To Die in Tuscany David Wagner (inspirational books for women txt) 📖

He went to his jacket, took out a pair of glasses, and put them on before returning to the chair and leaning toward the phone. “Yes, that looks like it.”

“Which confirms what Somonte’s daughter told us.”

He flinched for a second time, but not as convincingly. “Daughter? Is she here?”

“Yes. I think she’s planning to attend this evening.”

“She will be most welcome, of course,” he said, somewhat regaining his composure.

Betta could almost hear his mind working, likely thinking about the need to change his speech that evening. Pilar would have to be included when he recognized the Somonte family’s support for the exhibit. He might also have been wondering if she and the widow would consider continuing that support in the future. Betta briefly considered telling him that the daughter and wife didn’t exactly get along but decided it wasn’t her role to do so. He would find out soon enough. Or perhaps he knew already. Was he really surprised to find out that Somonte’s daughter was in Urbino? Betta was about to put the phone away when she thought of something else and pulled up another picture. Again she showed it to Vitellozzi.

“That’s an entry ticket for the museum, of course. You can read it. Is that also some kind of clue in your investigation? Everyone who comes in here gets one, unless, like you, they have a pass from the Cultural Ministry.”

His tone indicated that he had decided to go on the offensive. Betta turned off the phone and put it in her pocket. “It was inside the leather case. Perhaps put there when Somonte visited you the day he was murdered. Even major donors have to pay the entrance fee?”

“Only people who work at the Cultural Ministry can get in without paying. He might have been given the senior discount, but Somonte could afford to pay full price.” He was growing impatient. “What is the next step for you, Dottoressa?”

It was a natural question, and Betta didn’t know how to answer it, even had she known what her next step would be. “I am following up on some leads.” She knew it was a weak answer and was quite sure he knew it as well.

He uncrossed his leg and leaned toward Betta. “Surely you have to believe that the person who killed Somonte has the drawing. Even if he was not murdered in order to get it, the killer must have it, or at least know where it is.”

“I’m not sure which is worse: that this person has the drawing and understood its value, or did not and has thrown it away.”

“If he knows the value, it may not turn up for a while. The killer could lay low and wait years to put it on the black market. But you are on the art theft squad; you know more about how such things work than I.”

Was he baiting her? “For not knowing much about stealing art, your scenario is quite convincing.”

“The scenario that I would prefer would be that it turns up a century from now in the archives of some museum. That happened recently in Milan at the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana. A page from a Leonardo folio was found in the wrong archive, having been misfiled a few hundred years before. The Piero drawing was lost for hundreds of years and miraculously turned up in someone’s attic. It could happen again. And, who knows? This time it might find its way to this museum, where it belongs, among the other works by the master. I will hope for such an outcome, even though I will not be here to see it play out.” He took off his glasses and placed them on the table before folding his arms across his chest.

“Perhaps you can afford to take the long view, Dottor Vitellozzi. In my office we are focused on the here and now.” She stood. “Thank you for your time. And I very much enjoyed seeing this room. I can understand how you would enjoy working in it.” The sound of a car horn blared from the street. “I suppose it’s quieter in the morning. Do you arrive at the office early each day?” If he had been out shooting up Bruzzone’s shop earlier, he might get why she was asking, but she couldn’t figure out any other way.

“I’ve always been an early riser, and so I’m here early every day. It’s the best time of day to get my work done, when no one is knocking on my office door. The rest of the museum staff doesn’t arrive until after nine.” He raised his arm toward the window. “This morning, I was here at about seven, and the view was spectacular.”

Betta took note: he was here, but nobody saw him.

* * *

Rick tried to decide if San Giovanni Battista should be called a small church or a large chapel, but given its designation as an oratorio, it had to be the latter. The barreled wood ceiling was braced by heavy crossbeams that also held strings of spotlights that illuminated the art on the three walls. The left side was mostly bare plaster, covered in places with large fragments of the original frescoes. On the right wall it was a different story: the life of John the Baptist filled every square inch with movement and bright colors. In 1416, the Salimbeni brothers had joined forces to decorate the walls, including the Crucifixion behind the altar. There was so much activity that it was almost too much to take in, and Rick decided that if he came back with Betta, they would concentrate on one panel at a time. Which is what Lucho Garcia had apparently decided to do while waiting for Rick.

He sat on a plastic chair facing the depiction of John baptizing Jesus. In the panel, a crowd of robed and haloed saints knelt on one side of the river watching the two central figures. On