down the hill. A well-fed cat scurried from one doorway to another, looking for a mouse or some feline companionship, not noticing the two humans walking behind. At the bottom of the hill stragglers stood inside the bar next to the theater arguing the merits of the film they had seen.

  “How about a coffee or mineral water?” Rick asked.

  “I could use it.”

  Rick had his hand on the handle of the bar’s door when they heard the faint sound of Betta’s phone. She pulled it from her purse and looked at the number. “Why would he be calling now? He should be having a nightcap with Pilar.”

  “That’s one way to describe it.”

  She pushed a button and put the phone to her ear. “Yes, Alfredo… Really?… Of course.” She made a writing gesture to Rick, who pulled out a pad and pen from his pocket. “Go ahead— Rick will write it down.” She repeated an address that Rick scribbled on the pad. “We’ll find it. Ciao.” The phone went back in her purse but then quickly came back out. “They may have found the drawing. What was that address? I’ll put it in my GPS.”

  “Go ahead, but I’ve still got the map they gave me at the hotel.”

  “Between the two we should find it. Somewhere near the botanical gardens, he said.”

  The address turned out to be directly behind them. Red and blue lights from two parked police vehicles bounced between the stone facades of the buildings and the tall wall that they faced. A shabbily dressed man with a five-day beard sat on the ground next to two trash cans, his back against the wall. A uniformed policeman stood above him writing on a note pad. Two other cops walked around shining flashlights on the ground. Near one of the police vehicles, a Fiat SUV, DiMaio nodded as he listened to a man dressed in a bath robe. Pilar, looking elegant, leaned against the second police car, her hands in the pockets of her coat. DiMaio noticed Rick and Betta approaching, said something to the man, and walked to them.

  “What happened?” Betta asked.

  DiMaio pointed with his chin at the robed man. “He lives in that building and heard the sound of someone going through the garbage. That is apparently something that annoys him, both for the noise and because people get into the trash and leave what they don’t want all over the street in front of his house. He decided it was his civic duty to call the police. When my man arrived at the scene, he found that among the items that the guy had extracted from one of the cans was a leather case, which he heard was missing when I briefed everyone on the investigation.”

  “It has the drawing?”

  “I haven’t looked yet. It’s in an evidence bag. Since you’re
the art cop, I was waiting for you to do the honors.”

  “Are we sure it’s the right case?” Rick asked.

  “Pilar said it is.” He pointed a thumb at the SUV. “Let’s take a look.”

  They walked to the back of the vehicle and DiMaio swung open the rear hatch. He reached in, took a pair of plastic gloves from a box, and handed them to Betta. While she slipped them on, he picked up a large plastic bag sealed at the top. The case looked like something used by an artist or an architect to carry his work, with a zipper around three sides and handles. A design had been tooled into the leather.

  “That’s the family seal.” The words were spoken by Pilar, who had walked up behind them. “He hired a genealogy specialist to find it, but I always thought the whole thing was a scam. My ancestors were sheepherders and laborers, not the kind of people who spent their time or money creating a family crest. My father was trying to rewrite the family history, and the guy who found the seal was glad to help him.”

  DiMaio held open the plastic bag. Betta reached in, took out the leather case, and carefully unzipped it from one side to the other. She spread it open.

  “It’s empty. I must admit I was getting my hopes up.”

  “Are there any other compartments?” Rick asked.

  “None.” Betta closed the case and looked at the seal before turning it over. The back was without decoration. “Wait, here’s a compartment.” It was closed with a flap that had two snaps that popped open easily. She reached inside and pulled out a rectangular piece of paper and held it in her gloved fingers. “It’s a ticket for the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche. It confirms what the museum director told us, that Somonte had come to his office.”