Murder Most Unfortunate (5 page)

“What's so funny?”

“I have a good friend from the university back in America who graduated from a school named St. Pius X. I wonder how he'd feel about a place in the pope's hometown called Bar Pius X?”

“But I've heard that a bar in America is not the same as a bar in Italy.”

“True, but he wouldn't know that.”

It was a typical Italian bar, with a few tables on one side, and a long counter on the other. Tall bottles with strange shapes and decorations ran along the shelves behind the counter, looking like no one had dared to take a drink from them in years. Old men, and no women, sat at one of the tables playing cards, none of them smoking. The yellow tint on the ceiling was a reminder of when cigarettes were not just allowed but encouraged. Rick and Betta walked to the bar where a woman in a white apron sat on a stool staring at the screen of a small TV hanging from one corner. It was black and white, which fit with the rest of the room, and the program Rick guessed was a soap opera.

“
Due caffé, per favore
,” he said.

The woman pulled her attention from the TV, stood, and took two small cups from a shelf next to the espresso machine. As they watched, she placed them under the double spigot of the machine, pulled off the handle above it, filled the filter with brown coffee and slapped it back into place. Soon the water was hissing and dripping through the coffee, becoming a dark brown liquid. Still glancing every few moments at the TV, she put the half-filled cups on their saucers and placed them in front of her two customers before positioning a large sugar bowl between them. Rick noticed that Betta took her espresso without sugar. He added two spoonfuls to his cup.

“Excuse me, Signora,” said Betta. “Just before we came into town we noticed a beautiful villa on the right. Is it a Palladio?”

The woman sighed, finally accepting that she would not be able to give full attention to her TV program. She squinted in thought. “That would likely be Villa Berti. Not a Palladio, but I don't know who built it. The new owners had it renovated a couple years ago before moving in. It took forever to complete the work.”

Betta exchanged a glance with Rick. “Who owns it now? Must be someone with a lot of euros.”

“That's for sure. It's some businessman, owns a few factories in the area. It seems like every day somebody's building a new factory. More than one farmer around here is selling his land for a small fortune, then sitting around all day counting his money. It beats working in the fields, I suppose.” She looked at the men playing cards. “Not them, of course. They're just regular pensioners. One coffee when they come in, and then they sit there all afternoon.”

“Do you know the name of the owner?” Rick asked. “We're architecture students and thought there might be a way to see it inside.”

The woman frowned and took their empty coffee cups. “Doubt if they'd let you in. The man's name is Rinaldi. You could try, I guess.”

“Thanks,” Betta said, “we just may.” She looked at Rick. “Shall we be on our way? Riccardo, are you all right?”

He snapped his attention to Betta. “Yes, yes, I'm fine.” He pulled change from his pocket, left it on the counter, and thanked the woman behind it.

Later, as the noise of the engine once again made conversation impossible, Rick returned to his thoughts. The woman at the bar had said the villa owner's name was Rinaldi. His friend Beppo had an uncle who lived in the area, a businessman like Beppo's father and many others in the family. Could it be that Sarchetti was calling on Beppo Rinaldi's uncle? If so, an art dealer with a shady reputation was meeting with the uncle of a man who works for the art squad and happens to be his close friend.
Wonderful
.

Rick squeezed his arms a bit tighter around Betta's thin waist. Despite the visor covering his face he managed to catch a trace of her still unidentified perfume, taking his mind off Beppo's uncle.

Chapter Six

A group of elderly German tourists stood along the northern side of the bridge, posing for a picture taken by a tour guide who was as young as they were old. It was not raining, nor did the sky threaten any showers, but all the women wore raincoats. They had been told to expect rain, so why pack more than one overcoat? The wood beams of the bridge roof formed the top frame of the photograph, but the mountains were still visible in the distance. Nice photo, Rick thought as he watched the group. It will take a place of honor over their fireplaces in Frieburg or wherever they're from.

Rick thought how pleasantly quaint it was that the guide was using a real camera, rather than a cell phone, to take the picture. He checked his own cell phone for time and messages before slipping it back into his coat. If she didn't show up in another five minutes, he'd gladly be on his way. No, relieved to be on his way. He'd sensed that the urgency of Erica's whispered plea had nothing to do with the two issues that concerned him most at the moment: the murder and the missing paintings. Of course she was engaged to one of the suspects, who gave a vague answer to the question about where he was the previous afternoon. Now that would be something if she had some incriminating information about Randolph. No, that's not going to happen.

“Ricky!”

Erica walked briskly toward him, her long coat flapping open to show the same tight jeans she'd worn in the morning. He watched her approach, trying to decipher the look on her face. Agitation for sure, but what else could he read from it? When she reached him she stopped and took a deep breath before taking his arm and stepping to the wooden railing. They looked down at the water before she spoke again.

“Thank you for meeting me, Ricky. I don't know what to do, and when I saw you it was like being tossed a lifeline.”

She spoke in Italian, as they always had. Her voice was steady but tense. It wasn't the voice of an angry Erica; he knew that one well. Something in the way she spoke made him less annoyed, more forgiving. Of course there had been no “How are you, Ricky, how is your business doing, how's your uncle,” anything like that. But it was Erica, after all.

“Tell me what's wrong. Perhaps I can help.”

“That's just it, I don't know if anything's wrong. I think I'm happy, who wouldn't be? Jeffrey is a wonderful man, I should be the happiest woman in the world, but somehow…”

A long branch dislodged itself from one of the pontoons below them and pushed its way back into the main flow of the river. They watched it catch in the current and disappear into the distance. Her comments confirmed that this was not about murder or lost paintings. As he should have suspected, it was about Erica.

“Start at the beginning.” He used his best Dr. Phil manner. “How did you meet Jeff?”

“He was—well, still is—the head of the department. When I arrived to start the lectureship he took me under his wing, made sure I was introduced to the rest of the faculty, made me feel at home. I didn't think much of it at first. I assumed that it was the way any department head in America would welcome a new member of the faculty. Of course his reputation in the art scholarship community was well known to me, it was one of the reasons I applied for the position.” For the first time since they'd been standing at the rail she turned and looked at him. “He's one of the top scholars in our field, Ricky.”

“Go on.” He was already forming his opinion of the problem.

“Jeffrey had been divorced for about a year when I arrived, and when he was helping me get settled we spent a lot of time together, and we became friends as well as colleagues.”

“And then it became more than just friendship.”

She was back to watching the river. “Yes. But not in the way you might think, Ricky. Jeffrey is very…let's say formal, even old-fashioned.”

Rick didn't want to know that level of detail. “The important question, Erica, is if you feel the same way about him as he feels about you. I've spoken to him, and the man is completely smitten. Is it reciprocal?”

“That's the problem, Ricky, I'm not sure. He's sweet, loving, very intelligent…what more could a woman want?”

And he's the head of the department, Rick thought.

“And when I saw you this morning—”

“This isn't about me, Erica.”

“I know, I know. But somehow seeing you brought back doubts about whether I am doing the right thing.”

I don't need this, Rick thought. I was quite happy to have Erica out of my life, thousands of miles away on another continent. But she needs some help and I can't just brush her off, as much as I'd like to. Too bad she doesn't have a girlfriend to help her deal with this decision, but Erica was never one to have close girlfriends in Rome, and she likely didn't make any close female friendships in the States. That would be the day. OK, she wants to marry the guy and be the wife of the famous scholar, but needs a push. Why not give her that push?

“Erica, I've been very impressed by Jeff.”

“You did his translation, Ricky, you know how good he is in his field.”

“Yes, that of course, but also he seems like a very decent guy. Personable, pleasant to be around. It's your decision, mind you, but I don't see why…” He couldn't quite bring himself to finish the sentence.

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You're very sweet, Ricky. I'd better get back to the hotel. Jeffrey was checking his e-mail and I said I was going to take a short walk. I didn't tell him that—”

“Of course. That wasn't necessary.”

He watched her leave the bridge and walk up the hill out of sight. The sound of her heels was covered by the chatter of the German tourists, but her perfume still lingered in the air. Had he done the right thing? Said the right words? Was what he said sufficiently neutral to support the decision she finally made? He sighed and looked at the buildings along the eastern side of the river, their windows lit by the afternoon sun. The ceramics museum occupied one of those
palazzi
that overlooked the water and he wondered if there was time to check it out before dinner. He was disappointed that the trip to Asolo hadn't happened, but Betta wanted to return to report to her father on tailing Sarchetti. The thought of her made him smile. He was pleased that she'd immediately accepted his invitation to dinner. She should suggest a place, somewhere that Jeff and Erica would not know about.

His phone rang and he fumbled in his jacket to find it. Not a number he knew.

“Montoya.”

“Riccardo, this is Angelo Rinaldi, Beppo's uncle…Hello?

Rick regained his voice. “Yes, sir.” He looked up at the beams in the roof of the bridge, gathering his thoughts.

“Beppo called me to say that his good friend Riccardo Montoya is in Bassano, so I was calling to see if we can get together. My nephew spoke very highly of you, Riccardo.”

“That is very kind of him, and of you, Signor Rinaldi, but you must be a busy man.”

“Not too busy to extend my hospitality to a friend of Beppo. I know it is late, but could you come to dinner this evening? I live not too far outside of town.”

“I was going to have dinner with a friend here in—”

“
Perfetto
. You shall bring her along. I trust it is a young lady, Riccardo. Beppo told me you have an eye for beauty, and not just in Etruscan funerary sculpture.”

***

This time they drove in Rick's rental, an Alfa Romeo Giulietta he had picked up at the Villa Borghese rental agency in Rome. The car's dark exterior matched the coffee color of Betta's long skirt, with both paint and cloth complementing their respective chassis. She had worn minimal makeup during the day, but when he picked her up that evening in front of the shop she had a soft blush on her face which contrasted with the dark hair and darker eyes. She gave him a peck on the cheek and slipped into the seat of the Alfa. Rick closed the passenger door carefully and walked around to the driver's side while trying again to identify her perfume. He would have to ask. It was his experience that women loved being asked about their perfume.

“This should be an interesting evening,” she said as Rick pulled slowly from the curb. “I feel like we're going undercover.” She flashed a quick smile.

You don't know the half of it, he thought. “Likely it's just a coincidence, and the man is without blemish, but it is somewhat eerie that we actually followed someone to his villa this very afternoon.”

“Isn't it? His nephew, your friend, what does he do in Rome? Also a businessman, I suppose?”

“He should be an industrialist, like his father and his uncle, but Beppo works in an office at the Culture Ministry. Is this where I turn?”

After a few traffic lights, on the same route they had taken earlier, the buildings became fewer and the only lights were from their headlights and the occasional farmhouse along the side of the road. The few cars they passed were coming toward Bassano, likely for a meal in one of the city's restaurants. The farther they drove from town the fewer the cars in either direction.

Betta turned in her seat and looked at Rick's profile. “Do you always wear your hair this long?”

“It's not really that long.” He took one hand off the wheel and ran it through his hair while he tried to remember the last time he'd been to the barber. “You think I should cut it?”

“No, no. It looks fine. It goes with the cowboy boots.” She turned her eyes back to the road ahead. “It's the first time I've been out with a man who wears cowboy boots.”

“Back in New Mexico, all the women I dated wore cowboy boots.”

“Really?”

“You should get a pair. You'd be surprised how comfortable they are.”

“And I imagine they protect you against rattlesnakes.”

“That too.”

The road was now a straight line. They watched a set of headlights appear in the distance, get larger, and zip past them. “Is it really that different in America?”

Rick glanced at Betta and then back at the pavement. “If you're hoping I'll say that people are the same under the skin the world over, you'll be disappointed. Do you think that Milanese are different from Neapolitans?”

“They're not from the same planet.”

“And proud of it.”

“So how is your New Mexico different from my Veneto?”

“To begin with, the women here ask harder questions.”

Ten minutes later their car turned into the driveway and stopped at the gate. “Signor Montoya?” squawked a voice from an invisible source.

“
Si
,” Rick called through his open window as he searched unsuccessfully for a camera or microphone. The gate ground open and they drove up the gravel driveway to the house, where a man in a white coat came down the steps and opened the car door to allow Betta to step out.

“You may leave the car where it is, Signor Montoya. There is only one other guest this evening.” He nodded toward a dark sedan parked a few meters in front of Rick's car. “This way, please.” Rick and Betta followed him up a few steps, where he held open the door for them to enter the villa and then closed it behind them. “May I take your wrap, Signora?”

“I'll keep it for the moment, thank you.” The garment over her shoulders, a milky coffee color, was something between a scarf and a shawl. It hung loosely over a silk blouse, the corners almost reaching the top of the long skirt. Rick wore the same suit and tie from the previous evening's festivities, if the dinner could now be called that after Fortuna's murder, and his more formal pair of cowboy boots.

The round entrance hall mirrored the central dome which both Rick and Betta instinctively turned their heads up to see. It had been painted blue, with a few white wisps of cloud and a passing bird, the entire sky lit by lights hidden around the lower edge. The man waited patiently while they looked, then showed them into a room beyond the hallway decorated with stuffed furniture, side tables, and ceramic lamps. The chairs and sofas were arranged into two conversation areas, but both faced a fireplace that ran from floor to ceiling. Rick guessed that, as old as the villa might be, the fireplace had been brought from some more ancient structure. Its opening was large enough to allow someone to stand upright inside it and still survey the room. Above its high mantle a coat of arms featuring a lion and three half-moons was carved into the stone. Four tall glass doors dominated the left wall. They would offer a spectacular view of the lawn and distant hills in daytime, but now only the covered walkway was visible.

Angelo Rinaldi stood in front of the fireplace where a few logs glowed, a glass in his hand. He wore a herringbone jacket with a paisley tie, the picture of the country gentleman. A closely cropped goatee made it difficult for Rick to discern any resemblance between Rinaldi and his nephew, but perhaps when he got closer it would show.

The other guest sat in the middle of a large sofa, glass in hand, looking up at the host. Rick guessed her age to be mid forties, about a decade younger than Rinaldi but in no rush to show it. Her dress was classic black, sleeveless and cut just enough below the neck to display a simple gold chain and pearl pendant. Her hem hovered tastefully just above the knee where her left hand rested. Rinaldi put down his glass and walked quickly toward Rick and Betta, weaving through the bulky furniture along the way. The woman stayed seated, an aloof smile on her lips.

“Riccardo, I'm so glad you could come this evening.” He shook Rick's hand and turned to Betta. “And this
bella creatura
?”

“Elizabetta Innocenti, Signor Rinaldi, but she prefers Betta.”

The man kissed Betta's hand with a practiced flair. “And Betta it will be, but you shall both call me Angelo. I insist. Come, meet my other guest.” As they walked toward her, the woman took a sip from her drink, set it down, and brushed back a bit of her hair that had fallen over her eyebrows. She stood and inclined her head while studying Rick. “Caterina, this is Riccardo Montoya, the good friend of my nephew. Riccardo, Caterina Savona.” They shook hands. “And this is Rick's friend Betta Innocenti.”