Murder Most Unfortunate Read online

  “The way this works, Signor Montoya, is that we ask the questions.”

  “Naturally. How can I be of help?”

  “Thank you for asking. Inspector Occasio will decide if he or I will question you. In the meantime, please have a seat. You can read your guidebook while you wait.” He walked to the inspector, who was still talking with Porcari, and leaned over to say something in his superior’s ear. Occasio looked back at Rick quickly, the frown returning to his face. He answered his detective with a wave of the hand and returned to his conversation with the banker.

  There was a seat next to Professor Gaddi and Rick took it. Gaddi’s face had always shown its years, but since their conversation at breakfast it seemed to have added a few shadows. He stared blankly at Rick as if he just now recognized him. “Can you believe this, Riccardo?”

  “A very nasty business, Professor.”

  “Nasty, indeed. We had enough excitement during the seminar, most of it due to Fortuna, but we didn’t need this to cap things off. A murder. Who would have imagined it?”

  “Must have been a robbery gone wrong. Who would want to murder the man?”

  Gaddi’s face formed into a twisted smile. “Who?” He waved his hands at the others. “The line forms over there. I don’t think there’s anyone in our seminar, except for you, who did not feel the sting of Fortuna’s tongue, or the viciousness of his pen at some time or another. And the man took great pleasure in it all. To say that he will not be missed among most of the art history community would be an understatement.”

  The detective returned and Rick rose to his feet. “Inspector Occasio would like me to interview you first, but then he needs you to translate when he talks to the people who don’t speak Italian.” DiMaio smiled; apparently he found this humorous. “Let’s go into the dining room. There could be some food left over from breakfast, you never know.”

  The staff had cleared all the tables and was setting up for lunch. The two men took seats at a table at the far end of the room.

  “Why don’t I begin with the classic question?” said the policeman as he pulled out his note pad.

  “That would be ‘Where were you, Signor Montoya, between the hours of nine o’clock and—let me guess—four a.m.’”

  “Bravo. I could not be more impressed.” He pulled a pen from his jacket and waited.

  “I left the dinner at about nine-thirty. I think I was one of the first to head back to the hotel. By that time everyone had gotten up from their seats and they were sipping grappa. I am not a big fan of the drink, so I thanked the bank president, our host, and slipped out. I like to check my mail in the evening to see what has come in from friends in America, because of the time zones.”

  “You lived in America, Signor Montoya? That’s where you got your boots, I suppose.”

  “My father is American, so I have both citizenships.”

  “I have a cousin who lives in America, perhaps you know him. He lives in someplace called Staten Island.” He looked at Rick’s face and laughed. “I am making the piccolo scherzo, of course.”

  “You’d be surprised how many people have asked me that and been serious, Detective.”

  “Not all Italians are as sharp as we policemen are. Anyway, no one left the restaurant with you?”

  “No, I walked back alone.”

  “Was Fortuna still there when you departed? Did you happen to see who he was with?”

  “He was still there, of that I’m sure. Everyone was standing around in small groups, I can’t recall who was speaking with whom.”

  DiMaio nodded and drew tiny squares on his pad. “During the conference, did you notice anything unusual between Fortuna and any of the other participants? You were at all the sessions, I assume.”

  “I was. Well, I suppose you know about the time when Fortuna and Professor Gaddi started punching each other.”

  DiMaio’s head jerked up, but when he saw Rick’s expression, a wide grin opened across his face. “Ah, it was your turn for the piccolo scherzo. Let me mark that down in the book: DiMaio one, Montoya one.”

  “Forgive me, Detective, I couldn’t resist.” Rick was starting to like DiMaio. “But to be serious—”

  “No need to be serious, we’re only conducting a murder investigation here.”

  “Of course. As I was about to say, Fortuna would not have been characterized as warm and congenial, if I may understate. During the seminar he frequently found fault in the presentations of the other participants, and enjoyed pointing them out in the most acerbic manner possible. Such behavior does not go over well in the academic community, as you may imagine, where everyone is usually polite even if they think the other person’s scholarship might be lacking. I saw it happen several times during the program. On the final day, for example, there was an exchange about two missing paintings that elicited some strong reactions from Fortuna. And it was not always easy to translate the man’s comments, given the venom that was often inserted in them.”

  DiMaio had been writing as Rick talked. “Were there any of these exchanges, if that’s the word, which were especially…”

  “Violent? Enough to make the person want to do Fortuna in? I don’t recall any one that stood out. And Fortuna treated everyone the same. Of course I witnessed only what took place this week.”

  The policeman looked up from his notes. “Of course. An old academic wound caused by Fortuna could have been festering, if I might make a medical analogy, and last night the opportunity to exact revenge presented itself.”

  “But I can’t picture any of these scholars exacting revenge for anything,” Rick said as he caught the eyes of one of the waitresses clearing the tables and preparing them for lunch. She quickly averted her glance and went back to work. “Not that academics are incapable of violence, but this group…I just don’t see it.”

  The detective tapped his pen on the table and then closed his pad. “Let me ask you something else, Signor Montoya, which is not related to the investigation.” His face grinned as his eyes bored in on Rick. “I can tell from your face you are intrigued. You’re thinking, this cop is trying to catch me off guard in order to trick me into saying something I didn’t intend. Then, next thing you know, I’m peering out at him from behind bars, asking for a lawyer. Then—”

  “Detective, what’s your question?”

  The smile turned to disappointment. “Well, Signor Montoya, at the police academy I had an instructor who I recall told us he had an American nephew. Furthermore, this nephew worked as—”

  “Commissario Fontana is my uncle, Detective.”

  The policeman slipped the leather notebook into his pocket while keeping his eyes on Rick. “Pensa un po’, the nephew of Commissario Fontana, right here. This should make things more interesting.” The pen was inserted in the same pocket. “You never thought of following your uncle into police work? You could get on the bullhorn and yell ‘We’ve got you surrounded, come out with your hands up’ in two languages.”

  “That would be helpful. But let me ask you a question, even though you’re the one who’s supposed to handle that part of the interrogation, Detective. Do you usually encourage suspects in murder investigations to join the police force?”

  DiMaio rose to his feet. “I suppose that, strictly speaking, you are a suspect, despite your family connection with Commissario Fontana. So I’ll wait until the murderer is apprehended before asking you again about any future plans to change professions.”

  They walked back into the lobby. Inspector Occasio was now leaning forward in his seat, pointing a finger at a terrified Professor Gaddi who pressed himself back into the chair opposite the policeman.

  “I know I’m only supposed to be asking questions, Signor Montoya, but let me offer one piece of advice,” said DiMaio as they watched the scene. “You may not want to mention to the inspector that you’re the nephew of Commissario Fontana.”r />
  ***

  Occasio, through an underling, assigned Rick a time to be at the hotel to help with the questioning of the non-Italian speakers. It didn’t give him enough time to see any sights, but Rick had time to look in on Signor Innocenti, the art cops’ man in Bassano. As he walked the few blocks to the Piazza Monte Vecchio he pondered the new development. Could any of the seminar participants be behind the murder of Fortuna? To begin with, it didn’t seem in character for any of them. The only speaker who had forcefully confronted one of the man’s snide comments was the museum curator, Tibaldi, but it was a minor dustup by any standard, and, after it, the seminar deliberations had returned to the usual scholarly jargon. Had it been a bar on Central Avenue, one of the men might have demanded to settle things in the parking lot, but this wasn’t Albuquerque. No, the motive had to be something that predated the seminar.

  What was it that Uncle Piero always told him? Money, passion, or honor; one of the three was sure to be involved if someone is murdered. Passion from a wronged husband? That didn’t seem likely with Fortuna. Honor? Perhaps. Money? The most probable.

  The sidewalks on the square were protected by the extended second floors of the buildings, supported at the curb side by rounded columns. Window shopping and strolling under the porticoes was a popular activity in the north of Italy, where rain was a normal part of every late fall and spring. And in the heat of summer, the sidewalks were equally attractive thanks to their cool shade. The connected sidewalks made it possible to make the rounds of shops in total protection before moving to another square.

  Rick immediately spotted Arte Innocenti, a shop positioned between a pharmacy and a shirt store, as he entered the square. Its large window was sparsely decorated; two paintings on wooden easels between a low curtain and the glass. Behind them he could see that other works similar to the two—brightly colored abstracts—hung from the walls. Likely a one-man show, perhaps a local artist. He stood at the glass and studied the two on display, but quickly noticed a young woman working at a small laptop at a lone desk in the corner of the room. Her short black hair was accented by a pair of dangly earrings whose colors matched those of the paintings behind her. Her features were soft, she wore dark half glasses, and Rick estimated her age to be around thirty. When she took her left hand from the keyboard and brushed back her hair, he noted that she wore no rings. As he was thinking of the significance of ring-less fingers, she looked up, noticed him, and smiled. It was not an unpleasant smile. He stepped to the door and went in.

  “Buon giorno.” Her voice went with the smile.

  “Buon giorno. I was looking for Signor Innocenti. Is he here?”

  She rose to her feet and Rick noticed her figure. “He’s in the back. May I have your name?”

  “Montoya, Riccardo Montoya. But he is not expecting me. Please tell him that I was recommended to him by Captain Scuderi.”

  The smile remained, but visibly tightened. So much for Beppo’s secret operations, Rick thought. The woman knows. And if she worked with Innocenti on stolen art, why hadn’t Beppo given me her name instead?

  She excused herself and went through a door behind the desk. Rick walked to one of the paintings, a mass of color, and tried to decipher if there was something represented in the swirls and lines. He concluded that it was purely abstract, and also that it was not something he would hang in his apartment, not that there was much room on its walls anyway. He also saw a small, red dot stuck to the bottom of the glass, meaning that someone liked it enough to buy it. No price displayed, of course. That would be in a book on the table. As he was trying to guess how many euros it had set the buyer back, a man appeared from the back room, followed by the girl. He wore a brown suit with a pale yellow shirt and print tie. His thin gray hair started about a third of the way over his head, getting thicker as it reached the back of his neck, giving him the look of an orchestra conductor. As he reached out his hand, Rick thought he looked vaguely familiar.

  “Fabio Innocenti, Signor Montoya, un piacere.”

  “Piacere mio, Signor Innocenti. Have we met before?”

  The man’s smile remained, but a questioning look was added to it. “I don’t believe so. Is this your first visit to Bassano?” The girl’s eyes moved back to Rick.

  “It is, but I’ve been here for several days, at a seminar—of course, that’s where I’ve seen you, at the Jacopo seminar.”

  “Yes, I attended some of the sessions. I was sitting in the back with the students and other interested public. I don’t remember seeing you, however.”

  “You wouldn’t have if you were watching the speakers. I was in the translation booth behind you, wearing earphones and talking into a microphone.”

  “Ah, but now I recognize your voice.” He turned to the girl. “Isn’t that interesting, Elizabetta, that I would know his voice but not his face?”

  “Like listening to the radio, Babbo.”

  “You met my daughter, Signor Montoya?”

  “I have now.” He was close enough, when he took her hand, also to take in her perfume. As he always did, Rick tried to identify the perfume, but was too distracted by the face to come up with a name. The reading glasses had been removed and he noticed that her eyes were a deep green and large. Very large.

  “But please sit down, Signor Montoya.” He gestured toward a group of chairs at one end of the open room. “Captain Scuderi just called to alert me that you would be dropping in. Something about old works of art?”

  Rick took a seat across from the man and his daughter. “My contact in the ministry is an old friend. In truth, I have not met the captain.”

  Innocenti grinned. “We’ve never met either. In person, that is, only spoken on the phone.”

  Lots of practice in recognizing voices, Rick thought before speaking. “My reason for calling on you is not official, but my friend thought you could help me with some questions I have about an issue that came up at the seminar.”

  “I would be pleased to help if I can. I was asked to extend every courtesy. That sounds very formal, but I trust it means that in the ministry you are held in high regard. Now tell me, what is the issue?”

  “The missing Jacopos.”

  Innocenti raised his hands and his eyes toward the ceiling before looking again at Rick. “What can I say? You heard about them at the seminar.”

  “Which is why I became curious. Were you at that last session when Professor Fortuna and Signor Tibaldi of the museum got into it about the two paintings?”

  “I was. It was good to see someone returning fire at Fortuna. Did I tell you about the man, Cara?”

  “The nasty one, Babbo?”

  “Nasty isn’t strong enough to describe him. Though he does know his art history, especially that regarding Jacopo da Bassano.”

  Rick made a quick calculation and decided that news of Fortuna’s murder would reach the whole town quickly. No need to keep silent about it. “Signor Innocenti, Fortuna was found dead this morning. The police are at the hotel now interviewing the seminar participants.”

  “Dio mio,” Innocenti gasped and exchanged glances with his daughter. “Police? They don’t expect foul play, do they?”

  “It appears they do. But tell me about the two lost Jacopos. Not that they would have anything to do with Fortuna’s death.”

  “I certainly hope not.” He rubbed his chin and again looked over at his daughter. She nodded quickly. “But I have to tell you, Signor Montoya, the reason I attended the seminar is that I have a hunch something is happening regarding those missing paintings.”

  “Really? From listening to the few comments about them, I got the impression that they will never be found.”

  “That may be true. As I said, it is a hunch. I have not even told Captain Scuderi about it, since I don’t have anything concrete. Why get the art police involved if my instincts turn out to be unfounded?”

  Ri
ck was puzzled. Beppo had let slip that there was some movement in the art police on this case, but apparently Scuderi hadn’t passed that news to Innocenti during their phone call. Or Scuderi had said something and Innocenti didn’t want to tell Rick. Did Beppo trust Rick more than Scuderi trusted Innocenti? This would take some sorting out.

  “Do you know the history of these two paintings, Signor Montoya?”

  “No, that’s why I called my friend in Rome. And he gave me your name.”

  Innocenti sat back in his chair and rubbed his hands together in thought. “The two paintings were from the period in his career when Jacopo was influenced more by Venetian masters, though, as you know from the seminar, he always lived here in Bassano. They were owned by a wealthy Venetian family which had them hung in their vacation villa just outside Bassano, near Asolo. During the war, anyone with art of value had hidden it away to keep it from the Nazis, but the family apparently thought that they were isolated enough that no one would notice.

  “In those last days of the war this part of Italy was in total chaos. Allied troops were working their way north, held back by retreating Germans as they went. And the Italian partisans were hiding in the hills, coming down only to ambush Germans or make their departure difficult before disappearing again. It was anarchy. During that time the paintings went missing. The family had fled to the liberated regions to the south, and when they returned here after the Veneto had come under Allied control, they found their villa ransacked and the paintings gone. At the time it was assumed that a German column had passed the house on its way to Austria and stolen the paintings, but it has never been proven. The Nazis kept good records, but not of that sort of activity. It is possible, of course, that they were taken by one of the liberating armies, or even some Italians who knew they were there, but I doubt it. The German theory, given their history of plundering art, seems the most likely.”

  Rick immediately thought of Muller’s grandfather, but said nothing. It was Elizabetta Innocenti who spoke next. “My father has always been interested in these paintings, as you would expect of someone born in Bassano. I am not so sure that it was the Germans, Riccardo. Do you mind if I call you Riccardo?”