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

light to begin circulating among the invitees, but everyone else stood planted in their places. It took several moments before anyone spoke, and when they did it was in low voices. Vitellozzi stepped off the platform and waded into his guests, smiling and shaking hands, even of those he had greeted previously. He broke the ice to some extent, as did the waiters, whose flutes of prosecco were quickly snatched from their trays. Before the ceremonies, everyone had appeared more interested in each other than the art. Now, almost reluctantly, they honored Vitellozzi’s request and turned their attention to the paintings. Rafael’s self-portrait, which had graced the poster seen around Urbino, drew the largest numbers.

Rick stayed a few moments on the riser surveying the scene. Betta was back to chatting with the two out-of-town museum directors. Morelli was sipping prosecco and looking deep into the eyes of a woman, but a different one. Florio had cornered two couples and was likely expounding on the wonders of his gardens. Bruzzone was nowhere to be seen, nor was the man whom Rick had suspected to be his police guard. The man had been showing signs of nervousness earlier, and Signora Somonte’s rant might have persuaded him and his wife to head for home. Intini, the journalist, had somehow found Pilar and was scribbling into her notebook as they talked. Or had Pilar found the journalist? Rick stepped down and walked toward Betta, picking off two glasses from a tray on the way. She noticed him, excused herself, and met him in the center of the room, taking the glass.

“Thank you, Rick.” She smiled and took a sip.

“Please tell me that you weren’t snooping around the palace during the speeches.”

“I may have gotten a bit disoriented while searching for the ladies’ room.”

“Well?”

She told him what she had found, doing her best to make it sound like the book and bookmark were the equivalent of a smoking gun. He wasn’t convinced.

“The director of a museum that specializes in the works of Piero della Francesca has a book on his desk about Piero, and a card in the book is from one of the museum’s benefactors? Not exactly overwhelming evidence. Alfredo won’t need to take out his handcuffs quite yet.”

“But the painting on the page that was marked? The Resurrection, from the museum in Sansepolcro? It’s a lot of coincidences.”

Rick shrugged. “Maybe it’s his favorite Piero painting.”

She was about to argue but nodded instead. “You’re right. It proves nothing.” She sipped her wine and looked over Rick’s shoulder. “Here comes Morelli.”

“I can almost smell his cologne.”

Morelli walked to them and bowed slightly. “Good evening to the Rome contingent. Are we here to enjoy the Raffaello exhibit or to arrest someone for stealing some masterpiece?”

“We would love to do both, Cosimo,” Betta answered. “Are you here to enjoy the art on the walls or to find a buyer for your newly acquired drawing?”

Morelli forced a smile. “As you well know, Betta, my collection does not extend to pencil sketches, even those of great artists. I prefer other kinds of art, especially art that will last centuries.”

“You tried to buy it, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes, and when I didn’t get it, I recognized my error and returned to the collecting I know best: paintings and Greek artifacts.” He turned his attention to Rick. “It was a shame you did not translate the final words of Isabella Somonte. From the little Spanish I know, it might have been of interest to those gathered.”

“Have you spent much time in Spain, Cosimo?” Rick asked.

“A few business trips, though I mostly deal in Italian and Greek olive oil.”

“You must have visited your friend Manuel Somonte.”

Morelli’s smile faded. “Olives are grown on the Mediterranean shore of Spain, Riccardo. Somonte lived in the north, which is mostly known for mountains and sheep.”

“Yes, of course,” said Rick. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“Questions posed in jest do not need an answer. Have you found your drawing, Betta?”

“Is that question asked in jest as well, Cosimo? If we had the drawing, you and everyone else in town would have heard about it.”

He nodded. “Very true. I hope it turns up before tomorrow afternoon. I’m leaving on a trip to Greece and will be there for ten days. It is very difficult to get news from Urbino when one is on an isolated island.”

“You may want to check with Inspector DiMaio before you leave town,” said Betta with a sweet smile.

“He called me earlier to ask where I was early this morning, but he didn’t tell me why. Police harassment, I’d call it. Why would I want to check with him about my trip? It’s none of his business.”

“Not that you are a suspect in his homicide case, of course, but you know how police are. They don’t like people connected to an investigation flying off to other countries, especially isolated islands.”

“Our mayor is here tonight. I will talk to him about whether I can be allowed to leave or not. And since I may not see you before my departure, have a pleasant trip back to Rome.” After another slight bow, he melted back into the crowd.

“A delightful fellow,” commented Rick.

“I’d love to catch him at something. I haven’t heard back from my office on the amphorae you photographed. Of course they’ve only had the picture for a day.”

The noise level in the room had increased, thanks to the wine which continued to flow. Canapés also circulated on trays, but the waiters carrying glasses were more popular with the guests who now gathered in front of the artwork. One of the paintings, a portrait of a woman, only had a few people studying it, and Rick suggested that he and Betta go over so that the subject wouldn’t get an inferiority complex. It was the picture Morelli had been standing in front of when they arrived.

“La Muta,” said Betta. “It is the more important of the two Raffaellos in the museum’s permanent collection, so most