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

“The purchase of the summer house.”

“Precisely. She confronts him in the church, and he admits it. Wasn’t ‘inheritance’ one of the words you managed to catch?”

“It was.”

They walked along a narrow street before coming to a familiar corner. All streets in Urbino led to Via Raffaello, or so it seemed. They found themselves back on it and began the descent toward the hotel when Betta decided to call her office. Rick strolled over to the window of a shoe store while she talked on the other side. Like the shoe stores in Rome, or any other city in Italy he’d visited, the men’s and women’s footwear in this establishment were clearly separated. He knew this because he had taken on the habit of the locals while walking around Rome, that of perusing the windows of shoe stores. Somewhere he’d read that the Italian obsession with shoes started with the Etruscans, and, over the millennia, design changed while the love of fine footwear persisted. He found it curious that styles were the same in the capital as in the provincial cities—perhaps they all used the same distributors. This year, for men, the heavy-soled, industrial-looking shoe was in. It would take more than that to get him out of his cowboy boots. Next year, if the pendulum swung back to light loafers, he might be tempted. As he looked, trying to picture who might actually buy these shoes, his thoughts were interrupted by Betta’s voice.

“She’s going to check on it.”

“Check on what?”

“The insurance Somonte might have had on the drawing. But it may take a while since protocol requires that they go through the Spanish police, and who knows what kind of bureaucracy that is.”

“Unlike the streamlined Italian police.”

“Do you make that kind of sarcastic remark around your uncle?”

“No, but he makes them around me all the time. Which reminds me—I should call him.”

She squinted through the glass at the shoes, but Rick could tell that her mind was on other things. “I also talked with the guy I sent the pictures you took at Morelli’s house last night. He promised to check them against the list of missing artifacts. That also might take some time, since Greek amphorae are reported missing all the time. It’s not like checking fingerprints.”

Rick glanced down the street. “Speaking of your friend Morelli, isn’t that him?”

Betta followed his eyes. “It certainly is. And it looks like he just came out of Bruzzone’s art gallery. Why would he be paying a call on Bruzzone?”

“He buys art, Bruzzone sells it. Isn’t that the way it works?” He noticed her scowl. “You’re right—it is a bit curious.”

“Why don’t we drop in at the gallery ourselves? Just to see how Bruzzone is doing after the attack this morning, of course.” She tugged at Rick’s arm but stopped for a moment and looked back at the rows of shoes. “Who buys those things?”

They walked past the house of Raphael to Bruzzone’s shop, where a bored policeman stood outside smoking. He must have seen Betta and Rick with DiMaio at the commissariato, since he quickly stamped out his cigarette and opened the door for them. They thanked him and entered the shop, which looked as it had earlier that day except the door to the office in back was ajar rather than wide open.

“I’ll be right with you.”

A moment later the door opened and Bruzzone peeked out. For an instant he didn’t recognize them, causing Rick to wonder if the gash on his forehead had affected his faculties. A square white bandage, perhaps larger than it needed to be, covered the wound. Color had returned to his face since the morning, but his body language indicated he was still somewhat in shock.

“Dottoressa Innocenti and Signor Montoya. It is good to see you again, and it gives me the opportunity to thank you. I was in no condition to remember such niceties this morning.”

Betta took his hand in both of hers. “No need for that, Signor Bruzzone. We wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Much better, thank you. Much better. I wish I could offer you some coffee, but I haven’t had time to load my machine.” He smiled. “It isn’t very good coffee, so you are fortunate. Have you heard anything from the inspector regarding…” He raised his hand to his forehead without touching the bandage.

“We know he’s been working hard on various leads,” said Rick, knowing he didn’t sound convincing. “You’re able to get back to your regular routine of work?”

“Oh, yes. The clinic took good care of me and told me to go home, but I had work to do here. Word must have spread around the city about the incident, since several people have called or stopped in to check on me. Cosimo Morelli was just here.”

“Morelli?” said Betta. “The art collector?”

“Yes, he even showed some interest in those miniatures, something I found very strange. It’s not the kind of art he’s ever collected, as far as I know. Maybe he was just trying to make me comfortable after the attempt on my life, although making someone feel comfortable is not in Cosimo’s nature, in my experience. Just the opposite. I think he just wanted to snoop.”

“Perhaps he’s concerned about his own safety,” Rick said.

Bruzzone thought about it. “I hadn’t considered that, but it could be. Anyone who had contact with Somonte could be in danger, and there aren’t that many of us. That may have been why he asked about the police investigation.”

“What did he want to know?”

“He asked if you police had any suspicions about who took the shot at me. That would be a natural question if he’s worried about his own safety and he didn’t want to ask Inspector DiMaio directly.”

Rick considered what Bruzzone was saying and found it curious that the man hadn’t put two and two together to realize that Morelli himself was a suspect. And as a suspect in the murder, he had to be a suspect in the botched shooting