To Die in Tuscany Read online

  Everyone noticed that her voice had hardened.

  “It appears that your father didn’t leave any detail to chance,” said DiMaio. “In my experience, that is not always the case, and sometimes the fighting over an inheritance can go on for years. Even though you and your father were estranged, as you said this afternoon, you should be grateful to him for what he did to avoid such unpleasantness.”

  “I suppose so, but I’m afraid it was more his need for control, even after he was gone.” The table was silent, and Pilar quickly sensed the discomfort around her. “But to answer your question, Betta, I was not expecting my father to live much longer. And because of that I have put some thought into changes I might make when it happened.”

  “You can make all the changes you like when you move into your father’s office,” said Rick.

  Pilar picked up her glass and studied it. Light from the chandelier above the table rippled through the wine as she slowly swirled it. “I’m not sure I’ll take over the office. I quite enjoy my work now, and I may not have what is needed to manage the entire operation. It’s always wise to know one’s strengths as well as one’s limitations.”

  “So you’ll hire a manager.”

  “That’s one possibility, Riccardo.”

  “I’m guessing you won’t keep Lucho Garcia on the payroll.”

  She thought for a moment before answering. “Actually, Lucho is very good at what he does. He had to be, or my father would not have kept him as his assistant. If I hire a new general manager rather than take over the company myself, it would be wise to keep Lucho in place. At this point, he’s the institutional memory. But we’ll see.”

  The pasta course arrived. With four plates, the gamey aroma of the wild boar and tomato dominated the air over the table. After exchanging wishes of buon appetito, they began eating.

  “Perhaps Montalbano is correct,” said Rick, “and we should refrain from speaking while eating this dish.” The silence lasted only to the third bite.

  “I had a call from Bruzzone,” said DiMaio. “Pilar, he’s the art dealer who sold your father the drawing. He wanted to know how the investigation was progressing and sounded very agitated.”

  “He was quite shaken when I told him the news,” said Betta.

  “My father gave him a lot of business, more than just the drawing. Every time he returned from here, he would show me what he’d acquired. It was one of the few interactions I had with him outside of discussing fabrics, since he knew I love Italy as much as he did. It’s understandable that Bruzzone would be upset, losing such a good client.”

  “Did Bruzzone have anything new to add?” Rick asked.

  “I didn’t talk with him very long. I set up a formal interview for tomorrow morning.”

  Everyone was finishing their gnocchi when a chirping sound got their attention. Pilar pulled open the purse that hung from her chair back, pulled out her phone, and checked the number. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to take this.” She got to her feet and walked toward the door of the restaurant while putting the phone to her ear. Rick and DiMaio, who had stood up when she did, sat back in their chairs.

  “Alfredo,” said Betta, “we were a bit surprised to see Pilar with you when we arrived here tonight.”

  “You thought she would be in mourning and not want to come out?”

  “No, no. Not that…”

  “You think she’s a suspect, Betta? If I’m not mistaken, Pilar was in Spain when her father was killed.”

  Rick noticed the edge in the policeman’s words. “Alfredo, it makes perfect sense to talk with Pilar in an informal setting rather than at the commissariato. She has already given us some insights into her father and his relationship with the others. You were right to include her this evening. And I’m certain the fact that she is a beautiful woman had nothing to do with inviting her.”

  DiMaio smiled. “Of course it didn’t.” Rick was successful in breaking the tension. He and DiMaio rose to their feet as Pilar approached the table.

  “Please excuse me,” she said as DiMaio helped her with the chair. “It was my chief designer. She had an issue about dealing with one of our customers who can be very demanding.” She replaced her napkin in her lap. “What do you recommend for a secondo here, Alfredo?”

  * * *

  Later, Rick and Betta emerged from a small street into the square in front of the duomo and the Palazzo Ducale. The cool night air felt good on their faces after the food and wine, and they were purposely taking a circuitous route back to their hotel. Arrow-shaped tourist signs for the city’s landmarks got them through the maze of alleys and passageways outside the restaurant to reach the heart of the city. They stood before the two buildings Rick had seen from their hotel room window, a rectangular piazza separating them. A long banner for the upcoming exhibit hung horizontally from the plain facade of the palace, lit by a spotlight. In contrast, the portico on the side of the church held only shadows and darkness. They stopped to take in the scene and enjoy the light breeze coming up from the streets below.

  “You said you’ve been to the museum, Rick?”

  “Yes, but a long time ago. In my youth.”

  “You’ll enjoy it more now that you’re an old man.” She took his hand and after some silence spoke again. “Alfredo was somewhat defensive about having Pilar there tonight.”

  “It was a bit strange to see her there, but I think he knows what he’s doing.”

  She chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure.”

  “I didn’t mean that, but you’re right, of course.” He put his arm over her shoulder. “I certainly can’t criticize Alfredo for wanting to be with a beautiful woman; that would be very hypocritical.”

  Betta gave him a peck on the cheek. “You have a way with words.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Did you also find it strange, Rick, that Pilar had to take that call during dinner? Why wouldn’t her assistant have called during the day? I think someone else was calling, and she didn’t want us to know who it was.”

  “That never occurred to me. Perhaps you’ve been in the police so long that you suspect everyone.”

  “Or I’ve been an Italian too long.”

  An elderly couple dressed in wool coats walked slowly past them, speaking so that only they could hear each other’s words. Rick and Betta watched them shuffle along cobblestones made smooth by countless other pedestrians over decades and centuries.

  “I am worried that this drawing will never be found.”

  “It’s been barely twenty-four hours since it went missing, Betta. You’re the art cop; don’t these things take time?”

  “I’m afraid that the theft and the murder are connected, and every hour that passes makes it more likely that neither crime will ever be solved. So I hope we learn something tomorrow. This man Morelli, the art dealer, seems the most likely to have committed both crimes. He gets revenge on Somonte for having outbid him for the drawing and has it in his hands as well. We encounter this kind of collector frequently, one who doesn’t care if the artwork is stolen but gets pleasure from simply having it in his possession. It doesn’t matter that he can’t show it to anyone else.”

  “Couldn’t you say the same thing about Vitellozzi, the museum guy?” Rick inclined his head toward the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche. “He files it in some drawer in the museum archives and it magically turns up somewhere in town a few years from now. Then he convinces Somonte’s heirs that it really should stay in the collection in Urbino.”

  Betta shook her head. “That’s a bit of a stretch, but I guess it’s possible. We’ll be meeting both Morelli and Vitellozzi tomorrow, so let’s hope we have a better idea about them after that.” She tugged on his arm. “Let’s go. You have to get up early for your run, and it’s already been a long day.”

  “I was thinking we could extend it a bit longer.”

 
“What a coincidence…I was thinking the same thing.”

  Chapter Five

  Rick’s morning run had been a trip through a cloud. Urbino’s fog was not the heavy, wet kind common to Mantova, where he had worked a few months earlier, but rather a fine mist that barely clung to his T-shirt and shorts. When he finished, the moisture on his body was mostly sweat. The route had taken him up the hill to the duomo and palace, a loop around the obelisk, and back down the steep Via Veneto before climbing the even steeper Via Raffaello. He passed Bruzzone’s art gallery but did not notice it since his eyes were squinting through the fog at the plain facade of the house of Raphael on the other side of the street. The top of the hill offered some respite, thanks to a flat, grassy area around the battlements of the Fortezza Albornoz. He stopped, panting, at the edge of the park where he knew there had to be an excellent view of the city, now obscured by the mist. He turned and started the easy descent that would take him back to the Hotel Botticelli for a hot shower and breakfast with Betta.

  The coffee was hot and waiting for him as he entered the breakfast room. Like the hotel itself, the room was small or, as the hotel described it on their website, cozy. Betta sat at a table against the wall talking with Pilar Somonte. He should have realized that Alfredo would have found her a room at the same hotel. She was dressed more casually than the night before, in well-cut jeans with a sweater. It appeared that her wardrobe always included something in wool, which would make perfect sense. She was a walking advertisement for the family business. Betta was back to her police business attire, a dark blue pantsuit and white blouse. He pulled out his chair and stood behind it.

  “Buon giorno, Pilar.”

  “Buon giorno, Rick,” she answered with a small wave.

  “Pilar was just telling me about the women’s fashion business. There’s juice and coffee here for you.” Betta pointed at the buffet table. “I recommend the almond cornetto.”

  Rick took the advice, not needed since he was starved after his morning run. It was interesting that Betta had adopted the Roman word for the crescent roll that was called a brioche in much of her native north. Besides the cornetto, he loaded his plate with cheese, yogurt, and a banana before returning to the table. Betta had poured his coffee and added hot milk. He sat and stirred in sugar to his coffee before downing the orange juice.

  “Keeps me from getting scurvy,” he said, putting down the empty glass and lifting the cup of coffee for his first shot of caffeine. “What are your plans for the day, Pilar?”

  “I was going to work on transporting my father’s remains back to Spain, but Alfredo told me this morning that the Spanish consul is in contact with Isabella on that, since she is considered the next of kin by both the Italian and Spanish authorities. That’s fine with me.” She looked at her empty coffee cup, considering whether to pour a refill. “I think I’ll go out and see Urbino this morning, since I’ve never been here before. I need to clear my mind. The reality of my father’s death is starting to sink in, and I think walking around in one of his favorite cities would help. Does that make sense?”

  “Absolutely,” said Betta.

  “And what about you two?”

  “I’m interviewing Morelli, the art collector, with Alfredo. Then Rick and I will be going to the museum to talk to a man named Annibale Vitellozzi.”

  “Someone my father knew?”

  “He knew both of them and probably saw them on this trip.”

  Pilar held up her hands. “I don’t think I want to know the details, but I hope it helps find whoever did this to my father. And helps you find that drawing.” She started to get up and then sat down. “Do you think this could have just been a mugging that went wrong? I asked Alfredo that yesterday when he brought me here to the hotel. He didn’t rule it out but thought it unlikely that a mugger would be carrying a gun and would know that my father had that valuable drawing.”

  “I leave the murder investigation to Alfredo,” said Betta. “Either way, the drawing will turn up eventually and be returned to you.”

  “I’ll have to fight that woman for it.” She got up, said her goodbyes, and left the room.

  Rick finished what was left of his cornetto and started peeling the banana. “You’re going to interview Morelli?”

  “Alfredo called just before you got here and asked me to sit in since I’m the art cop and Morelli is the art collector. He said it will be recorded, and you can listen in while it’s going on.”

  Like a good Italian, Rick used a knife and fork to eat the banana. “I will enjoy that. Too bad he doesn’t have one-way glass so I could also watch, like on the TV police shows.” He ate the last slice of banana and started to open the container of yogurt. “Were you really talking about fashion when I got here?”

  “Of course,” Betta answered before picking up her cup and taking a sip.

  * * *

  The same sergeant was at the desk at the commissariato as the previous day, but this morning he waved them in without making eye contact with Betta. DiMaio was talking when they got to the door to his office, and Betta pushed it open, thinking he was on the phone. Instead, a tall man with uncontrolled hair was sitting in the chair facing DiMaio’s desk.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector,” said Betta with a formal tone of voice. “We didn’t realize you had someone with you.”

  DiMaio looked relieved. “No, no, we were just finishing. Were we not, Professor?”

  The man nodded but did not appear convinced.

  “Professor, this is Signora Innocenti and Signor Montoya, visiting from Rome.” He looked at Rick and Betta. “This is Professor Florio, the director of the botanical gardens.”

  Florio’s eyes widened. “Are you here because of the murder of Signor Somonte?”

  “I am with the art police,” said Betta. “We don’t investigate homicides.”

  Florio turned his head quickly, making his long hair flop over one eye. “Inspector, didn’t you mention a missing work of art belonging to Signor Somonte?”

  The look on DiMaio’s face indicated he had indeed mentioned that, and was now regretting it. “Professor, thank you for coming by and offering advice. I really must speak with these people.”

  “Yes, of course, Inspector. I understand the importance of the first days of an investigation. Montalbano always drummed that into his lieutenants. Keep in mind what I told you, and if I think of anything else, I’ll be sure to let you know immediately.” Florio turned to Rick and Betta and gave them a short bow. “It was my pleasure. I hope you will find time to visit the botanical gardens while you are in our city.” He left.

  Rick and Betta took their previous day’s seats, and DiMaio settled into his chair behind the desk.

  “Did the professor break the case wide open for you, Alfredo?”

  “Riccardo, the man is pazzo. I would like to tell him in very strong terms to go tend to his plants, but he might complain to the rector, who would talk to the mayor, and then I’d be in trouble. His latest theory is that Somonte was in the gardens to bury an important document.”

  “The Piero drawing?” Betta said.

  “That’s probably what he’s thinking, now that he knows the art police have arrived.” He slapped his hands on the desk. “Let’s forget Florio; we have someone important to the investigation coming here in ten minutes, if he arrives on time. Betta, let’s go over how we want to handle the interview.”

  DiMaio was interrupted by the strains of the Lobo Fight Song coming from Rick’s pocket. Rick pulled out the phone and checked the number. “I’ll take this outside, and you two can conspire.” He got to his feet and walked into the hallway.

  “Commissario Fontana, it is an honor to speak with you.” It was the standard greeting he always gave his police commissioner uncle.

  “The honor is all mine, dear nephew. I was calling to see how you and Betta are enjoying Sansepolcro. I’ve never bee
n, but I hear it is a lovely town.”

  Rick looked out of the window at the end of the hall, which gave him a view of the parking lot behind the building. “We saw very little of Sansepolcro. There was a problem, and we are now in Urbino.”

  “Problem?”

  Rick described the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Partway into the explanation he could hear his uncle clicking away on the keyboard of his office computer and knew the policeman was looking up the case.

  “I’ve got DiMaio’s initial reports on my screen now, but they are mostly about the crime scene and autopsy findings. Nothing here on suspects. He does mention the missing artwork, some kind of drawing?”

  “The Piero della Francesca drawing that was going to be donated to the museum in Sansepolcro.”

  “Of course, you told me about that, and that would be why they wanted Betta in Urbino. Are you making yourself useful or just getting in her and DiMaio’s way?”

  “I’ve been translating since the widow doesn’t speak Italian. In fact, she doesn’t speak much at all. I can’t say she’s been very cooperative.”

  “Too shaken by the death of her husband?”

  “Hard to tell. It may just be her personality.”

  “You’ll have a lot to tell me when you get back to Rome. They’re calling me into a meeting so I have to cut this short. Give my best to Betta, and regards to DiMaio.”

  Rick said he would, turned off his cell phone, and walked back to the office. “Commissario Fontana sends saluti to you both. Are you ready to interview Morelli?”

  “I think so,” answered DiMaio. “Betta has found out from her office that Morelli is in their files for questionable dealings, but there’s never been enough on him to investigate.”

  “Interesting,” said Rick as he returned to his chair. “What was he doing?”