To Die in Tuscany, David Wagner [best novel books to read .TXT] 📗

Betta had pen and paper in hand but had written nothing. “Can you give me the name and address of this woman, to put in our files?”

“I’m sure I have it.” Bruzzone got up from the chair and squeezed past the desk to the credenza. He opened its door and pulled out a small filing box that might have started its life holding a new pair of shoes. Back at the desk, he opened the box and shuffled through a line of cards. “Here it is.” He passed a card to Betta, who wrote down the information and returned it to him.

“Interesting that she lives in Monterchi. That’s near Sansepolcro, which would make sense.”

“Yes,” Bruzzone said, “at about a dozen kilometers, it’s easy to reach from Sansepolcro, even in Piero’s time. Also, Piero’s Madonna del Parto hangs in a museum in Monterchi, so there’s a strong connection between the artist and the town. Not as much as he had with Sansepolcro, his birthplace, but enough so that it is not surprising the drawing turned up there.”

It crossed Betta’s mind that a person in Monterchi could have wanted the drawing, someone unhappy that it had not stayed in the town. Unhappy enough to commit murder to get it and then not be able to display it? That didn’t make sense.

“When you recover the drawing,” said Bruzzone, “it will be turned over to the museum in Sansepolcro, I assume?”

Betta tapped her pen on the notebook. It was an interesting question and not something she had considered. “I don’t know if a document was signed already formalizing the donation. If not, I would assume that the drawing would become the property of the heirs, most likely Signora Somonte.”

Bruzzone leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. “In that case, she could then go ahead with the donation as her husband had wished, or keep the drawing herself, or sell it.”

She saw what he might be getting at and didn’t want to go there. “Those questions are something the ministry’s legal department would have to work out, so I shouldn’t speculate. My assignment is to find the drawing.” She closed her notebook.

“I understand. I can’t help thinking that there are those in this city who were not happy that it was going to Sansepolcro and now might try to convince her to keep it here. I’m talking, of course, about the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche. Vitellozzi was very upset when he found out that Somonte was going to send the drawing down to that small museum.”

“Vitellozzi?”

“Annibale Vitellozzi, the director of the museum. I’m sure you’ll meet him in the course of your inquiries.”

Betta reopened her notebook and wrote down the name. “That’s very helpful, Signor Bruzzone. Is there anyone else you could suggest I talk with?”

He stroked his goatee in thought. “Well, someone else you’ll likely encounter anyway, since this is such a small town and the arts community is even smaller, is Cosimo Morelli, an extremely wealthy local businessman. Cosimo has the largest private art collection in Urbino, with some very important pieces. When you meet him he will invite you to see them—he always does.”

Betta wrote down the name. “Morelli would seem like the kind of person to have purchased Piero’s drawing.”

Bruzzone nodded, and a smile formed on his lips. “He tried. But Somonte outbid him.”

* * *

Somonte’s room was a small suite on the top floor of the hotel with a sweeping view of the hills north of Urbino. DiMaio had gone immediately to the front desk to stop the cleaning staff, or anyone else, from entering the room but was too late. When they opened the door, using a key given them at the front desk, the suite had been made up and everything was in order. Since Somonte had left his key when he’d gone out the previous evening, it was clear that the murder had taken place somewhere else. Nevertheless, something relevant to the crime might have been changed by the housekeeping crew.

The suite consisted of three rooms. The door from the hallway opened to a sitting area, taken up mostly by a sofa and two chairs with a view out of a large window. Against one of the walls was a bar, including a small sink, with glasses and bottles of liquor lining a shelf above and a small refrigerator below. Rick opened the refrigerator and found small bottles of prosecco as well as an assortment of juices and soft drinks. The only item somewhat out of place sat on the bar counter, a half-full bottle of sherry. It was Spanish, and not a label familiar to Rick, though he was not an expert on sherry, let alone imported brands. While he checked out the bar, DiMaio was looking at papers on a desk at the other side of the room.

“This might be something.”

Rick put down the bottle and walked to where Alfredo was thumbing through a small notebook, bound in leather, with the name Manuel Somonte and the year stamped on the outside. “This was sitting on top of the desk. Somonte’s agenda. The notations for this week are mostly names and phone numbers, likely people he wanted to see during his stay, but unfortunately it doesn’t say when or if he met with them. Can you read his writing better than I can?” He passed the book to Rick.

The penmanship was crude with small flourishes on some of the letters, the handwriting of someone from another generation. “I would imagine Somonte kept personal notes here and that his assistant takes care of business-related appointments, probably with a more modern system than scribbling in a notebook.” He felt the vibration of his phone and pulled it from his pocket. “It’s a text from Betta. She probably didn’t want to call, thinking we might still be in our interview downstairs.” He read from the phone screen: “I got names of people Alfredo should interview. Shall I meet you at the commissariato?” Rick looked up from