Murder Most Unfortunate Page 7

  When the maggiordomo announced that dinner was ready to be served, Rinaldi offered his arm to Betta and Rick followed suit with Caterina Savona.

  “You work very fast, Riccardo,” she said softly in his ear. “Betta tells me you two met only this morning.”

  “It’s been a busy day. Are you staying here at the villa?”

  She gave his arm a playful pinch. “Heavens, no, I’m just here for dinner. I’m staying in town at the Belvedere.”

  “That’s where I am. A very pleasant hotel.”

  “So I’ve heard, which is why I chose it.”

  The dining room was on the same wing, with another set of doors on one side looking out on the colonnade. Lights between the outdoor columns lit the stone walkway and spilled out onto the first few meters of grass. In the darkness faint twinkles hinted of another villa or farm in the distance. Rick was expecting a large room with a long table, but instead it was considerably smaller than the living room and had only a sideboard and round glass table set for four. Perhaps there was a banquet room further down the wing. As in the other room, the ceiling was lined with dark wood beams, likely the originals. Decorative pole lamps in the corners threw light upward, the only lighting other than four candles in an arrangement at the center of the table. The gentlemen held out the chairs for the ladies and everyone was seated.

  Rinaldi took his napkin from the plate and spread it on his lap. “Since Caterina and Riccardo are not from the Veneto, I thought we would have some regional specialties. I hope you won’t mind, Betta.”

  She had Rick on her left and the host on her right. “Absolutely not, Signor—excuse me, Angelo—we must show these stranieri what they are missing.”

  Rinaldi beamed. “And vino locale too, of course, starting off with a Breganze produced just to our west, a smooth Pinot Bianco.” As if on cue the butler appeared, and after the host had gone through a cursory tasting, filled the glasses of the two women, followed by those of the men. The four toasted and sipped the straw yellow wine.

  “Excellent,” said Caterina. “I will have to look for it at my wine shop in Milano.” She put down her glass and turned her eyes to Rinaldi. “Angelo, you have the reputation of a discriminating collector of art. Tell us what you are looking at these days. Collectors are always thinking about their next acquisition, you must be the same.”

  “My dear, you are correct in characterizing the collector, but at the moment I am concentrating on business.” Rick and Betta exchanged quick glances, unnoticed by the other two. “We are considering expanding into a new line, and it’s been consuming my attention. But I’ll get back to art soon enough. Once you have the itch…” The first course arrived in individual bowls, rice dotted with peas and pieces of pancetta sprinkled with parsley. Rick recognized it to be a dish he’d tasted as a kid on a school trip to Venice. Rinaldi confirmed it. “Risi e bisi should be thick, but not too thick, and of course the rice and peas must be perfectly al dente. Buon appetito.”

  The conversation turned naturally to food, specifically rice dishes. Caterina told the group about the history of risotto alla milanese, how rich Milanesi in the middle ages actually used gold dust to color the rice. Though no one at the table had ever tasted gold, they all agreed that saffron likely provided a better flavoring. Rick admitted that rice balls filled with cheese and fried, supplì di riso, were one of his favorite antipasto dishes, and went on to describe the delicious simplicity of the beans and rice he’d had when visiting his parents in Brazil. It was while the dishes of the first course were being removed that Rinaldi changed the subject.

  “Riccardo, it was that seminar on Jacopo da Bassano where you were working as an interpreter, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was. An interesting topic, I learned a great deal about the man and his times.”

  Rinaldi inclined his head toward the empty bottle and the butler, removing the last bowl, nodded in recognition before walking toward the door. “The bank sponsored it, if I remember right from the posters I saw around town. Stefano Porcari was probably behind it.” He turned to the lady on his left. “Stefano is the vice president of the Banco di Bassano, Caterina, and very much interested in art.”

  “Have you ever considered collecting from that period, Angelo?” It was Betta. “Jacopo or one of his contemporaries.”

  The girl’s got spunk, Rick thought. He waited for Rinaldi’s reply, but it was interrupted by the need to taste a newly opened bottle. It was a red, this time, almost garnet in color.

  “No, my dear, I think Jacopo is a bit too dear for an amateur collector like me. Of course I would love to have something by our most famous local son, but his work is likely out of my price range. Not that they come on the market that often, of course.” He watched the butler fill everyone’s second wineglass. “The grapes for this Montello were grown not ten kilometers from where we are seated, by a good friend. I’m afraid it is not one that you will find in your wine shop in Milano, Caterina. Salute.”

  The butler appeared again from the kitchen, this time accompanied by a woman dressed in a white apron. Each carried a platter in one hand and a serving spoon in the other. Going first to the ladies, the butler placed a small half bird on each plate, then stepped aside so that a spoonful of roasted potatoes could be placed next to it.

  When everyone was served the master of the house waved a hand asking them to begin eating. “Pigeon is usually thought of as a specialty of Umbria, something which I’ve always found curious, given that it was the home of Saint Francis, but these stuffed pigeons are a Veneto tradition. I hope you’ll enjoy them.”

  Rick discovered that the bird had been conveniently split in half, allowing easy access to a ham, breading, and herb filling inside. There was little meat, but what there was fell easily off the bone into its own juice. The crunchy potatoes contrasted deliciously with the savory flavors of the pigeon. “This is a splendid meal, Angelo.” He raised his glass. “Our compliments and thanks to your cook.”

  “One of the best in the Veneto, Riccardo.” He joined his guests in another sip of the Montello. “To return to the seminar, if I may. I heard on the local TV news before you arrived that one of the participants was killed last night. Do you know about that, Riccardo?”

  From the look on Caterina Savona’s face, it appeared that this was the first she had heard of it. Betta looked at Rick, awaiting his reply.

  “Professor Fortuna, one of the specialists in all things Jacopo. He met his end last night after our final dinner for the panelists, organizers, and sponsors. It was quite a shock this morning to everyone, as you might imagine, when the police descended on the hotel.”

  “It certainly would be a shock,” Caterina said in a halting voice. “What do they think happened?”

  “I really couldn’t say. They questioned all of us, of course, and we’ve been told to stay put for the moment. Which is going to inconvenience some of the participants.”

  “Who were the other participants, Riccardo?” Betta’s question, Rick knew, was intended to draw out their host. The wine and food had not diverted her from the mission.

  “There are three foreign specialists. Jeffrey Randolph is from a university in America. George Oglesby is similarly employed in England. And Karl Muller is a German who is apparently quite a Jacopo specialist. Among the Italians, besides the late Lorenzo Fortuna, was Taddeo Gaddi, another university professor, and the curator of the Jacopo collection at the museum, Dottor Tibaldi.”

  “I’ve met Tibaldi,” said Rinaldi. “Knows his art, but you would expect that from someone in his position.”

  Rick caught Betta’s eye and then continued. “There were a few other people who weren’t on the panels but participated to a certain extent. Some graduate students…oh, and there was a man from Milan named Sarchetti. Art dealer.”

  Rinaldi’s face showed nothing. “From Milan? Do you know him, Caterina?”

  She graspe
d her wineglass. “I recall hearing the name.”

  “But do the police have any leads, Riccardo? It would seem to me that a group of art historians would not be the best pool for finding a murder suspect. Perhaps some enemy of the man followed him here and did him in. I trust that the usual robbery gone bad theory has been floated?”

  Rick put down his fork. “The police will probably tell you that they are not ruling anything out. That’s their usual statement, isn’t it?”

  “Which usually means,” Caterina said, “that they have no idea what happened.”

  “Well, I hope they find out quickly who did it. We don’t need an investigation dragging on. But as your host I should not have brought up such a subject, I prefer to discuss more enjoyable topics. Such as art.” He turned to Rick. “We are in the presence of two women who know their art. I would love to get their opinion on something which must have come up at the conference, Riccardo—those two lost Jacopo paintings. Here in Bassano, they are considered part of our city’s patrimony.”

  Rick tried not to show any reaction. “Definitely discussed. I had never heard of them, so I found it all fascinating.”

  “What I’ve heard,” Betta interjected, “is that they are hidden in some cave, or stashed away in the home of a wealthy collector. Have you hidden them in one of the rooms here, Angelo?”

  She gave the host a sly wink, and Rick wondered if the wine was finally having an effect on her. Rinaldi laughed. “I wish that were the case, my dear. Caterina, have you heard about these paintings in your travels?”

  Caterina Savona had been watching the exchange, and thought for a moment before replying. “Yes. If I remember the story, they disappeared at the end of the war, so wouldn’t that increase the likelihood that they were spirited out of Italy altogether? They could be hidden in plain sight on the wall of some German house without the owner even knowing how valuable they are. Such things can happen. There was a famous case of a missing Caravaggio turning up in someone’s basement years ago.”

  “I will search my basement first thing in the morning,” said Rinaldi. The dishes from the second course had been cleared during the conversation, and he returned to the subject of food. “For dessert we have the most famous of our local dishes, tiramisú, created just down the road in Treviso. It has been imitated throughout the world, most often with disastrous results, but it remains a classic. In London last year I was forced by good manners to have one that bore no resemblance to the dish you will savor now.”

  “That’s quite an introduction, Angelo.”

  “And well deserved, Caterina, thanks to my wonderful cook. So, do you think these paintings will ever appear?”

  “My opinion is worth nothing, but I would wager that they will never be found. If the person who has them does not know their value, the paintings will likely stay put. And if they do know they have masterpieces, they probably know how they got there, and want to keep anyone from finding out.”

  No one had anything to add, and they were rescued by the arrival of dessert.

  ***

  “He didn’t even blink when you mentioned Sarchetti.”

  Rick drove slowly along the two-lane road. The Alfa’s headlights reflected off the kilometer markers, and at intersections they picked up rectangular signs pointing the way to small towns in this part of the valley. Clouds had spread over the area while they’d been in the villa, blotting out the stars and any glimpse of a moon, as well as hinting of rain. As they went through Riese, rain became reality, though the drops were not enough to require the wipers.

  “He never said he didn’t know the man,” Rick replied. “It was a clever response. Still, we can’t dismiss the possibility that Sarchetti was visiting the butler this afternoon. Or getting some recipe from the cook. It was, you must admit, an excellent tiramisú.”

  Rick could not make out her face in the darkened car, but from her next comment he sensed that Betta wasn’t smiling. “And Caterina said she’d only heard of Sarchetti, whatever that meant, before the subject was conveniently changed by our gracious host.”

  Caterina and Angelo must be in cahoots, Rick thought. As happened so often in his line of work, he began to consider translations for the phrase “in cahoots,” as well as possible origins. He would have to look it up when he got back to the hotel, since the wine and rich food weren’t allowing his mind to work as it should. A bright light flashed in the rearview mirror, taking his mind off etymology. They had passed few cars since leaving the villa, and none had passed them. But this driver acted anxious to do so. Already going under the speed limit, if there was one at this time of night on Italian roads, Rick slowed down even more, expecting the driver to roar past. Instead, the lights came almost to Rick’s bumper.

  “What’s he doing?” Betta craned to look back.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Rick instinctively accelerated to get away from the car, but it stayed glued to theirs. What came to his mind was a defensive driving course his father had taken once to get away from a possible kidnapper, something about slamming on the hand brake while shifting the steering wheel to make a sudden turn. He doubted it would work on a narrow road at night, a road now getting slicker with the rain. He fumbled to find the wiper knob.

  “Should we stop?” There was fear in Betta’s voice.

  “That may be exactly what he wants. Let’s see what this Alfa Romeo can do.” He stomped on the gas pedal and the car shot forward. It took a moment, but eventually the lights matched Rick’s speed. Far ahead, through thickening drops of rain, he could see the lights of a town. If they could get there…

  Now larger lights appeared ahead of him. It was impossible to know how fast they were coming at him but they seemed high. Perhaps a truck. Rick tensed when he looked in his mirror to find that the car following him was speeding up to pass. Didn’t the driver see the truck coming? The car barely reached past Rick’s front bumper when it squeezed right to cut him off.

  “Riccardo, look out!”

  There was nowhere to go but off the pavement. Rick wanted to see who was in the car, but he had to concentrate on the road, or what was left of it. He hit the brake, swerving toward the shoulder as the large oncoming truck blared its horn. By braking, the Alfa skidded sideways, its tires sending rough shudders through the entire vehicle. The steering wheel vibrated in Rick’s hands but he managed to turn into the slide and regained control. The Alfa skewed off the road and thumped down an embankment, stopping short of a wire fence as the engine sputtered and died. The other car shot past the oncoming truck, its tail lights disappearing into the darkness. They sat for a moment without speaking.

  “Stai bene?” He put his hand on hers. “You’re shaking.”

  “A little, but I’m all right now. What was the matter with that guy?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s get out of this ditch. Luckily it’s not that deep.” He turned the key to bring the Alfa back to life. The wheels spun slightly before gripping and moving the car slowly back to the shoulder and then into the road. Rick stopped and opened the window to take a gulp of the fresh air, but instead he smelled the diesel exhaust of the truck now gone behind them. It was silent, the only sound the purr of the car’s engine. The whole incident, he realized, took no more than a couple minutes. Who was it? As his pulse slowed down he couldn’t help thinking that it was not a drunken driver or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. For one thing, there was something familiar about the car. Even in the darkness he could tell that its paint was dark, probably black or dark blue. A Fiat? Not sure, since cars often look alike. Perhaps something would eventually come to mind. He squeezed Betta’s hand and took a deep breath before putting the car into gear. A quiet twenty minutes later he drove into the deserted piazza and parked in front of the store.

  He turned off the ignition and took her hand in both of his. “Not the excitement we needed to end the evening, Betta. Are you sure y
ou’re all right?”

  She put her other hand over his. “Can you come up for a few minutes? I don’t want to be alone yet. I can make us coffee.”

  “Your father won’t still be up?”

  She smiled. “He may be, but I live in the apartment across the hall.”

  He got out and walked around to open her door. When her shoe touched the pavement he remembered where he had seen the car.

  Chapter Seven

  Rick stifled a yawn as he perused the inner pages of La Repubblica, not sure if it was the political news from Rome or the lack of sleep that had caused it. He’d turned the key to his hotel room door well after midnight, but an hour or two less in bed hadn’t kept him from his morning run. Bassano’s fresh air filling his lungs each morning had invigorated his trip. Even though he ran early in the morning in Rome, before the worst traffic took over the streets, he couldn’t escape the fumes that lingered there. Only when it had rained during the night, or a strong wind had blown through, did Roman air take on a quality approaching freshness. He folded his paper, dropped a couple euro coins on the table, and walked to the lobby.

  Now that’s interesting.

  In the far corner of the room, where he had seen Inspector Occasio talking with the banker the previous morning, sat Caterina Savona. Her outfit was more informal than the previous evening: a short jacket covered a turtleneck sweater, slacks and boots completing the outfit. Her hair was in the same style as at dinner, but combed out. “Businesslike,” was the word that came to his mind. As he watched, she and the man she’d been talking with stood and shook hands, a formal handshake as if they had just met. The man’s double-breasted jacket was tailored to disguise the size of his stomach, but a certain amount of neck hanging over the shirt collar spoiled the effect. His hair was as Rick remembered it from looking through the window of his translator’s booth: disheveled and in need of a cut. The fellow tried to cut the figure of a neat person despite a few too many pounds, but didn’t quite pull it off. Why was he talking with Caterina Savona?