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

museum was famous for its works by Piero, so it would be logical that Vitellozzi should keep a reference work about him on his desk. Did he simply want to avoid the discomfort that would come with a question from his police visitor? Somehow, he didn’t seem the kind of person to be bothered by such things. If anything, he would put it out in the open to provoke her.

She was about to slip it back under the files when she noticed a card peeking out of the middle of the book. Her finger opened to the marked page, revealing a color print of one of Piero’s more famous works, the very one she and Rick had seen two days earlier in Sansepolcro.

Below the standing figure of Christ lay the sleeping soldier with the face from the missing drawing.

Why was the page with this particular illustration marked? Once again it was at the very least curious, and possibly suspicious, but still merely coincidental. Before replacing the card between the pages, she turned it over and found that it was the business card of Manuel Somonte, with his contact information printed in Spanish. Had Somonte left it when he’d called on Vitellozzi just before his murder? Betta ruled that out since the card was bent and smudged. Even if the card had just been inserted to mark the page, the museum director had received it from Somonte longer than three days ago. She noticed faded letters under the printed words that she strained to read.

Her concentration was broken by the faint sound of applause. Were the ceremonies over? She couldn’t have been away from the exhibit hall that long, but maybe she’d lost track of time. She quickly replaced the card and put the book back under the stack of files. More applause.

Betta hurried from the room and closed the door behind her.

Rick stood ready behind the riser and kept an eye on the door at the far end of the room. After Vitellozzi’s opening remarks, the culture undersecretary had conveyed the minister’s anguish in not being able to attend and then offered his own two cents—or was it two euros?—about the importance of the event to the cultural life of Italy. His talk was mercifully short, but the next speaker’s was not. The president of the region expounded on the artistic patrimony of Le Marche, starting with Raffaello and going through a long list of worthies whose names meant nothing to Rick. He was reminded of the cynical Italian phrase illustri sconosciuti—illustrious unknowns. As the man appeared to be winding down, Betta came through the far door and flashed Rick a thumbs-up sign. He gave her a theatrical frown and head shake in return. His attention snapped back to the formalities when he heard Vitellozzi talking about Manuel Somonte, the late benefactor of the museum and contributor to this fine exhibit, recently and tragically struck down. Rick stepped quickly to Isabella Somonte’s side and began giving her the Spanish translation in a low voice. She gave him a blank stare and then realized why someone was whispering in her ear before she looked back at Vitellozzi, who was asking everyone to welcome Signora Somonte. There was polite applause.

“It is time for you to say a few words,” Rick said gently.

Lucho appeared at her side, took her arm, and guided her to the microphone. The crowd waited patiently, unsure what to expect, while Isabella stared back at them. Seconds passed.

Rick leaned toward her. “If you’d rather not—”

“I will speak.” She began to sway, clutching at the microphone, and might have fallen if Lucho and Rick had not steadied her. “Translate every word,” she ordered.

Rick nodded and looked at Lucho, whose face was grim.

“My husband is not here tonight,” she began. “Had he not come to your beautiful city, he would still be alive.”

Rick put her words into Italian, but without the derisive tone she’d given to the word “beautiful.” This was not going to be easy.

“I could never understand Manuel’s fixation on Italian art. After all, we have great Spanish artists. Why did he have to come here? His mother was Italian, but was that reason enough? It would not be for me, but I am one hundred percent Spaniard.” She pounded her fist on her chest and again nearly lost her balance. Lucho was there to steady her.

As Rick translated, he noticed Pilar standing in the back of the crowd, enjoying the spectacle while everyone around her watched in transfixed disbelief. Vitellozzi stared at the ground, his arms folded over his chest. The regional president, perhaps used to dealing with awkward situations in public, maintained a stiff smile, while the culture undersecretary stared at the ceiling. Rick finished translating the sentence and turned back to her. For a moment he wondered if she was finished, but she snapped out of her daze and continued.

“I know…” she began and started to sway, causing Lucho to step forward and take her arm. She stared at him almost without recognition, before looking back at the people standing in front of her. Her eyes seemed to be searching. “I think…no, I am certain…that someone in this room—”

Rick was wondering how to interpret when Lucho leaned toward her and spoke into her ear. His voice was soft but firm. “Isabella, it is time to go. You have had a long day.” He shook his head at Rick and led her to the rear of the riser. She didn’t resist. A museum guard helped her down the step and the two Spaniards walked slowly to the door. The eyes of everyone in the room followed them until they were out of sight.

Vitellozzi stepped to the microphone. “As you all can understand, Signora Somonte has been under a great strain since her husband passed away. It was courageous of her to come this evening, and we are very appreciative that she did. This ends the formalities; please enjoy the art.”

The waitstaff took the words as a green