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

Rick was happy to get her mind off her work—or lack of it. “We could also go back to Sansepolcro and then straight south around Perugia. We could have lunch at the place outside Todi where we ate on our Orvieto trip. Or if we’re hungry before that, there’s the Tre Vaselle in Torgiano, just south of Perugia.”

“You’re filling yourself up on breakfast and already planning lunch?”

“We’re in Italy, Betta. It’s the law.” That managed to get a good smile from her. “But before we depart, let’s go to Raphael’s house. I ran past it this morning and realized it’s the one important sight in Urbino we haven’t visited.”

“Certainly, Rick.” She pushed her empty yogurt cup to the side and picked up her cell phone. “Let me call Alfredo to tell him that the investigation is now completely in his hands. And I’ll pass on our agreement with him that the attack on Bruzzone yesterday morning may have been a warning to keep him quiet.” She started hitting buttons and then paused. “At least last night it sounded to us like a good theory. Now in the light of day I wonder if it was just the wine talking.”

“That will be for Alfredo to decide.” He picked up his cup and found that the coffee was cold.

* * *

Rick and Betta came to the Piazza della Repubblica and turned left to start the climb up Urbino’s main street. Via Raffaello was busier than when Rick had jogged down it earlier. A good number of the people they saw were tourists, but most were pensioners and other locals gossiping and enjoying the pleasant weather. The San Francesco church was not yet open, though it must have been about to since a group stood waiting outside the closed doors. Just past it in the small courtyard people sat at tables under large umbrellas enjoying their last taste of coffee and watching the passing pedestrians. Humans were not the only ones enjoying the fine morning. While their masters chatted, two dogs—who by their shapes and coloring could have been related—eyed each other with tongues flapping. Just ahead was Bruzzone’s gallery.

“He must not be in yet,” said Rick. “No police in front.”

“I think you’re right. I doubt Alfredo would have pulled the guard off only twenty-four hours after the attempt.”

Casa Raffaello had the same fifteenth-century look as the other stone buildings on the block but was set apart by a banner hanging from the facade. They walked up a short step into the hallway where they bought tickets, were given a brochure, and pointed toward the stairs. After taking the stone steps up to the next floor, they found themselves in the spacious room appropriately called the Sala Grande. Rectangular paving stones, which Rick guessed not to be the originals, covered the floor. This was the heart of the home, where the family had gathered in front of a large, deep fireplace, where they ate at a long table, and where guests were entertained. Carved decorations filled in the space between ceiling beams that had their own carvings to match. While the house was not a palace in the English sense of the word, this room said that young Raphael had enjoyed a comfortable childhood. Large, dark paintings, mostly of religious themes, hung from the walls. None of them were originals by the master himself.

The only decoration in the next room, except for a fresco painted on the wall, was two chairs and two small framed paintings. The room was identified in their brochure as the Camera di Raffaello, which would indicate that this was where the artist had slept, or perhaps where he was born. The small fresco was clearly the most important feature of the room, and perhaps the entire house, since cords and stanchions prevented visitors from getting too close. It showed a woman holding a naked infant on her lap while reading from a book propped on a wood stand. There were no religious symbols that Rick was accustomed to spotting in portraits of the Madonna and Child. This was simply a woman cradling her baby.

“According to tradition,” Betta said, “this was painted by Raffaello and is a portrait of himself as an infant being held by his mother.”

Rick studied the fresco. “There’s that ‘according to tradition’ line again. You can’t fool me.”

“Bravo, Rick. His father was a second-rate painter, of course, so it could have been by him.”

“Or somebody could have sneaked into the place one night and painted it, hoping it would be taken for Raffaello himself.”

“A good forger couldn’t make any money that way. But it does have some of the features that Raffaello became known for later, like the long neck and the delicate features. Who knows? Maybe it really was painted by him. That’s what the people who run this place would love to have proven.”

They walked into another room, an antechamber with one door leading out to a courtyard and the other into the kitchen. Going into the kitchen first, they found that an open fireplace took up most of one side. Like everything else in the room, it was clean and neat, with only a few lines of soot which could have been spray-painted on for effect. The hearth was rigged with an ancient gadget of weights and pulleys that looked like something from a grandfather clock, but was in fact an ingenious system to turn a spit. Rick studied it before they walked through the open door into the cortile. The rough brick walls of the building closed in the four sides of the courtyard, its coldness softened by the green of potted plants in the corners. Against the wall nearest the kitchen sat a well, covered by a metal grate. Rick leaned over and could not see the bottom through the darkness, though he suspected there would be coins to be found if anyone ventured down the shaft.

“With all the wonderful views in this town, it’s unfortunate that Raffaello’s family