To Die in Tuscany Read online

  “That’s what you can ask the wife and assistant, Riccardo. As I said, I couldn’t get much out of them and hoped that she would calm down by the afternoon. I had asked for a Spanish speaker from the university to step in, but now that you’re here, it won’t be necessary. We’ll put you on the payroll.”

  Rick thought for a moment. He had helped the police on various occasions, but it was always pro bono. Having official status in the investigation, even if only as a contract translator, could come in handy. “Va bene, Alfredo. I’ll charge you my usual hourly rate.”

  Betta spoke. “Did the hotel clerk see him go out?”

  “We called the guy at home,” said DiMaio, “since he works nights, and his answer was yes. Somonte had appeared at the desk at precisely seven o’clock, just after the clerk came on duty, and asked to get something out of the hotel safe. That something was a leather briefcase. Somonte signed for the briefcase and left through the front door. The one thing I got out of the assistant this morning was that Somonte kept the drawing in that briefcase. If the clerk hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t know about your precious work of art, Betta.”

  “And it’s a good thing,” Betta said, “since the missing art is likely connected to the man’s murder. Unless he didn’t trust hotel security, he must have taken it with him to show it to someone.” She closed her eyes in thought. “Had the hotel made any dinner reservations for him, or perhaps helped him with directions to walk somewhere?”

  “No. I talked to the clerk who was on the desk during the day and who’d chatted with him in the afternoon. Somonte always stayed at the same hotel when he came to Urbino, which was apparently at least once a year, so the clerk knew him. They talked about the big exhibit that’s about to open at the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, since the hotel had a poster for it on the wall. The clerk didn’t notice anything different about the Spaniard from the previous stays, and in fact, he said Somonte was in a good mood and looking forward to the exhibit opening.”

  “Somonte didn’t mention the donation of the drawing?”

  “I’m afraid not, Betta, and I asked the clerk that. Nor did Somonte say anything at all about driving down to Sansepolcro today.”

  “When did Somonte get into town?” Rick asked after a sip of wine.

  “They checked into the hotel two days ago in the late morning after flying from Madrid to Florence and renting a car.”

  “What did they do between arrival and last evening?”

  “That’s something else I hope to get out of the assistant when we talk to him.”

  The empty plates were removed by yet another waiter who happened to be walking past the table. Service was a team effort, like as in most Italian restaurants.

  Betta dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “If Somonte came to Urbino many times, he must have known a lot of people here, so the suspects list could be long. But if the murder was committed to get the drawing, that might exclude many of them. Such as the director of the botanical gardens.”

  “Who has the delightful name of Salvatore Florio. He showed up at the crime scene about the time I did. I asked him where he was last night, and his alibi was not strong, to say the least, but since Somonte was a donor to his gardens, it would seem that Florio would want to keep the man alive. I’m going to interview him again. I won’t need you to translate, Riccardo.”

  Two waiters appeared. The first held a plate of the vincisgrassi in one hand and a bowl of grated cheese in the other, both of which he carefully arranged in front of Betta. The second waiter had the other two plates of pasta, which he put down with considerably less ceremony in front of Rick and DiMaio before he departed with his colleague. The three diners studied their dishes—multiple layers of paper-thin fresh pasta alternated with a rich meat sauce and béchamel—before Betta sprinkled some cheese and passed the bowl to the men. An already-strong aroma was made stronger by the melting Parmigiano-Reggiano.

  “May I suggest,” said Rick, picking up his fork, “that we speak of things other than murder and missing art while enjoying this wonderful food?”

  They agreed, and the conversation turned to when they had met in Bassano del Grappa. Rick had been in town working as a translator for an international conference of art historians, and Betta was helping her father in his art gallery. They were all drawn together when one of the seminar participants was murdered and DiMaio was part of the investigation. Perhaps because they were now sitting in a restaurant, after reminiscing about the murder investigation, the subject of Bassano’s cuisine was raised, specifically the town’s famous white asparagus. They had not been in season then, so Rick had never tasted them, much to DiMaio’s dismay. He urged Betta to take Rick back to Bassano during the annual asparagus festival.

  Their pasta course finished, Betta returned to crime.

  “One person we must interview, Alfredo, is the dealer who sold the drawing to Somonte in the first place. I asked my office to look it up in our files, and they were going to send me a text.” She unzipped her purse and pulled out her phone. “Here it is—Ettore Bruzzone. His address is Via Raffaello 12.”

  “That’s one of the main streets of Urbino,” said DiMaio. “Named after the painter, of course, since his birthplace is on it. Now the building is a museum.”

  Rick recalled when he and his sister were dragged through Raphael’s house and wondering what the big deal was. He now kept the thought to himself.

  “Are you ready for the secondo?” DiMaio asked.

  Rick and Betta exchanged glances and shook their heads. After all they had eaten already, they would pass on the second course. The policeman sighed and signaled to the waiter for the conto. “Before we get back to the case, should we not find you two lodging for the night? There’s a small hotel just up the hill from here that will be perfect. I know the owner, and he’ll have a nice room for you if I call him.”

  Betta folded her napkin and put it next to her empty plate. “That sounds perfect, Alfredo.”

  “It’s on a narrow street with no place to park, so I’ll have one of my men take you and your luggage up there.”

  Fifteen minutes later the patrol car turned off the main street and squeezed along one that could almost have been taken for an alley. The Hotel Botticelli would be described in the tourist brochures as cozy and warm, which was another way of saying it was small. But all the buildings on the street were as small as they were old. The owner greeted Rick and Betta like family and had his son show them to their room on the second floor. The boy was about thirteen and skinny, but he insisted on carrying the two suitcases up a narrow stairway and down the end of the hall. For being in a building dating to the fifteenth century, the room was spacious and included a modern bathroom. No closet, but a tall wood armoire stood wedged between the door and the wall. Rick tipped the boy and walked to the one window to take in the view. Its panes were just high enough to let him see over a sea of orange tiles, their scalloped waves broken by the occasional dark chimney. In the distance the dome and campanile of the cathedral formed the two highest points of the city, well above the twin towers of the Palazzo Ducale next to it. Church over state, Rick thought. How the Italians love symbolism. He turned to see Betta hanging up clothes she’d taken from the suitcase.

  “Rick, I don’t think I need to go along to watch you and Alfredo interview the wife. Why don’t I go see the art dealer, Bruzzone? It’s the missing drawing that interests my office, and I’d like to hear what he has to say about it.”

  “You don’t think Alfredo would want to go along?”

  “I’ll take notes and brief him. Since I’m with the art police, it makes sense to divide up the labor this way. It’s just a short distance from here, so I can walk to it.”

  Rick knew from hanging around his uncle that turf battles went hand in hand with police work, and this had the odor of at least a skirmish. Did he have a dog in the fight? Not really, but it could be fun t
o watch. “Whatever you think, Betta.”

  Chapter Three

  They walked to the corner and parted ways, Betta turning left to walk up to Via Raffaello, Rick right toward the police station at the bottom of the hill. The steepness had him thinking about what route he would take on his morning run the next day. Always better to begin with a climb and end heading down a hill, so he would likely start in the direction Betta was walking, but he’d try to scout out the town more later. One thing was sure: the residents of Urbino had to be in good shape since it was all a pedestrian area, and inside the walls all hills. But it would not be walking for DiMaio. He was standing next to a police car in front of the commissariato, talking on his cell phone. He noticed Rick coming through the gate and nodded. By the time Rick reached him, the telefonino was back in Alfredo’s coat pocket and he was opening the door to the car.

  “Where’s Betta?”

  Rick got into the passenger seat as DiMaio slipped behind the wheel. “She walked up to Via Raffaello to talk to the art dealer who sold Somonte the drawing. Said you and I should be able to handle interviewing Signora Somonte by ourselves.”

  DiMaio started the engine and backed out of the space. “I’ll talk to Bruzzone later.”

  Rick didn’t know Alfredo well enough to interpret either the comment or the tone in which it was said. The man appeared to be deep in thought, which could be in reaction to Betta’s going out on her own or something totally unrelated. A period of silence continued as the car made its way around the outside of the city, eventually pulling up in front of the Hotel Bella Vista. It sat on the edge of Urbino, green hills and valleys spread out below it, and in contrast to the buildings inside the walls, a new construction. DiMaio killed the engine but remained in the seat.

  “The initial autopsy report was in when I got back to the office after lunch. It confirmed the cause of death as a gunshot to the chest. Entry indicated the weapon was about level with the wound, not shot from above or below. Small caliber. Stomach contents didn’t reveal much. He had some pasta with a garlic sauce and bread, but the coroner suspects that it was from earlier in the day. I didn’t think that would be something for us to ask Signora Somonte, so just before you arrived I called the Bella Vista and they’re checking to see what he had for lunch. If it matches, then he was killed before he had an evening meal.”

  Rick hoped that the autopsy was what had been on the policeman’s mind, not Betta’s decision to interview Bruzzone herself. “What information do you want to get out of the widow right now?”

  DiMaio pulled the keys from the ignition. “I have a list, but we’ll have to be gentle given the shock of losing her husband. She was almost incoherent this morning. The assistant may be of more help.” He opened the door, stepped onto the street, and strode up the stairs of the hotel with Rick behind him.

  In his travels around Italy on his interpreter jobs, Rick had observed that hotels usually fell into one of two categories. The first was the type where he and Betta were now staying, an aged, repurposed building. In it the rooms were of all sizes and shapes, no one like another, including the furniture, and the bathrooms were squeezed into corners or carved out of adjoining space. Those were the hotels he preferred because they always had uniqueness and charm. The Hotel Bella Vista was the other type: modern, usually built outside the historical center, and mostly of glass and cement except for decorative stone in the reception area. The rooms were American style, opening off a long hallway, alike in their rectangular shape with the bathroom just inside the door. Furnishings were exactly the same in every room. The new hotels were efficient to build and run, there was no doubt about that, but Rick would take old and quirky over new and boring any day. The hotel Somonte had chosen was new and boring, beginning with the reception and waiting area lit by a garish chandelier, its light bouncing off the polished floor. Rick’s eyes moved around the sterile space while DiMaio spoke to the clerk at the desk.

  DiMaio turned back to Rick and jerked his thumb toward the far end of the room where two sets of doors opened to the restaurant and breakfast room. They walked past a clump of cushioned chairs and pushed open glass doors to enter the space where breakfast was served in the morning, coffee and other drinks the rest of the day. At the far end a long counter stood in front of a mirrored wall, with glasses, bottles, and the required espresso machine lined up neatly below it. All of the small tables with tablecloths were empty except one where Isabella Somonte and Lucho Garcia sat immersed in conversation. A clear glass tea mug rested next to a small pot in front of the woman. She was not what Rick expected.

  The widow Somonte was, at the very least, twenty years younger than her late husband. Her features were sharp, with too much makeup for Rick’s tastes, especially since she had enough natural beauty to not need it. He had the feeling that holding on to her good looks as long as possible was the woman’s top priority. While she could not be faulted for not packing mourning clothes on the trip, he was surprised by the garish outfit she was wearing. Tall leather boots stopped just below her knees, a leopard-skin print skirt just above them. The high collar of a pea-green angora sweater came up to her dangling earrings, and everything was topped by long, blond hair. This was not an outfit, it was a getup.

  Lucho Garcia was a contrast with his boss’s widow. To begin with, he was younger, probably in his late twenties, and his clothes were subdued to the point of drabness: white shirt with a conservative striped tie, blue blazer, gray slacks. He wore his hair long, just covering his ears, which, along with a clean-shaven face, accentuated his youthful looks.

  As Rick sized up the two, he wondered, given the age of the deceased, if they shared something more than a connection with Manuel Somonte, and then berated himself for such cynicism. Señora Somonte looked up and noticed the two men coming to their table. She squinted at Rick, from which he concluded that she needed glasses but was too vain to wear them.

  Rick introduced himself in Spanish, explaining that he was a professional interpreter and was there to help the inspector. Garcia asked if they wanted coffee or something else to drink. Rick and DiMaio declined and sat down. DiMaio took out his notebook and nodded to Rick.

  “May I offer my deepest condolences, Señora,” Rick began, causing her to remove a tissue from her pocket. He expected it to go to her eyes, but instead she blew her nose and stuffed it back into the pocket. “The inspector knows this is a difficult time, but—“

  “Has he found my husband’s murderer yet, or not?” The voice was hoarse, but he couldn’t tell if that was her normal way of speaking or caused by her cold.

  “Not yet, Señora, which is why he wanted to talk to you again. He’s hoping you can help in the investigation.” Rick quickly translated the initial exchange for DiMaio and returned his attention to the woman. “Can you tell us about your husband’s activities after you arrived here from Spain? Who he might have met, where he went in Urbino?”

  While they waited for an answer, she once again took out the handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her nose, all the while staring intently at Rick. He assumed she was gathering her thoughts for a long discourse. Instead, she rose to her feet. The other three men stood as well.

  “I thought you were coming here to tell me who did this terrible act to my beloved husband. Instead you have done nothing and then you want to interrogate me. I will have none of it. Lucho can answer your questions. I am ill and will return to my room.” She took two steps, stopped, and turned. “It is that cursed drawing. If not for it, Manuel would be alive today.” She walked quickly to the doors, her boot heels clicking.

  “It appears,” said DiMaio, “that Signora Somonte does not wish to answer any questions. That is unfortunate.”

  Garcia turned to Rick. “Please tell the inspector that Señora Somonte is not herself because of her illness and of course the loss of her husband. I’m sure anything you needed to know from her I can tell you, since I was Señor Somonte’s s
pecial assistant.” He spoke with the thick Castilian lisp that would have raised eyebrows among Rick’s Chicano friends in New Mexico.

  “Tell him we will have to talk to her eventually.” DiMaio was not happy.

  Rick told him, and then repeated the question asked of the widow. What followed was Rick’s normal consecutive interpretation routine, moving between Garcia and the policeman.

  “Señor Somonte has been to Urbino many times, and knows several people, most of them connected to his love of Italian art. We arrived in Urbino the day before yesterday, in the afternoon, in the rental car we picked up at the airport. After checking in here, he struck out on his own while the señora went to the room and rested. The cabin pressure had made her cold worse. I stayed here and made business phone calls that he had requested.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  Garcia leaned back in his chair. “Not directly, but a few days before I had put calls through for him to two of his acquaintances here in Urbino, so he could have gone to see them. One was Ettore Bruzzone, an art dealer, the man who sold him the Piero della Francesca drawing that was to be donated to the museum in Sansepolcro. The other was a man named Cosimo Morelli, a local businessman. I don’t know when Señor Somonte got back to the hotel, but he wanted an early dinner here so I could tell him about the phone calls I’d made. It was just the two of us; Señora Somonte had food sent up to her room. I assume he turned in after dinner; it had been a long day for a man of his age.”

  “What about yesterday?”

  “The only time I saw him was when the three of us had lunch. It was here in the hotel again, because of the señora’s cold. But at least she was able to come to the dining room.”

  “What had he been doing that morning?”

  The question made Garcia shake his head. “He didn’t say. The conversation was mostly about business, the files I had been working on before lunch. His wife spent the meal looking at her cell phone. One thing he did mention, outside of work, was that he was looking forward to seeing the exhibit that is opening tomorrow night. In fact this whole trip, including the donation of the drawing, was planned around that opening. He had received a special invitation to attend from the museum director.”