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

finger to wipe a drop of sweat from his nose. “I hadn’t thought of it, but that’s true. Just someone who knew that he had the key to get in here.”

“Thank you for your insights, Signor Fantozzi. We should leave you to your work and let all those people come in to see the gardens.”

“Most of them aren’t interested in the other plants, just Somonte’s. Yesterday a woman came in with her little daughter to show her. Disgusting. But it certainly is making Professor Florio happy.”

Outside, Rick and Betta breathed in the cool afternoon air and splashed their faces with water from the fountain pool. “I wonder if they put this here just for the people coming out of the heat inside,” Rick said. “If I knew my Latin, I could read the inscription.”

As usual, Betta had her mind on the missing drawing. “We didn’t get anything out of that except perspiration.”

“Except that we’re pretty sure the murder was connected to the missing drawing.”

She shook her hands of excess water and looked at Rick. “How can we be sure?”

“How many people had seen the drawing?”

Betta put some thought into the question. “Obviously all the people we’ve interviewed. But remember that there was an article in the paper a few days ago about the donation. Vitellozzi mentioned that when we talked to him. My guess is that there was a picture of it accompanying the story.”

“It must also have mentioned that Somonte was stopping in town on his way to Sansepolcro and that the drawing was of great value.”

Betta rubbed her eyes. “Too much of a temptation for your normal thief. All he had to do was track down where Somonte was staying and shadow him. And by carrying the drawing around, our victim made it easy.” She sighed. “We’re back to suspecting half the population of Urbino in a robbery that turned violent.”

“Not exactly. I believe what we just heard back there in the humidity brings the suspects list back to the serious art experts.”

“Nothing he said could have been different from what he told Alfredo that morning.”

“Perhaps, but Alfredo might not have spotted it. I refer to Fantozzi playing the role of a cadaver, and playing it well. Didn’t it remind you of something? He closed his eyes and tilted his head.”

“O Dio, of course. The sleeping soldier in Piero’s painting in Sansepolcro.”

“Whose face just happens to be the subject of the missing drawing. Which means that our murderer not only knew about the drawing but also knew that it was a study for the painting. And he was familiar enough with it to set up Somonte’s body to mimic the sleeping soldier. Pretty macabre.”

“Also pretty sophisticated. Our suspects list remains small.”

“And, Betta, it increases the chances that the drawing is in the hands of someone who understands both its artistic and monetary value.”

Chapter Eleven

The Palazzo Ducale was made for nights like this. During his reign, Federico da Montefeltro staged scores of events here that were the height of elegance and ceremony, but those were different times. Tonight’s opening would not approach the duke’s flair for decadent opulence, but the massive structure was doing its best to re-create something from its past glory. The piazza in front was lit by a line of torches inserted into wrought-iron sconces flanking the shuttered windows of the second floor, casting pale, flickering light onto the stone pavement. Raphael would have felt right at home in this atmosphere, though perhaps puzzled by the single spotlight illuminating his young face on the exhibit banner.

Rick and Betta walked through the square toward the entrance. Fortunately, they had both packed something a bit more formal for the trip, just in case something came up that required more than business casual. Rick had a blue blazer, his only white shirt, and a favorite burgundy tie, along with his dressier pair of cowboy boots. Betta, whom Rick decided could look good in a flour sack, wore the classic black cocktail dress and low heels. In place of business-hour gold studs in her ears, small hoops, which he’d never seen before, hung below her close-cropped black hair. At the hotel she had thrown him a curveball by not using her usual Dahlia Noir and challenging him to name what she’d sprayed on. He’d nailed it—Habanita—and now as he caught another whiff of it he was tempted to warn her never to question his perfume acumen. He resisted, not wanting to spoil what he hoped would be a very pleasant evening.

Another pleasant evening.

Since she’d moved to Rome to join the art theft squad, there had been ups and downs in their relationship, but lately it had moved into a very relaxed phase. Not that they took each other for granted. Each had other friends, both from their work and going back to before they’d met, but there was an unspoken understanding that they would be together whenever they could. Was it time to have a chat about where it was all going? Betta was not one to keep things inside, he told himself; when it becomes an issue for her, she’ll say something.

Garlands of flowers festooned the grand staircase leading to the second floor where museum guards directed them toward the room of the special exhibit. It was the route they had taken on their previous visit, and it was impossible not to stop and admire some of the paintings they passed. One was La Città Ideale, the ideal city, attributed to Piero della Francesca but not definitively identified as his, despite the rigid perspective for which the painter was known. Unique for its long, rectangular shape, it showed pristine lines of buildings on either side, drawing the eye to the round structure in the very center. An already haunting canvas was made more so by the total absence of human beings. Rick wondered out loud: “Could that have been the artist’s message, that the ideal city would lack people?”

“I don’t think so,” said Betta. “There is a hint