Murder Most Unfortunate Page 4

  “Please do.”

  “And everyone except my father calls me Betta.”

  Rick was concentrating on Betta when he realized the time. “I’m afraid I have to get back to the hotel. The police inspector wants me to translate when he talks with the foreign participants.” He got to his feet, followed by the two Innocentis. “I’d like to learn more about the two paintings. And if there is some way, Signor Innocenti, that I could help with your…”

  With some difficulty due to the tightness of her slacks, Betta pulled a card from her pocket. “Here is the phone number of the gallery, and my cell. My father doesn’t believe in cell phones.”

  As he crossed the piazza, Rick could not get Betta out of his mind, but when he got closer to the hotel he remembered he was about to have his first encounter with Inspector Occasio.

  Chapter Four

  The hotel lobby was calmer now; only a few uniformed police stood in one corner, trying to look busy or at least somewhat official. Rick spotted Detective DiMaio seated in one of the lush lobby chairs, talking on his cell phone. From the smile on the man’s face Rick assumed it was a personal call, but perhaps he was naturally cheerful. The first impression was certainly a positive one, unlike that made by DiMaio’s boss, even though Rick had yet to be introduced to Inspector Occasio. DiMaio waved Rick over before saying a few words into his phone and slipping it into his pocket.

  “Sit down, Riccardo. Do you mind if I call you Riccardo?”

  “Not at all.” Everyone, it seemed, wanted to call him by his first name. Would Inspector Occasio do the same? He thought not.

  “And I am Alfredo, please, except in front of the inspector. Could upset the man.” DiMaio settled back in the chair, its red velvet matching the burgundy of his tie. “He should be ready for you to translate in a moment. He’s talking with the prosecuting attorney now about the case.”

  Rick looked at the detective and pondered what he had just heard. Was this a variation on the good cop, bad cop routine? It was going on a year now that Rick had been living in Italy, and he had worried that he was adopting the cynicism for which the Romans are known. Never take anything at face value—always assume there is something behind every comment—look for a motive in the most innocuous of actions. In Rick’s head it was happening now. DiMaio seemed like a decent fellow, but was he real? A phone call to his uncle would help answer the question, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to do that. At least not yet.

  “How did the interviews with the Italians go? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  DiMaio glanced at a door at the far end of the lobby. Rick assumed Inspector Occasio was secreted behind it, and that the detective was deciding how to answer. It took a few moments to get the reply.

  “Why should I mind? One thing for sure, there was universal agreement that Professor Fortuna will not be missed, as you mentioned this morning. The guy must have been a real stronzo, if you’ll pardon the expression. Alas, none of the men has a strong alibi for the time that our victim likely met his end.” A thin smile appeared on his face. “As is the case with you, Riccardo.

  Rick let the comment pass, and the policeman continued.

  “I did not sit in on the questioning of Dottor Porcari. My superior felt that for a man of such stature in the community—the vice president of Bassano’s leading bank, after all—that for such a personage he, the inspector, should deal with the man personally. So I took the opportunity to have a coffee next door. I know the owner.”

  “But the others? There must have been something of interest besides establishing alibis.” Rick wondered if he was pushing too hard.

  DiMaio frowned in thought. “Tibaldi, the man from the museum, he was the most nervous of the lot. Hands were actually shaking, you should have seen it. He kept saying how terrible it was for the museum, that the event had been such a success and now this murder would overshadow it. On and on. His concern is understandable, of course. He organizes this international event but now the newspapers will only write that one of his art experts croaked. But Tibaldi, too, had no alibi. He said he went back to the museum to take care of things after the close of the seminar.”

  “Folding and stacking the chairs in the conference room.”

  “What?” He pointed at Rick. “I like that. Folding chairs. That’s good.” He glanced around the room and lowered his voice. “But let me tell you, Riccardo, the one person who is most troubling to me is Sarchetti, the Milanese guy who sells art. I’m not sure if my capo got the same feeling about the man, though. Occasio’s not one to share his theories with me or anyone else.”

  “Will you be part of the interrogation of the three foreigners?”

  “There are three? Ah, that’s right, the American. He seems to have disappeared for the moment, but we were told he went to the airport to pick up his fiancée. His luggage is still in his room. If he did in Fortuna, he may have decided that a fast getaway is more important than retrieving his clothes. That would be a scene, wouldn’t it?—the lady getting off one plane as he’s boarding another. Perhaps they wave across the terminal, she with tears in her eyes, not understanding. Could make a good scene in a movie.”

  “I doubt that Jeffrey Randolph is your murderer, Alfredo.”

  “You never know, he—”

  “DiMaio!”

  The voice, somewhat high-pitched, came from the now-open door at the end of the room. A scowling Inspector Occasio caught DiMaio’s eye, turned quickly, and disappeared back into the room.

  “It looks like we’re on next. I’ll go get Muller. He and Oglesby are waiting in the bar. If you see Randolph, grab him. Don’t let him disappear again.” He walked through the lobby to the door into the bar. Rick got to his feet and decided to meet Occasio on his own.

  The hotel manager had reluctantly given Occasio the use of a small conference room that looked out on a side street. Any group that needed to meet did not require a mountain view. A large white board hung unused on wall, and a low credenza on one side of the room held a tray with a water carafe and glasses. At the far end of the room’s long table the inspector sat, his eyes on a sheaf of papers before him. Despite the click of Rick’s heels on the cement floor, the man didn’t look up until Rick was at his side.

  “I am Riccardo Montoya, Inspector.”

  Rick’s look was met by a pair of squinting eyes. “Yes, I know who you are. Where is DiMaio?” He remained seated and no handshake was offered.

  “He went to get Professor Muller.”

  At that moment DiMaio and Muller appeared at the doorway, introductions were made and the three men took seats at the table. Rick sat next to Muller and DiMaio sat across from them.

  “Rick,” the German began, “please tell the inspector that I regret my Italian is not—”

  “Zitto,” Occasio snapped, and turned to Rick. “Tell him that I am the person who is conducting the interview.”

  This is going to be fun.

  ***

  The questioning of George Oglesby, the art professor, went more smoothly than the interview with the Bavarian Muller because Oglesby exhibited English reserve rather than Teutonic rigidity. But the results were so similar that the two interviews could have been with the same man. The previous evening each had left the dinner alone, returned to his respective hotel room, and turned in. Both had known Fortuna before the seminar, meeting him at other academic conferences. Both were guarded in their opinions of the dead man, but it was clear that neither had been his close friend. Both men, as the interview ended, asked when they would be allowed to leave Bassano, and both were told, in Occasio’s brusque manner, to plan on staying put. Rick thought that the policeman could have saved time by simply interviewing one of the two and making a copy of the notes. When Oglesby had left the room Rick got to his feet and started for the door.

  “Just a minute, Montoya, there is one more.”

  DiMaio was st
ill seated next to the inspector. “Sir, Professor Randolph hasn’t yet returned from the airport. He went to pick up his—”

  “Of course, of course.” Occasio waved a hand in front of his face like he was clearing smoke from the room. “If he shows up in the next few minutes, bring him in immediately. Otherwise he’ll have to come to the station.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number as if he were the only person in the room. Rick and DiMaio got the hint and left.

  Rick closed the conference room door behind him and exchanged smiles with Detective DiMaio. “Did that go as expected, Alfredo?”

  “Nobody was injured, was he? So it went well. Your translation was excellent, in spite of the interruptions by Inspector Occasio. I kept picturing you with that bullhorn outside the surrounded hideout. But we didn’t get a great deal of new material, to say the least. Those two only confirmed what we already knew from talking to the others. I was hoping that one of them had seen something, either during or after the dinner, that offered some clue. Such as Fortuna arguing with someone outside on the street and challenging him to a duel. Maybe someone lunging at him with a broken bottle. I would have taken something as simple as his leaving the restaurant with someone. No such luck.”

  “He must have left with someone, or at least arranged to meet someone later. It could have been a person not involved in the seminar, but that seems unlikely. Did he have any friends here in Bassano, or relatives?”

  “We’re still checking now, but it appears not. You met the guy, do you think he had any friends anywhere? The students who were kissing his culo to get good grades don’t count.”

  Rick smiled and nodded. He looked up to see a tall man standing at the reception desk holding what appeared to be a map of the city and peering at it while listening to the desk clerk. His jacket had a herringbone pattern, the shirt under it a tattersall print, and the slacks were a dark brown corduroy. With the clothes, and the touch of gray salted through the blond hair of his temples, he could have stepped off the pages of the Orvis catalog. “You won’t have to drag Professor Randolph down to the station, Alfredo. There he is now.”

  DiMaio eyed the man at the desk. “He looks like an American college professor. What was that movie I saw? Took place in America at some university. I can remember everything about every movie I’ve seen except the titles. Drives me pazzo. If you could bring him into the conference room, I’ll tell—”

  “Give me a couple minutes with him to explain what’s going on. I doubt if he knows.”

  “If he does know, he’s our murderer. We can take him right to the station.”

  Rick walked to the reception desk. “Professor Randolph, good morning.”

  He looked up. “Oh, Rick. Good morning. Please, it’s Jeff. I was planning out a bit of tourism. Did you know that my fiancée has flown in? She’s up in the room getting settled. We’re going to see the sights for a few days. Are you also staying on?” This was not the staid voice of the learned professor attending an academic seminar, thought Rick, but that’s what love can do. He hated to spoil the mood.

  “You may have to put off your tourism, Jeff. Something has come up involving all of us at the seminar.” Randolph’s expression changed from merriment to bewilderment. “Professor Fortuna has been found dead, and the assumption is foul play. The police have been interviewing everyone who had contact with him the past few days, and they’ll need to speak to you. I’ve been helping the police by translating for the non-Italian participants.”

  “But…but, that’s impossible. Foul play?” His mouth stayed open, twitching, as he searched for words. “It must have been some random act, perhaps a robbery gone wrong. Fortuna was not universally loved, as you must have observed when you were translating, but no one in the seminar could possibly have taken the man’s life.” Randolph became a professor again, his tone that of an instructor lecturing a class. “I hardly believe that the local police would suspect someone in the academic community of such an act. That would be preposterous.”

  “They have to consider all possibilities, Jeff. You know how police operate.”

  “I most certainly do not. I’ve never even had a speeding ticket.”

  Rick looked across the lobby to Detective DiMaio, standing at the doorway of the conference room. “The lead policeman, Inspector Occasio, is ready to talk to you, so you should be able to get this over with quickly and start seeing the sights with your fiancée.”

  Randolph muttered as they crossed the room. Rick introduced him to DiMaio and Occasio, and they took their places at the table. Rick sat between the American and the inspector, so he could translate easily in either direction. He waited while the policeman shuffled through the pages of his notebook. No doubt for dramatic effect.

  “You know the drill from translating for the other two, Montoya: whereabouts last night, his previous contacts with Fortuna. Get on with it.”

  Rick got on with it. Randolph said he had been one of the first to leave, as soon as the formalities had ended, since his fiancée was arriving on an early flight in the morning and he wanted to get a good night’s rest. Everyone stood sipping after-dinner drinks when he slipped out and walked back to the hotel. All the participants, including Fortuna, were still there when he left. He didn’t notice anyone suspicious standing around outside, not that he would know who would be considered suspicious in an Italian town. He’d never met Fortuna before the seminar, but was very familiar with his work since Randolph could read Italian, even though he had trouble speaking it. Though not asked by Occasio, he expressed his doubts that anyone in the seminar would have reason to murder the man.

  As Randolph spoke, and when Rick was translating, Occasio stared at the far wall, not meeting the eyes of either of them. Rick hoped that the professor would not ask him if the policeman was listening, since Occasio would ask for a translation. Fortunately Randolph played it straight, answering the few questions the inspector had as if he were sitting for an oral exam. Translation was easy since he spoke in clear, short sentences. Rick ran out of questions, and neither of the two policemen had anything else to ask. He was about to get to his feet when Occasio, for the first time, trained his eyes on Randolph.

  “Montoya, ask the professor where he was between the time the seminar ended yesterday afternoon and the closing dinner in the evening.”

  As Rick translated, a perplexed look took over Randolph’s face.

  “In the afternoon? Well, I came back here to change, of course. But…let me see, yes, before that I went down into town. Needed some fresh air after being cooped up in the seminar, and wanted to get a bit of exercise to prepare me for another large meal.” He emitted a chortle and cough before again becoming professorial. “They’ve been feeding us well during our stay in Bassano.”

  After Rick finished the translation, Occasio continued to stare at Randolph for a few moments before looking at his open notebook. He pulled a pen from his jacket, held it over the paper, and then returned it to the pocket. “Tell him not to leave town.”

  ***

  “What a pleasant man, your Inspector Occasio.”

  “He’s not my inspector, Jeff. But you shouldn’t feel singled out for special treatment, he displayed that same pleasant manner with Muller and Oglesby.”

  Randolph frowned. “And the way he ordered me to stay put. At least he didn’t confiscate my passport. It’s fortunate that I was planning to stay in Bassano for a few days anyway. I might have been in a pickle if I’d had to return to the university immediately. Thank goodness for graduate assistants.”

  Rick recalled having to take over a class for much of a semester in grad school when the professor he was working for was interviewing for jobs at other universities. But he kept that story to himself. “Where are you off to today?”

  “I think we’ll just stay in town, walk around to get a feel for Bassano. Perhaps the ceramics museum. See the covered bridge, of c
ourse.” His seriousness disappeared as he looked toward the elevator. “There she is, Rick. Come meet Erica.”

  Rick grabbed a quick breath when he heard the name, and lost his breath completely when he saw the girl walking to the reception desk to drop off the room key. Of all the hotels in the world, she has to walk into this one. She wore blue jeans, as would be expected from someone living in the States, but they fit perfectly and had not been purchased at J.C. Penny. Leather boots peeked from below the cuffs. Her hair was longer, its style slightly different, but that one strand still fell loosely over one eye. A light wool jacket over a silk blouse completed the outfit. She was still talking with the reception clerk but he could already smell her perfume, though that may have been his memory in overdrive.

  The desk clerk gestured at Professor Randolph and she walked toward him. About halfway across the lobby she noticed Rick and stopped. He had trouble interpreting the look on her face, something between shock and fear, but then she burst out laughing and rushed over.

  “Erica, dear, I’d like you to meet—”

  “Ciao, Ricky.” She put her arms around Rick and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “It seems that you two have already met.”

  Rick stayed silent, trying to figure out what to say next. Fortunately Erica spoke first.

  “I knew Rick in Rome, Jeffrey.”

  “At the, uh, university?”

  She took Randolph’s arm, still looking Rick over in the same way he’d studied her. “No, no. We moved in the same circle of friends. You know how it is.”

  Rick finally found his tongue. “Your English is fluent, Erica.” He immediately cursed himself for such a lame comment.

  “Speriamo bene, after living all these month in the States.” She inclined her head to her fiancé while keeping her eyes on Rick. “Ricky and I always conversed in Italian.”