To Die in Tuscany Read online

  “I don’t think so,” said Betta. “There is a hint of humanity there with the slightly open door to the building in the center. It’s as if he wants us to enter. And there are some plants hanging down from a few of the windows, put there by people. Perhaps everyone is inside the center building, having a meeting.”

  “Or watching a movie.”

  Double doors offered wide access to the exhibit room. As they approached, the voices of the guests became more pronounced, a strange contrast to the silent halls they’d just traversed. Betta paused and took his arm as they got closer.

  “Most of the people here tonight will be one of three types, Rick. First will be the city’s upper crust, not all that interested in the artwork, more in seeing who else is here and being seen by the others. Then the local politicians, whom I assume Vitellozzi has invited. They will also pay more attention to the other guests than to what’s on the walls.”

  Rick tried to think how he would translate the word schmooze into Italian. “I know their kind from the diplomatic receptions I’ve been to. While talking to you they’re looking over your shoulder to see if there’s someone more important they should be cultivating.”

  “Exactly. But you could say that of just about anyone. The third category is the art professionals. They will wander around and look at the paintings, even though they’ve seen them a hundred times before, some of them on the walls of their own museums. What they will enjoy most will be gossiping with each other about who is up and who is down in the art community. There’s always someone ready to retire or rumored to be moving to another job, and they’ll talk about the leading candidates to take their place. Or insinuate that they themselves are under consideration for the position.”

  “I trust that you fall into the third category, Betta?”

  “Magari,” she said, using a word that could be translated in various ways, including “fat chance.” She pulled his arm and they walked into the room. “Tonight there’s a fourth group, those trying to figure out who possesses the missing drawing. There are only three people who are in that elite company, two if Alfredo doesn’t show up.”

  Rick raised his hand to salute. “I understand my mission.”

  They stepped through the door and immediately encountered Vitellozzi, who had positioned himself to receive his guests. Despite the bustle of activity behind him, he was as relaxed as when Betta had seen him that morning.

  “Dottoressa Innocenti, Signor Montoya, thank you for coming. The hour has finally arrived, after years of planning, and I’m pleased you will share it with us. Please get something to drink and enjoy the exhibit.”

  “Thank you, Dottor Vitellozzi,” said Betta as she shook his hand. “And congratulations—it looks wonderful.”

  They moved ahead while the director turned his attention to the next group of arrivals. Rick deftly took two flutes of wine from a passing tray and gave one to Betta. “To our search,” he said as they tapped glasses and surveyed the room. When they had been there during the setup, Rick had not noticed that, except for some wood decoration around the doors, the room was completely bare. No doubt the room selection was deliberate, since the stark walls would in no way detract from the magnificent art hanging from them. The star this evening was Raphael, not the architect of the palazzo.

  Immediately, they noticed people they knew.

  Cosimo Morelli stood in front of a framed female portrait, but his attention was on the woman standing next to him, who displayed more than a minimum amount of cleavage and acted bored. “That’s La Muta, the Raffaello from the collection here,” Betta said. “It appears that the woman talking with Morelli is equally mute. No doubt in awe of his repartee.”

  “Or paralyzed by the strength of his cologne. Let’s forget Morelli for the moment and say hello to Bruzzone. That must be his wife with him.”

  The art dealer had traded the white dressing on his forehead for a more subtle, skin-colored bandage. The woman standing next to him appeared to be somewhat older, though the strain on her features could have been as much the result of the morning’s excitement as the aging process. The two did not speak as they studied two portraits hanging side by side. The man and woman in the paintings were inclined toward each other but stared directly into the eyes of the viewer with a smug self-confidence.

  “Buona sera, Signor Bruzzone.”

  His body tensed and he turned quickly. “Ah, Dottoressa Innocenti, buona sera. And Signor Montoya. Let me introduce my wife.” Handshakes were exchanged. “These people came to my aid this morning, cara. You’ll remember I told you about them.”

  “Thank you for helping Ettore.” Her face showed exhaustion, but she forced a smile.

  “We were just admiring the Doni,” said Bruzzone. He pointed at the portraits and Rick detected a slight shake in his hand. “Agnolo and his wife, Maddalena, he a prominent Florentine merchant of the time. They are the model of Renaissance wealth, don’t you think? ‘Look at us,’ they are saying, ‘we are so rich we can afford to buy not only these fine clothes but to hire Raffaello to paint us.’ The master did a fine job conveying the snobbishness of these two, do you agree?”

  “Absolutely,” Rick answered as he gazed at the two faces on the wall. “The scenery in the background, Signor Bruzzone. Am I mistaken, or is it reminiscent of—”

  “Leonardo. Yes, very good. It was painted when Raffaello was studying his work. The way the two bodies are posed is also very much like a Leonardo da Vinci portrait.” He moved his eyes from the painting to Betta. “Is the inspector coming this evening?”

  “He didn’t say,” she replied. “He’s quite busy on the case, as you can appreciate.”

  “I hope it gets resolved soon. Don’t you agree, cara?”

  His wife nodded but said nothing.

  Betta saw her lack of response as a sign that they should move on. “Signor Bruzzone, Signora, a pleasure to see you. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll look around at the other pieces.”

  They started walking to the other side of the room, but after a few steps Betta pulled on Rick’s arm. “Bruzzone seemed a bit on edge.”

  “As would be expected after what he went through this morning. He’ll probably be looking over his shoulder until DiMaio finds the person who shot at him.”

  The guests moved around the room in slow motion, stopping at one masterpiece before sliding off to the next. Most of the women wore black dresses, as if they had decided they should not compete with the colors of the paintings on the walls. The men had done the same in their choice of suits, and even their ties were subdued in hue and design.

  “Look who just arrived.” Betta’s eyes were back at the doorway, where Pilar was engaged in conversation with Vitellozzi. “I’m not that good at interpreting body language, but my guess is that they are not meeting for the first time.”

  “Interpreting is my business, cara, and I would agree with you. Look at that—she just laughed and touched his arm. Those two are definitely not strangers, and they don’t seem concerned about anyone knowing it. The question is, did they meet for the first time this week, or on one of her previous trips to Italy.”

  “And would it have any bearing at all on the case?” She studied the two, who were still chatting at the doorway. “This morning when I talked to him he claimed not to know that Somonte’s daughter was in town. He could have gotten her phone number and called to be sure she knew she was welcome tonight. Or, he was lying to me and they’d already talked, but he didn’t want me to know.”

  Pilar noticed that other arrivals were waiting to greet Vitellozzi. She said something to him and entered the hall, which was starting to fill with people.

  Rick nudged Betta. “Now look who’s here.” In contrast with the jeans she’d worn when ambushing DiMaio at the police station, the newspaper reporter wore a skirt and blouse, but she still held tightly to her pen and pad. This evening she was accompanied by a
photographer, who snapped pictures of Vitellozzi as he answered her questions. “She covers all the beats, it appears, from murders to culture. Let’s avoid her—she’ll remember we were with Alfredo the other day.”

  It was too late. She was already walking quickly toward them.

  “I’m Laura Intini,” she said as she flashed her press card. “Didn’t I see you with Inspector DiMaio? Were you at the commissariato in connection with the homicide investigation?”

  Rick stepped in before Betta could reply. “Is there a homicide investigation? We are old friends of the inspector and dropped by to say hello. Who got murdered?” He looked expectantly at her while Betta remained silent.

  Intini wouldn’t take the bait. “Is Inspector DiMaio coming this evening?”

  Rick and Betta exchanged shrugs. The reporter mumbled something and walked away with her photographer in tow. Immediately, she found a couple who looked ready to have their picture in the newspaper to show they were at the cultural event of the year. While they talked, the photographer clicked away.

  “Everyone so far wants to know if Alfredo is coming,” said Betta. “Do you think he’ll be here?”

  “I think he said something about avoiding the place since the mayor will be in attendance. That may be who our journalist is talking to now.”

  Most of the throng talked in the center of the room as if there was nothing to be seen on the walls, and the decibel level rose accordingly. The bar set up in front of the tall fireplace was doing a brisk business, which added to the noise. Rick noticed a man in a dark suit standing against one wall, one of the few with no glass in his hand. His eyes moved around the room.

  “That guy’s got to be security,” he said to Betta in a lowered voice.

  “Maybe a plainclothes cop keeping an eye on Bruzzone.”

  “I forgot about that. You could be right.” He took a drink from his glass. “This stuff is pretty good. Vitellozzi hasn’t spared the expense, it appears.”

  “He’s using Somonte’s money for it. Look, Loretta Tucci has made the trip here from Monterchi. And she’s chatting with her fellow museum director from Sansepolcro.”

  “Engaging in shop talk about running their museums. But, no, you said that the art professionals would be gossiping about the next opening in the world of Italian cultural professionals. The two of them must aspire to higher positions, wouldn’t they?”

  “Absolutely, Rick.”

  They walked to where the two women were engaged in conversation. Tucci looked up. “Betta and Riccardo, I thought I might see you here. Let me introduce Tiziana Rossi.”

  “We’ve met,” Betta said as they all shook hands. “Dottoressa Rossi received us two days ago at her museum in Sansepolcro, but unfortunately things didn’t go as planned.”

  “I hope you are getting closer to finding the drawing,” Rossi said. “The museum was devastated with the news that it had gone missing. The whole town of Sansepolcro was so excited that it was coming home.”

  “No news yet, I’m afraid, but you’ll be the first to know.”

  It was as if both women sensed Betta’s discomfort. Tucci changed the subject. “Isn’t this a magnificent exhibit? It must be the first time so many Raffaellos have been in the same room—a definite triumph for Vitellozzi. He must have been working on it for years.”

  “That’s what he told us,” said Rick. “Getting works on loan from other museums is a delicate process, apparently. But you two certainly know more about that than I.”

  “The Madonna del Parto never leaves Monterchi,” said Tucci. “It’s all we have, so without it nobody would come to our museum. Your situation is a bit different, isn’t it, Isabella?”

  “I get requests for loans frequently, mostly for the Pieros, of course. With us it’s usually a financial transaction since we don’t often mount exhibits and need some piece from the other museum. But we don’t lend out more than one major work at a time. Visitors become annoyed when there is a sticker on the wall in the place of a painting they’ve come to see. People often travel a long way to visit Sansepolcro, and we don’t want to disappoint them.”

  While her colleague was speaking, Rick noticed Tucci’s eyes wandering around the room. It confirmed Betta’s observation that these events were as much for networking as anything. Everyone feigned interest in the art, but for many present this evening, it was secondary. At that moment, one of the museum staff interrupted their conversation.

  “Signor Montoya? Dottor Vitellozzi asks if you could please give him some assistance.” They all looked back toward the door and saw the museum director standing with Signora Somonte and Lucho Garcia. The three were smiling woodenly at each other but not speaking. Rick concluded that she must have shopped in town for something more appropriate for widowhood than the wardrobe she’d brought with her. It was a subdued dark-gray dress that came down well below her knee, though it still showed off her curves. Garcia’s suit was dark with a dark-blue tie.

  “I think he needs an interpreter. If you ladies will excuse me.” He walked quickly to the museum director. “Can I help, Dottor Vitellozzi?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, Signor Montoya. We were not communicating well, to say the least, and Signor Garcia suggested that you might interpret, as you did for the inspector at the hotel.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Please tell the signora that she has my deepest condolences for the loss of her husband.”

  Rick went into his well-practiced consecutive interpretation routine. Signora Somonte and Vitellozzi exchanged appropriate pleasantries, and he told her that he would be noting her husband’s contribution to the event when he addressed the guests later in the program. She thanked him and said she would be pleased to say a few words herself, something that clearly took the museum director by surprise. He asked Rick to interpret for her, and Rick said he would be honored. Vitellozzi offered to take her around and tell her about each of the works displayed, but Garcia stepped in, saying he was familiar with them and could do it. Besides, he added, the director was busy with the other guests. Vitellozzi thanked him. Everyone shook hands and Rick returned to Betta, who was still standing with the two museum directors.

  “You’ve already earned the price of tonight’s ticket, Rick.”

  “And I’ll get overtime later when interpreting the signora’s remarks.”

  Tucci’s eyes widened. “She’s going to address the crowd? The way she just tossed down that glass of prosecco, it could prove interesting.” They watched as Signora Somonte put her empty glass on a waiter’s tray and took a full one. “Extremely interesting.”

  “Ladies,” said Betta, “Riccardo and I had better see the art before he’s put to work again, if you’ll excuse us.”

  They did, and the two of them drifted to the other side of the room where The Marriage of the Virgin hung. Three people, who did not appear to be together, studied it while sipping from their glasses. The scene was an open square below a round, domed temple in the distance. The priest, ornately robed, held the hands of Mary and Joseph at the point when the groom was putting the ring on her finger. A group of women stood behind Mary, an equal number of men in back of Joseph.

  After looking at the painting for a few moments, Rick turned to Betta. “You’re the art expert—tell me about this one.”

  She took a deep breath. “You can read next to it that it’s on loan from the Brera in Milan, but it was originally commissioned by a patron for a church in Città di Castello. We drove near there yesterday. Given the rounded top, it was probably intended to be put above an altar. The perspective is done perfectly, taking the eye to the vanishing point at the temple door, which led to speculation that Raffaello had studied Piero’s treatise on perspective. The temple is painted so perfectly that some art historians think he worked from a wood model, but that’s never been proven.” She pointed with her hand. “The figures in the foreground are
of course the stars of the work. You can see that Joseph is the only male wearing a beard, and the only person barefoot, which likely foreshadows the arrival of his son. Every aspect of the painting has a meaning, of course.”

  “I could not help overhearing,” said a voice behind them. They turned to see a thin man peering at the painting through round glasses. “You must be an expert on Raffaello.”

  “Not really,” said Betta. “Is this the first time you’ve seen this work?”

  “Yes, indeed it is. We who live here in Urbino are delighted that it’s all been brought here, even if it’s just for six months. He was born in Urbino, you know.”

  “We’d heard that,” said Rick.

  “Yes, indeed. One of our main streets is named for him. The house where he was born is located on it.”

  “We’ve been meaning to go during our stay here. You are a local—what else should we not miss while we’re here?”

  The man pursed his lips and thought. “Well, this palace is the reason why most tourists come to Urbino, and you’re here tonight. But there is much to see in the regular collection, so you must come back. The other attraction that shouldn’t be missed is the Orto Botanico.”

  It dawned on Rick who the man was. His eyes shot over to Betta and back to Florio. “Urbino has a botanical garden?”

  “Oh, yes, a fine one.” He looked left and right and leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “I’m the director.”

  “Really? Well, we will have to make a visit, won’t we, cara?”

  “Absolutely,” Betta answered. “But didn’t we read something about the gardens in the newspaper? We always make a point to read the local paper whenever we travel.”