Murder Most Unfortunate (3 page)

“But I can't picture any of these scholars exacting revenge for anything,” Rick said as he caught the eyes of one of the waitresses clearing the tables and preparing them for lunch. She quickly averted her glance and went back to work. “Not that academics are incapable of violence, but this group…I just don't see it.”

The detective tapped his pen on the table and then closed his pad. “Let me ask you something else, Signor Montoya, which is not related to the investigation.” His face grinned as his eyes bored in on Rick. “I can tell from your face you are intrigued. You're thinking, this cop is trying to catch me off guard in order to trick me into saying something I didn't intend. Then, next thing you know, I'm peering out at him from behind bars, asking for a lawyer. Then—”

“Detective, what's your question?”

The smile turned to disappointment. “Well, Signor Montoya, at the police academy I had an instructor who I recall told us he had an American nephew. Furthermore, this nephew worked as—”

“Commissario Fontana is my uncle, Detective.”

The policeman slipped the leather notebook into his pocket while keeping his eyes on Rick. “
Pensa un po'
, the nephew of Commissario Fontana, right here. This should make things more interesting.” The pen was inserted in the same pocket. “You never thought of following your uncle into police work? You could get on the bullhorn and yell ‘We've got you surrounded, come out with your hands up' in two languages.”

“That would be helpful. But let me ask you a question, even though you're the one who's supposed to handle that part of the interrogation, Detective. Do you usually encourage suspects in murder investigations to join the police force?”

DiMaio rose to his feet. “I suppose that, strictly speaking, you are a suspect, despite your family connection with Commissario Fontana. So I'll wait until the murderer is apprehended before asking you again about any future plans to change professions.”

They walked back into the lobby. Inspector Occasio was now leaning forward in his seat, pointing a finger at a terrified Professor Gaddi who pressed himself back into the chair opposite the policeman.

“I know I'm only supposed to be asking questions, Signor Montoya, but let me offer one piece of advice,” said DiMaio as they watched the scene. “You may not want to mention to the inspector that you're the nephew of Commissario Fontana.”

***

Occasio, through an underling, assigned Rick a time to be at the hotel to help with the questioning of the non-Italian speakers. It didn't give him enough time to see any sights, but Rick had time to look in on Signor Innocenti, the art cops' man in Bassano. As he walked the few blocks to the Piazza Monte Vecchio he pondered the new development. Could any of the seminar participants be behind the murder of Fortuna? To begin with, it didn't seem in character for any of them. The only speaker who had forcefully confronted one of the man's snide comments was the museum curator, Tibaldi, but it was a minor dustup by any standard, and, after it, the seminar deliberations had returned to the usual scholarly jargon. Had it been a bar on Central Avenue, one of the men might have demanded to settle things in the parking lot, but this wasn't Albuquerque. No, the motive had to be something that predated the seminar.

What was it that Uncle Piero always told him? Money, passion, or honor; one of the three was sure to be involved if someone is murdered. Passion from a wronged husband? That didn't seem likely with Fortuna. Honor? Perhaps. Money? The most probable.

The sidewalks on the square were protected by the extended second floors of the buildings, supported at the curb side by rounded columns. Window shopping and strolling under the porticoes was a popular activity in the north of Italy, where rain was a normal part of every late fall and spring. And in the heat of summer, the sidewalks were equally attractive thanks to their cool shade. The connected sidewalks made it possible to make the rounds of shops in total protection before moving to another square.

Rick immediately spotted Arte Innocenti, a shop positioned between a pharmacy and a shirt store, as he entered the square. Its large window was sparsely decorated; two paintings on wooden easels between a low curtain and the glass. Behind them he could see that other works similar to the two—brightly colored abstracts—hung from the walls. Likely a one-man show, perhaps a local artist. He stood at the glass and studied the two on display, but quickly noticed a young woman working at a small laptop at a lone desk in the corner of the room. Her short black hair was accented by a pair of dangly earrings whose colors matched those of the paintings behind her. Her features were soft, she wore dark half glasses, and Rick estimated her age to be around thirty. When she took her left hand from the keyboard and brushed back her hair, he noted that she wore no rings. As he was thinking of the significance of ring-less fingers, she looked up, noticed him, and smiled. It was not an unpleasant smile. He stepped to the door and went in.

“
Buon giorno.
” Her voice went with the smile.

“
Buon giorno
. I was looking for Signor Innocenti. Is he here?”

She rose to her feet and Rick noticed her figure. “He's in the back. May I have your name?”

“Montoya, Riccardo Montoya. But he is not expecting me. Please tell him that I was recommended to him by Captain Scuderi.”

The smile remained, but visibly tightened. So much for Beppo's secret operations, Rick thought. The woman knows. And if she worked with Innocenti on stolen art, why hadn't Beppo given me her name instead?

She excused herself and went through a door behind the desk. Rick walked to one of the paintings, a mass of color, and tried to decipher if there was something represented in the swirls and lines. He concluded that it was purely abstract, and also that it was not something he would hang in his apartment, not that there was much room on its walls anyway. He also saw a small, red dot stuck to the bottom of the glass, meaning that someone liked it enough to buy it. No price displayed, of course. That would be in a book on the table. As he was trying to guess how many euros it had set the buyer back, a man appeared from the back room, followed by the girl. He wore a brown suit with a pale yellow shirt and print tie. His thin gray hair started about a third of the way over his head, getting thicker as it reached the back of his neck, giving him the look of an orchestra conductor. As he reached out his hand, Rick thought he looked vaguely familiar.

“Fabio Innocenti, Signor Montoya,
un piacere
.”

“
Piacere mio
, Signor Innocenti. Have we met before?”

The man's smile remained, but a questioning look was added to it. “I don't believe so. Is this your first visit to Bassano?” The girl's eyes moved back to Rick.

“It is, but I've been here for several days, at a seminar—of course, that's where I've seen you, at the Jacopo seminar.”

“Yes, I attended some of the sessions. I was sitting in the back with the students and other interested public. I don't remember seeing you, however.”

“You wouldn't have if you were watching the speakers. I was in the translation booth behind you, wearing earphones and talking into a microphone.”

“Ah, but now I recognize your voice.” He turned to the girl. “Isn't that interesting, Elizabetta, that I would know his voice but not his face?”

“Like listening to the radio,
Babbo
.”

“You met my daughter, Signor Montoya?”

“I have now.” He was close enough, when he took her hand, also to take in her perfume. As he always did, Rick tried to identify the perfume, but was too distracted by the face to come up with a name. The reading glasses had been removed and he noticed that her eyes were a deep green and large. Very large.

“But please sit down, Signor Montoya.” He gestured toward a group of chairs at one end of the open room. “Captain Scuderi just called to alert me that you would be dropping in. Something about old works of art?”

Rick took a seat across from the man and his daughter. “My contact in the ministry is an old friend. In truth, I have not met the captain.”

Innocenti grinned. “We've never met either. In person, that is, only spoken on the phone.”

Lots of practice in recognizing voices, Rick thought before speaking. “My reason for calling on you is not official, but my friend thought you could help me with some questions I have about an issue that came up at the seminar.”

“I would be pleased to help if I can. I was asked to extend every courtesy. That sounds very formal, but I trust it means that in the ministry you are held in high regard. Now tell me, what is the issue?”

“The missing Jacopos.”

Innocenti raised his hands and his eyes toward the ceiling before looking again at Rick. “What can I say? You heard about them at the seminar.”

“Which is why I became curious. Were you at that last session when Professor Fortuna and Signor Tibaldi of the museum got into it about the two paintings?”

“I was. It was good to see someone returning fire at Fortuna. Did I tell you about the man,
Cara
?”

“The nasty one,
Babbo
?”

“Nasty isn't strong enough to describe him. Though he does know his art history, especially that regarding Jacopo da Bassano.”

Rick made a quick calculation and decided that news of Fortuna's murder would reach the whole town quickly. No need to keep silent about it. “Signor Innocenti, Fortuna was found dead this morning. The police are at the hotel now interviewing the seminar participants.”

“
Dio mio
,” Innocenti gasped and exchanged glances with his daughter. “Police? They don't expect foul play, do they?”

“It appears they do. But tell me about the two lost Jacopos. Not that they would have anything to do with Fortuna's death.”

“I certainly hope not.” He rubbed his chin and again looked over at his daughter. She nodded quickly. “But I have to tell you, Signor Montoya, the reason I attended the seminar is that I have a hunch something is happening regarding those missing paintings.”

“Really? From listening to the few comments about them, I got the impression that they will never be found.”

“That may be true. As I said, it is a hunch. I have not even told Captain Scuderi about it, since I don't have anything concrete. Why get the art police involved if my instincts turn out to be unfounded?”

Rick was puzzled. Beppo had let slip that there was some movement in the art police on this case, but apparently Scuderi hadn't passed that news to Innocenti during their phone call. Or Scuderi had said something and Innocenti didn't want to tell Rick. Did Beppo trust Rick more than Scuderi trusted Innocenti? This would take some sorting out.

“Do you know the history of these two paintings, Signor Montoya?”

“No, that's why I called my friend in Rome. And he gave me your name.”

Innocenti sat back in his chair and rubbed his hands together in thought. “The two paintings were from the period in his career when Jacopo was influenced more by Venetian masters, though, as you know from the seminar, he always lived here in Bassano. They were owned by a wealthy Venetian family which had them hung in their vacation villa just outside Bassano, near Asolo. During the war, anyone with art of value had hidden it away to keep it from the Nazis, but the family apparently thought that they were isolated enough that no one would notice.

“In those last days of the war this part of Italy was in total chaos. Allied troops were working their way north, held back by retreating Germans as they went. And the Italian partisans were hiding in the hills, coming down only to ambush Germans or make their departure difficult before disappearing again. It was anarchy. During that time the paintings went missing. The family had fled to the liberated regions to the south, and when they returned here after the Veneto had come under Allied control, they found their villa ransacked and the paintings gone. At the time it was assumed that a German column had passed the house on its way to Austria and stolen the paintings, but it has never been proven. The Nazis kept good records, but not of that sort of activity. It is possible, of course, that they were taken by one of the liberating armies, or even some Italians who knew they were there, but I doubt it. The German theory, given their history of plundering art, seems the most likely.”

Rick immediately thought of Muller's grandfather, but said nothing. It was Elizabetta Innocenti who spoke next. “My father has always been interested in these paintings, as you would expect of someone born in Bassano. I am not so sure that it was the Germans, Riccardo. Do you mind if I call you Riccardo?”

“Please do.”

“And everyone except my father calls me Betta.”

Rick was concentrating on Betta when he realized the time. “I'm afraid I have to get back to the hotel. The police inspector wants me to translate when he talks with the foreign participants.” He got to his feet, followed by the two Innocentis. “I'd like to learn more about the two paintings. And if there is some way, Signor Innocenti, that I could help with your…”

With some difficulty due to the tightness of her slacks, Betta pulled a card from her pocket. “Here is the phone number of the gallery, and my cell. My father doesn't believe in cell phones.”

As he crossed the piazza, Rick could not get Betta out of his mind, but when he got closer to the hotel he remembered he was about to have his first encounter with Inspector Occasio.

Chapter Four

The hotel lobby was calmer now; only a few uniformed police stood in one corner, trying to look busy or at least somewhat official. Rick spotted Detective DiMaio seated in one of the lush lobby chairs, talking on his cell phone. From the smile on the man's face Rick assumed it was a personal call, but perhaps he was naturally cheerful. The first impression was certainly a positive one, unlike that made by DiMaio's boss, even though Rick had yet to be introduced to Inspector Occasio. DiMaio waved Rick over before saying a few words into his phone and slipping it into his pocket.

“Sit down, Riccardo. Do you mind if I call you Riccardo?”

“Not at all.” Everyone, it seemed, wanted to call him by his first name. Would Inspector Occasio do the same? He thought not.

“And I am Alfredo, please, except in front of the inspector. Could upset the man.” DiMaio settled back in the chair, its red velvet matching the burgundy of his tie. “He should be ready for you to translate in a moment. He's talking with the prosecuting attorney now about the case.”

Rick looked at the detective and pondered what he had just heard. Was this a variation on the good cop, bad cop routine? It was going on a year now that Rick had been living in Italy, and he had worried that he was adopting the cynicism for which the Romans are known. Never take anything at face value—always assume there is something behind every comment—look for a motive in the most innocuous of actions. In Rick's head it was happening now. DiMaio seemed like a decent fellow, but was he real? A phone call to his uncle would help answer the question, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to do that. At least not yet.

“How did the interviews with the Italians go? If you don't mind me asking.”

DiMaio glanced at a door at the far end of the lobby. Rick assumed Inspector Occasio was secreted behind it, and that the detective was deciding how to answer. It took a few moments to get the reply.

“Why should I mind? One thing for sure, there was universal agreement that Professor Fortuna will not be missed, as you mentioned this morning. The guy must have been a real
stronzo
, if you'll pardon the expression. Alas, none of the men has a strong alibi for the time that our victim likely met his end.” A thin smile appeared on his face. “As is the case with you, Riccardo.

Rick let the comment pass, and the policeman continued.

“I did not sit in on the questioning of Dottor Porcari. My superior felt that for a man of such stature in the community—the vice president of Bassano's leading bank, after all—that for such a personage he, the inspector, should deal with the man personally. So I took the opportunity to have a coffee next door. I know the owner.”

“But the others? There must have been something of interest besides establishing alibis.” Rick wondered if he was pushing too hard.

DiMaio frowned in thought. “Tibaldi, the man from the museum, he was the most nervous of the lot. Hands were actually shaking, you should have seen it. He kept saying how terrible it was for the museum, that the event had been such a success and now this murder would overshadow it. On and on. His concern is understandable, of course. He organizes this international event but now the newspapers will only write that one of his art experts croaked. But Tibaldi, too, had no alibi. He said he went back to the museum to take care of things after the close of the seminar.”

“Folding and stacking the chairs in the conference room.”

“What?” He pointed at Rick. “I like that. Folding chairs. That's good.” He glanced around the room and lowered his voice. “But let me tell you, Riccardo, the one person who is most troubling to me is Sarchetti, the Milanese guy who sells art. I'm not sure if my
capo
got the same feeling about the man, though. Occasio's not one to share his theories with me or anyone else.”

“Will you be part of the interrogation of the three foreigners?”

“There are three? Ah, that's right, the American. He seems to have disappeared for the moment, but we were told he went to the airport to pick up his fiancée. His luggage is still in his room. If he did in Fortuna, he may have decided that a fast getaway is more important than retrieving his clothes. That would be a scene, wouldn't it?—the lady getting off one plane as he's boarding another. Perhaps they wave across the terminal, she with tears in her eyes, not understanding. Could make a good scene in a movie.”

“I doubt that Jeffrey Randolph is your murderer, Alfredo.”

“You never know, he—”

“DiMaio!”

The voice, somewhat high-pitched, came from the now-open door at the end of the room. A scowling Inspector Occasio caught DiMaio's eye, turned quickly, and disappeared back into the room.

“It looks like we're on next. I'll go get Muller. He and Oglesby are waiting in the bar. If you see Randolph, grab him. Don't let him disappear again.” He walked through the lobby to the door into the bar. Rick got to his feet and decided to meet Occasio on his own.

The hotel manager had reluctantly given Occasio the use of a small conference room that looked out on a side street. Any group that needed to meet did not require a mountain view. A large white board hung unused on wall, and a low credenza on one side of the room held a tray with a water carafe and glasses. At the far end of the room's long table the inspector sat, his eyes on a sheaf of papers before him. Despite the click of Rick's heels on the cement floor, the man didn't look up until Rick was at his side.

“I am Riccardo Montoya, Inspector.”

Rick's look was met by a pair of squinting eyes. “Yes, I know who you are. Where is DiMaio?” He remained seated and no handshake was offered.

“He went to get Professor Muller.”

At that moment DiMaio and Muller appeared at the doorway, introductions were made and the three men took seats at the table. Rick sat next to Muller and DiMaio sat across from them.

“Rick,” the German began, “please tell the inspector that I regret my Italian is not—”

“
Zitto
,” Occasio snapped, and turned to Rick. “Tell him that I am the person who is conducting the interview.”

This is going to be fun
.

***

The questioning of George Oglesby, the art professor, went more smoothly than the interview with the Bavarian Muller because Oglesby exhibited English reserve rather than Teutonic rigidity. But the results were so similar that the two interviews could have been with the same man. The previous evening each had left the dinner alone, returned to his respective hotel room, and turned in. Both had known Fortuna before the seminar, meeting him at other academic conferences. Both were guarded in their opinions of the dead man, but it was clear that neither had been his close friend. Both men, as the interview ended, asked when they would be allowed to leave Bassano, and both were told, in Occasio's brusque manner, to plan on staying put. Rick thought that the policeman could have saved time by simply interviewing one of the two and making a copy of the notes. When Oglesby had left the room Rick got to his feet and started for the door.

“Just a minute, Montoya, there is one more.”

DiMaio was still seated next to the inspector. “Sir, Professor Randolph hasn't yet returned from the airport. He went to pick up his—”

“Of course, of course.” Occasio waved a hand in front of his face like he was clearing smoke from the room. “If he shows up in the next few minutes, bring him in immediately. Otherwise he'll have to come to the station.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number as if he were the only person in the room. Rick and DiMaio got the hint and left.

Rick closed the conference room door behind him and exchanged smiles with Detective DiMaio. “Did that go as expected, Alfredo?”

“Nobody was injured, was he? So it went well. Your translation was excellent, in spite of the interruptions by Inspector Occasio. I kept picturing you with that bullhorn outside the surrounded hideout. But we didn't get a great deal of new material, to say the least. Those two only confirmed what we already knew from talking to the others. I was hoping that one of them had seen something, either during or after the dinner, that offered some clue. Such as Fortuna arguing with someone outside on the street and challenging him to a duel. Maybe someone lunging at him with a broken bottle. I would have taken something as simple as his leaving the restaurant with someone. No such luck.”

“He must have left with someone, or at least arranged to meet someone later. It could have been a person not involved in the seminar, but that seems unlikely. Did he have any friends here in Bassano, or relatives?”

“We're still checking now, but it appears not. You met the guy, do you think he had any friends anywhere? The students who were kissing his
culo
to get good grades don't count.”

Rick smiled and nodded. He looked up to see a tall man standing at the reception desk holding what appeared to be a map of the city and peering at it while listening to the desk clerk. His jacket had a herringbone pattern, the shirt under it a tattersall print, and the slacks were a dark brown corduroy. With the clothes, and the touch of gray salted through the blond hair of his temples, he could have stepped off the pages of the Orvis catalog. “You won't have to drag Professor Randolph down to the station, Alfredo. There he is now.”

DiMaio eyed the man at the desk. “He looks like an American college professor. What was that movie I saw? Took place in America at some university. I can remember everything about every movie I've seen except the titles. Drives me
pazzo
. If you could bring him into the conference room, I'll tell—”

“Give me a couple minutes with him to explain what's going on. I doubt if he knows.”

“If he does know, he's our murderer. We can take him right to the station.”

Rick walked to the reception desk. “Professor Randolph, good morning.”

He looked up. “Oh, Rick. Good morning. Please, it's Jeff. I was planning out a bit of tourism. Did you know that my fiancée has flown in? She's up in the room getting settled. We're going to see the sights for a few days. Are you also staying on?” This was not the staid voice of the learned professor attending an academic seminar, thought Rick, but that's what love can do. He hated to spoil the mood.

“You may have to put off your tourism, Jeff. Something has come up involving all of us at the seminar.” Randolph's expression changed from merriment to bewilderment. “Professor Fortuna has been found dead, and the assumption is foul play. The police have been interviewing everyone who had contact with him the past few days, and they'll need to speak to you. I've been helping the police by translating for the non-Italian participants.”

“But…but, that's impossible. Foul play?” His mouth stayed open, twitching, as he searched for words. “It must have been some random act, perhaps a robbery gone wrong. Fortuna was not universally loved, as you must have observed when you were translating, but no one in the seminar could possibly have taken the man's life.” Randolph became a professor again, his tone that of an instructor lecturing a class. “I hardly believe that the local police would suspect someone in the academic community of such an act. That would be preposterous.”

“They have to consider all possibilities, Jeff. You know how police operate.”

“I most certainly do not. I've never even had a speeding ticket.”

Rick looked across the lobby to Detective DiMaio, standing at the doorway of the conference room. “The lead policeman, Inspector Occasio, is ready to talk to you, so you should be able to get this over with quickly and start seeing the sights with your fiancée.”

Randolph muttered as they crossed the room. Rick introduced him to DiMaio and Occasio, and they took their places at the table. Rick sat between the American and the inspector, so he could translate easily in either direction. He waited while the policeman shuffled through the pages of his notebook. No doubt for dramatic effect.

“You know the drill from translating for the other two, Montoya: whereabouts last night, his previous contacts with Fortuna. Get on with it.”

Rick got on with it. Randolph said he had been one of the first to leave, as soon as the formalities had ended, since his fiancée was arriving on an early flight in the morning and he wanted to get a good night's rest. Everyone stood sipping after-dinner drinks when he slipped out and walked back to the hotel. All the participants, including Fortuna, were still there when he left. He didn't notice anyone suspicious standing around outside, not that he would know who would be considered suspicious in an Italian town. He'd never met Fortuna before the seminar, but was very familiar with his work since Randolph could read Italian, even though he had trouble speaking it. Though not asked by Occasio, he expressed his doubts that anyone in the seminar would have reason to murder the man.

As Randolph spoke, and when Rick was translating, Occasio stared at the far wall, not meeting the eyes of either of them. Rick hoped that the professor would not ask him if the policeman was listening, since Occasio would ask for a translation. Fortunately Randolph played it straight, answering the few questions the inspector had as if he were sitting for an oral exam. Translation was easy since he spoke in clear, short sentences. Rick ran out of questions, and neither of the two policemen had anything else to ask. He was about to get to his feet when Occasio, for the first time, trained his eyes on Randolph.

“Montoya, ask the professor where he was between the time the seminar ended yesterday afternoon and the closing dinner in the evening.”

As Rick translated, a perplexed look took over Randolph's face.

“In the afternoon? Well, I came back here to change, of course. But…let me see, yes, before that I went down into town. Needed some fresh air after being cooped up in the seminar, and wanted to get a bit of exercise to prepare me for another large meal.” He emitted a chortle and cough before again becoming professorial. “They've been feeding us well during our stay in Bassano.”