Murder Most Unfortunate Read online

  Rick’s eggs and bacon arrived, their aroma reminding him how hungry he was. The professor wished him a buon appetito and topped off his own coffee cup from the pitcher on the table.

  “I was fascinated,” said Rick between bites, “by the exchange yesterday between Tibaldi and Professor Fortuna about those two missing Jacopo Bassano paintings. It got quite heated.”

  Gaddi, a frown spreading over his face, watched Rick butter his toast. After a deep breath he spoke. “The subject appears to be a painful one for our host, since he wants his museum to be the principal repository of Jacopo’s work. But of course Fortuna knew that and used it to make the poor man uncomfortable. Despite that, I found it surprising that Tibaldi lashed out, albeit briefly.”

  “My guess is that Fortuna would not win a popularity contest among the participants.” Rick noticed that the topic was clearly making the older man uncomfortable. “You are returning home today, Professor?”

  “Not yet, I have some personal matters to deal with in Bassano.” He glanced at the table where the Milanese art dealer and the museum curator were still talking. “And there is some research on Jacopo I wanted to do in the museum archives. For a monograph I’m working on. I should be able to do everything today and leave early tomorrow.”

  “Several other participants have opted to stay on past the seminar. But Muller is driving home this afternoon, I believe, and Oglesby may be flying back to London. Professor Randolph told me at the dinner last night he’ll be staying on for a few days.”

  “Which is understandable,” said Gaddi, “coming all the way from America. Randolph mentioned something about his fiancée joining him for a bit of a holiday.”

  “That must be why he was in such a good mood at the dinner. I thought it was the wine.” Rick glanced around the room. “And Fortuna?”

  “Perhaps he skulked off under the cover of darkness.” He looked at Rick’s empty plate. “Ha mangiato volentieri?”

  “It was just what I needed to face the morning, Professor.”

  The older man rose from his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, Riccardo, I must also face the morning. If I don’t see you before you depart, it was a pleasure.” He held out his hand.

  Rick got to his feet and found that the handshake was firm despite the man’s bony fingers. He watched Gaddi walk with short steps out of the dining room, thinking about the man’s negative reaction to a mention of the missing paintings. All it had done for Rick was add to his curiosity about them. Possibly the only one of the seminar experts who would talk to him about the lost Jacopos would be Fortuna, and Rick had no desire to ask his opinion. A pompous speech would be all he’d get from the man, and he’d had to translate enough of them during the seminar. He poured himself a fresh mixture of coffee and hot milk and stirred in sugar before glancing at the buffet table. A yoghurt? An orange? Why not? He took his napkin from his lap, placed it next to his empty plate, got to his feet. He stopped. Of course—why didn’t I think of it before? I’ll call him after breakfast.

  He strode to the food table thinking that one of those sweet rolls would go well with what remained in his coffee cup.

  ***

  Rick pushed open the glass door of the hotel with one hand and pulled his cell phone from his pocket with the other. The night’s chill was clinging to the air, but the sun was well over the horizon and spreading warmth over the hills and valleys that surrounded Bassano. He scrolled through names on the phone’s screen as a dark blue car pulled up and a man in a matching suit emerged from the back and stood at the curb while closing one of the buttons on his jacket. He leaned over, spoke to the driver through the passenger-side window, and turned toward the hotel entrance. After one step he noticed Rick.

  “Riccardo, buon giorno.” It was as much a statement as a greeting.

  Rick put his phone away and extended his hand. “Buon giorno, Dottor Porcari.”

  If Rick and his Uncle Piero had spotted Stefano Porcari when playing their “guess the profession” game, both would have immediately pegged him as a banker. It would have been too easy. Porcari was the vice president of the local bank which sponsored the seminar, sparing no expense, especially on the posters all around town which prominently featured the bank name and logo. Banco di Bassano proudly supported the community, and there was no better way to do it than through culture, especially when it involved Bassano’s most famous native son.

  “You are returning to Rome today, Riccardo?”

  “I’m staying a few extra days to see the sights.”

  “Excellent. If I can be of any assistance, of course you will let me know.”

  “Thank you, Dottore. Are you here to see someone from the seminar? Some of them are still here.”

  Porcari momentarily looked blank, then snapped out of it. “Why, yes.”

  “I saw Muller and Oglesby earlier in the lobby, and Gaddi and Sarchetti were in the dining room. I doubt if they have checked out yet.”

  “Grazie, Riccardo, I’ll track them down.” He looked at his watch and Rick wondered if he had a set appointment with someone. But he was the kind of person who checked his watch frequently. Must be a banker thing.

  Rick again pulled his phone from his pocket once Porcari had disappeared into the building. He found the number he was searching for and tapped it. After five rings he was about to hang up when a familiar voice came on the line.

  “Rick, I thought you were in Bassano del Grappa confusing people with your translations.”

  Beppo Rinaldi, Rick’s high school buddy, had surprised everyone when he got a position with the art police when he left the university. He’d been voted most likely to succeed by his classmates at the American School of Rome, but they assumed his success would be in industry. Indeed, they would have been surprised if he were not successful, since his father owned the company. But instead of studying business he chose art history, and now, instead of worrying about the bottom line, he concerned himself with finding stolen art. Rick was still amazed.

  “I am indeed in Bassano, caro Beppo, and the seminar in which I plied my trade has ended. Something came up during it, however, which has piqued my curiosity, and you are the man who can provide edification.”

  “I am always ready to edify un vecchio amico, Rick. What is your question?”

  Rick told him that the seminar theme was Jacopo Bassano, and one of the topics that had surfaced, with some short but heated discussion, was about two lost paintings by the master.

  “I know Jacopo, of course, and I vaguely remember hearing about those two paintings when I started working here. I suspect they are in our cold case files, since we have enough recent thefts to keep us busy. But I recall that in Bassano…let me check something.” Rick could hear the sound of keyboard strokes. “Yes, here it is. Rick, I know I can trust you to keep this confidential, but we do have a man up there who has helped us over the years with some of our cases. Pro bono, of course. I’ve never had the need to contact the man, but he is highly regarded. Can you write this down?”

  Rick, ever the professional translator, always carried a pen and note pad to jot down new words. He pressed the phone against his ear and pulled them out. “I’m flattered that you would entrust such information to me, Beppo. OK, I’m ready.”

  “I trust you more than many of my colleagues, Rick. This place can be a den of vipers. The man’s name is Fabio Innocenti, and he runs an art gallery on Piazza Monte Vecchio.”

  “I think I noticed the gallery on my morning run today.”

  “You have to stop this exercising, Rick. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.” There was a pause, and Rick could hear Beppo typing on his computer. “Hmm. This is interesting. It appears that these Jacopo da Bassano paintings are not in the cold case files. There have been some rumblings coming out of Milan.”

  “Rumblings? What does that mean?”

  More typing. “Not sure. W
hen you see Innocenti, tell him you were given his name by Captain Scuderi. No need to mention my name.”

  No need? Rick knew his buddy well enough to understand that Beppo’s name should be kept well out of it. He assumed Captain Scuderi was lower on the office organizational chart, but he was never sure how the art cops worked, despite an earlier collaboration with the ministry. “Scuderi is Innocenti’s handler?”

  “You’ve been reading too many spy novels, Rick, and we don’t use that term here.”

  “Sorry.” He slipped the note pad back in his pocket. “When I get back to Rome I’ll tell you if I found anything of interest from Signor Innocenti and you can pass it to Captain Scuderi.”

  Beppo was typing again. “That will be most appreciated.”

  “My guess, from the exchanges I heard at the conference, is that the two paintings will never be found.”

  “Which increases the value of the ones that are known, keeps them rare.”

  “I never thought of that, Beppo.”

  “The art community is a jungle, Rick. So when are you back in the Eternal City?”

  “In a few days, unless I get bored.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find some excitement.” The desk phone rang. “Have to go. Let me know if anything turns up.”

  Rick slipped his cell phone in his jacket pocket. The conversation confirmed his sense that something was going on with the two paintings. This would be more fun than simultaneous interpretation.

  Chapter Three

  Three police cars drew up in front of the hotel, lights flashing. From the first, three uniformed policemen jumped out, while a man in civilian dress emerged slowly from the back of the second car. Inspector Giuliano Occasio looked up and down the street before walking to the door of the hotel, already being held open by one of his men. Of the policemen in the assemblage, he was the shortest, and the only one sporting facial hair, a pencil-thin mustache. Followed by three of the uniformed police and another plain clothes officer, he strode directly to the reception desk where a clerk watched them approach.

  “I am Inspector Occasio. Get the manager.” After speaking the words, he studied his fingernails and looked around the lobby. Two foreign tourists who had been making decisions on what to see that morning looked up from their guide books to watch the show. The clerk, who had rushed through a door behind the desk, reappeared with an older man who also wore the hotel logo on the pocket of his blazer.

  “May I be of assistance, Inspector?”

  “I am looking for Signor Tibaldi. They told me at the museum that he was here.”

  “Dottor Tibaldi, of the museum? He’s been over here various times in the last few days in connection with the museum’s seminar, since all the official participants were staying at the hotel, but I—”

  “Excuse me sir,” the clerk interrupted, “but I think I saw him going into the dining room earlier.”

  “Get him,” said the policeman, while keeping his eyes on the manager. The clerk scuttled around the counter and walked quickly across the lobby into the dining room, followed by the eyes of the two tourists. “Do you have a list of the seminar participants who are at the hotel? I’ll need to see it.” The manager shuffled through some papers below the counter and came up with two typewritten sheets stapled together. He passed them to the policeman who glanced at them and passed them back. “I’d like ten copies. And if these people are in the hotel at this moment, I want them called and told to come to the lobby.”

  The manager finally regained his voice. “Inspector, can I ask what—?”

  “You’ll be told in due time.” He turned around to see Tibaldi coming into the lobby, followed by the desk clerk. “Don’t forget those calls,” he said, his order meant for the manager behind him.

  “What seems to be the trouble, Inspector?” Paolo Tibaldi frowned when he reached the policeman.

  “Let’s talk over there, Signor Tibaldi.” He gestured toward a corner of the lobby arranged with chairs and a sofa set up for conversation. The clerk rushed to Occasio and handed him the copies. The policeman took them without a word of thanks. The two men sat down across from each other, two of the uniformed policeman standing nearby to assure privacy. Occasio looked at Tibaldi and leaned back in the chair. “Professor Lorenzo Fortuna.”

  “Yes, Inspector, he is one of the distinguished participants in the seminar that ended yesterday. You’ve likely noticed our posters around town. But I haven’t seen him yet this morning.”

  “And you won’t. He’s been found dead.” He paused to observe Tibaldi’s reaction.

  “I, I can’t believe that,” was the stuttered reply. “He seemed in good health, though perhaps a bit overweight. He did enjoy his wine. Some kind of heart attack?”

  Occasio ignored the question. “According to the program found in his pocket, you were the organizer of the seminar.”

  “Well, yes, Inspector. I suppose I should take charge of notifying his family and seeing that his body is—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Occasio’s expression changed little as he spoke, nor did his flat monotone. “I should make myself clear. Fortuna did not die of natural causes, he was murdered. Which is why I am here. I or one of my men will be interviewing you and all of the participants in the seminar. The program said that the final event was a dinner last evening, is that correct?”

  The question managed to penetrate Tibaldi’s dazed state. “Yes, the dinner. It was held at a restaurant a few blocks from here. Fortuna was there, along with all the other distinguished invitees, as well as the director of the museum and the managers of the Banco di Bassano, which sponsored the seminar.”

  “What time did the dinner end?”

  Tibaldi looked up to see an annoyed Franco Sarchetti talking with a man in a dark suit whom he guessed to be another policeman. Between the art dealer and the policeman, the banker stood silently, a blank look on his face. Behind them Oglesby and Muller, watched by a uniformed policeman, huddled together and stared at Inspector Occasio.

  “It must have been around nine thirty, perhaps close to ten, when the dinner ended. There were toasts, some remarks by Dottor Porcari.” He gestured toward the banker.

  “Porcari is here?” The inspector turned and looked. “Excellent. Who is that man with him, other than my detective?”

  “That is Signor Sarchetti, another participant in the seminar.”

  Occasio consulted his list. “Milanese, owns an art gallery.” Tibaldi nodded, but the policeman didn’t notice. “Who from the group at the dinner is not in the lobby now?”

  Tibaldi rubbed his chin in thought. “Well, Professor Gaddi—there he is now, that older gentleman. I don’t see Professor Randolph, the American. The director of the museum, of course, my superior; he is at his office. I think that’s it. Oh, our interpreter, Riccardo Montoya; he will not be listed on the program. Our other interpreter departed after the final seminar session.”

  The policeman frowned. “You mean everyone does not speak Italian?”

  “No, Inspector, many do not. The conference was conducted in Italian and English, with simultaneous interpretation.”

  Occasio shook his head in disgust. “I will need this Montoya.”

  ***

  Rick entered the elevator hoping he didn’t look too much like a tourist. No camera hung from around his neck, but he did have a red-covered Touring Club Italiano guide to the Veneto region in one hand. To the average resident of Bassano the book would brand him as an Italian tourist, though the cowboy boots would certainly confuse them. When he stepped into the lobby, his concerns about appearance vanished.

  Uniformed policemen were everywhere, and he quickly spotted two men who had the look of police detectives. Three of the experts from the seminar—Muller, Oglesby, and Gaddi—sat silently along the wall of the room, a policeman beside them. Franco Sarchetti occupied a chair by himself nea
r the door, talking with the man whom Rick assumed was also a policeman. Paolo Tibaldi of the museum stood near a window, his head bent in thought. Sitting with one of the two detectives was Porcari, the banker he’d greeted on the street. The policeman maintained an ingratiating smile on his face as he talked to the banker. Rick walked toward them and was stopped by the uplifted arm of another policeman.

  “Please stay where you are, sir. Are you a guest at the hotel?”

  “Yes. What’s going on?”

  “Were you involved with the art program? The seminar?”

  “Yes, I was. Does this have anything to do with the seminar?”

  The cop again ignored Rick’s question as he got the attention of the plainclothes officer talking with Sarchetti. He excused himself to the art dealer and walked quickly to Rick. Unlike the one with the thin mustache sitting with the banker, this policeman appeared to possess a genuine smile.

  “This man just came out of the elevator, sir. He says he was part of the museum program.”

  “I’m Riccardo Montoya.” He offered his hand and the policeman shook it.

  “Detective Alfredo DiMaio. I don’t recall seeing your name on the list of participants, Signor Montoya.”

  “I was one of two interpreters who did the simultaneous translation. I’m not one of the art experts.”

  The detective nodded his head toward the three sitting nearby. “After translating for these people for a few days you must have become an expert by osmosis. At any rate, we’ll have to question you, too, so if you could take a seat—”

  “Detective, you haven’t told me what’s going on.”

  The man held up his hands in mock defense. “So I have not. It seems that someone in your group has gotten himself murdered. A certain Professor Fortuna.”

  “Fortuna, murdered?” Rick’s eyes darted around the room.

  “The body isn’t here.”

  Rick’s face snapped back but he saw immediately that DiMaio wore a benign smile.

  “Yes, of course, Detective. When did it happen?”