Murder Most Unfortunate (9 page)

“But they must feed you well.”

Oglesby groaned. “Alas, that is another problem. Anna's mother is a cook without peer. And you know the two choices Italian mothers offer when they place a dish in front of you.”

“
O mangi, o ti butto dalla finestra
.”

“Precisely. And since I don't want to be thrown out the window, I eat. And eat. And when my mouth is full I know that I don't have to talk. Rick, the last time we spent a week there I returned home a stone heavier.”

A face poked out from a door behind the bar. Oglesby gave him a thumbs-up and Rick wagged a finger to indicate he didn't need anything. The bartender walked over, took the now empty beer glass, and put it in the metal sink next to a stack of coffee cups. Then he lifted a clean glass from the shelf and filled it by pulling down a tall plastic knob behind the bar.

“
Ecco
,” said the bartender.

“
Grazie
, Marcello,” the Englishman answered before turning to Rick. “If you promise not to tell my mates back home, I'll confess that beer served cold can be quite satisfying. I believe this one is a local brew, but I'm not sure.” He took a long swig. “So tell me, Rick, how long do you think it will take the local coppers to solve this murder?”

“I've always heard that if they aren't solved in the first few days, the chances of doing so at all drop radically. So I assume that's the case here.”

“They can't keep us here forever.”

“There are worse places to be cooped up.”

Oglesby looked at his glass. “I suppose you're right.”

***

When Rick walked out of the bar into the lobby he nearly collided with Erica, grabbing her to keep from knocking her down.

“Sorry about that,
cara
. I was escaping from an Englishman who doesn't want to visit his Italian
suoceri
.”

“Don't they feed him well?” She straightened her skirt, though it didn't need it.

“Why am I not surprised at your question? Anyway, it's very complicated. Where's Jeff?”

“He's getting the desk clerk to make a table reservation at a place that's been recommended nearby. Why don't you join us?”

“I'd really love to, but—”

“Rick!” Jeffrey Randolph's voice called from across the lobby as he strode toward them. He shook Rick's hand and then took Erica's. “You're keeping busy, I trust, under the circumstances?”

“I'm trying.”

“I just asked Ricky to join us for lunch, but he has another engagement.”

Randolph reluctantly took his eyes from his fiancée and turned to Rick. “That's unfortunate.” He looked quickly around the room and said in a lowered voice: “You could have given us the lowdown on the investigation. After all, you are helping the police, and Erica tells me that your uncle is a high muckamuck in the Rome police.”

Rick stole a look at Erica to see if her English had progressed enough to know the meaning of “muckamuck,” but her expression showed nothing. “I'm just as much in the dark about it all as you, Jeff.”

“I, for one, think the murder is somehow related to the seminar.” Randolph's voice remained conspiratorial. “And even, mind you, connected to the two missing Jacopos.”

Erica asked the question before Rick could. “What makes you think that, Jeffrey?”

“There was a very heated exchange the final day between Fortuna and Paolo Tibaldi, the museum curator, about the missing paintings. I had the distinct impression, listening to your translation, Rick, that there was more to it than just an academic difference of opinion.”

“Jeff, do you think Tibaldi could be responsible for Fortuna's death?”

The professor blinked, realizing what he'd said. “I probably wouldn't go that far. But there was definitely friction. Perhaps you couldn't see their expressions from inside your translation booth. Or see the faces of the other participants. Every one of them was glaring at Fortuna, clearly agreeing with Tibaldi.”

Rick changed the subject slightly to put Randolph at ease. “What is your opinion about the missing paintings? Do you think they'll turn up?”

The reply was not what Rick expected.

“I do. And I don't think we'll have to wait another sixty years. Something is going on, otherwise we would not have seen these dust-ups. The art history community is like an extended family, and we exchange e-mails and letters frequently. There's been a lot of comment about this.”

It sounded to Rick like chatter in terrorist cells, but he didn't voice the thought. Could this be the “rumblings” that Beppo had mentioned? He looked up and found his excuse to take leave of the couple. “There's the person I was going to meet. I hope you have a nice lunch.” He waved goodbyes and hurried to a man standing at the reception desk. When the man saw Rick he smiled, thanked the desk clerk and walked to meet Rick. He wore the same drab suit but with a striped shirt and brown tie.

“
Salve,
Riccardo, how are you?”

“
Bene, grazie.
Were you looking for me, Signor Innocenti?”

“I was. Something has come up that I must tell you about.”

“Is Betta all right?” It came out without Rick thinking. The old man smiled.

“Yes, yes, she's fine. Though I worry about her riding her brother's motorcycle.” They walked to a group of chairs at one side of the lobby but when they reached them, the older man stopped. “Have you had lunch, Riccardo? There is a small place around the corner that makes excellent
tramezzini
. Unless you'd like something more elegant.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Rick pushed the door of the lobby to let Innocenti step to the sidewalk. In the time Rick had been inside the hotel a thick cloud had pushed across the sky from the west, bringing with it a drop in the temperature and a few gusts of wind. They walked to a small bar a block away where a knot of teenagers, unfazed by the chill, sat at their sidewalk tables eating their sandwiches, sipping soft drinks from cans, and chattering. The two men squeezed past them, entered the bar, and walked to the glass counter behind which sandwiches of varied fillings were neatly stacked between moist napkins. Rick chose tuna with pieces of green olives, Innocenti the sliced hard-boiled egg and lettuce, and each asked for a glass of white wine. The man behind the counter went to work:
tramezzini
were carefully removed from the stack with wood tongs, placed on small plates over paper napkins, and passed across to the two customers. Plates and glasses in hand, they walked to a round table in one corner and sat. After they tapped wineglasses and exchanged the appropriate meal wishes, Innocenti got down to business.

“What I wanted to tell you has to do with our little investigation. Unofficial investigation, I should add. I had an unusual visitor to the gallery this morning, Professor Gaddi from the seminar. I hadn't met him during that program—you'll remember I sat in the back. Not sure how he found the shop, but perhaps he's visiting various art galleries.”

Rick finished his first bite of the
tramezzino
. “It's as good a way to spend one's time as anything else, when you can't leave town. Especially if you have an interest in art.”

“Perhaps. He began by commenting on the exhibit we have on the walls at the moment; a local artist, you'll remember. But then he began asking about older works of art, if we ever sold paintings of old masters from the Veneto. He was curious about how it all worked, if such items come on the market often, that sort of thing.”

“Did he ask specifically about buying or selling?”

“Neither, or both, depending on how you might take his words. He never came out and said he wanted to buy or sell anything. It was all very curious.”

“It sounds like Professor Gaddi could be suspicious of something, just as we are, and has taken it upon himself to investigate.”

Innocenti sipped his wine. “A second unofficial investigation? But he could have heard something about the missing paintings, and as a serious scholar of Jacopo, he would want to find those two missing works as much as anyone. Who knows, he may be a chapter short of the definitive book on the artist and needs them to finish it.”

“Or he could be bored and is walking around Bassano. Perhaps I should keep an eye on the man.”

Innocenti finished his sandwich. He'd been hungry. “Already taken care of. Elizabetta is following him right now. I would have asked you but you would be easily recognized. Unless you have some training in tailing people.”

Rick thought about the question. His uncle had talked about surveillance many times, which Rick had found fascinating. “No. Has Betta?”

“She's done it a few times.”

“A woman of many talents, your daughter.”

Innocenti nodded. “What about Sarchetti? He's still the mystery man here, Riccardo. Have you had a chance to talk to him?”

First DiMaio, now Innocenti, wanting him to cozy up to Sarchetti. He pulled out his phone and dialed the hotel. “Let's see if I can track him down.” The operator put him through to Sarchetti's room, but Rick was not optimistic he'd find him there.

“You're late calling.”

Rick was taken aback by Sarchetti's greeting. “Signor Sarchetti? This is Riccardo Montoya.”

The man on the phone laughed. “Ah, Riccardo. Excuse me, I was expecting another call. Thanks for not hanging up. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I'm always looking for feedback on my work, and since we are all stuck here for the time being, I've been asking everyone if the translation worked well for them.” He grimaced at Innocenti, who smiled back.

“I thought your translation was excellent, Riccardo, but let's get together and chat about the conference in general. I'd like to hear what you thought of it. And it would be good to talk to someone who isn't a stuffy art professor.”

“When would be convenient, Signor Sarchetti?”

“Riccardo, I'm not much older than you, so I'm Franco. I have appointments this afternoon and a dinner engagement. How about after dinner? A grappa at that famous bar at the end of the bridge at say, ten o'clock?”

Rick held up a thumb, and Innocenti returned the gesture. “
Va bene
. I'll see you then, Franco.” He clicked his phone off. “That was easy.”

“I could hear some of what he was saying, and got the impression he wanted to talk.”

“Let's hope so.” They both looked up when they heard the bang of the barman emptying the coffee grounds from the espresso machine. “A coffee, Signor Innocenti? Perhaps a piece of pastry to go with it? Those
tramezzini
were small.”

The older man stroked his chin. “To clear the palate. I noticed a
crostata
next to the cookies, perhaps a slice of that.”

Rick rose to his feet. “I noticed it, too.” He walked to the counter, put in the order, and came back to his chair. “He'll bring it.” Innocenti nodded and smiled as Rick settled into his seat. “Signor Innocenti, if you don't mind me asking, how did you get into this business with helping the art police?”

Innocenti sighed. “It was many years ago, when my wife was still alive, bless her.” His eyes focused on something outside the window, which Rick suspected was the image of Signora Innocenti. “It was a simple case, really. A man showed up at the gallery with some artwork to sell. It was by an artist who, by coincidence, I knew well, even to the extent that I was aware of who owned which of his canvases. To make a long story short, he was arrested and I came to the attention of the culture police.”

“And Captain Scuderi?”

The barman appeared with a tray and placed the espressos and desserts on the table, along with a bowl of sugar. The
crostata
had the usual thin-edged pastry base covered by a yellow custard and decorated with sliced fruit: kiwi, strawberry, and grapes. The triangular slices on their plates were colorful works of art, but not colorful enough not to eat. They both added sugar to their coffee and picked up forks. After a bite, Innocenti answered Rick's question.

“That was well before Captain Scuderi joined the office.”

Rick assumed it was also before Beppo had arrived at the ministry and begun his swift rise through the art police bureaucracy.

“It was quite small then,” Innocenti continued, “but as you know it has grown considerably. The press always finds out quickly when a major work of art is recovered due to their efforts, and that doesn't hurt their efforts to grow their budget.”

They finished the desserts, picking up the errant crumbs with the tines of their forks, and sipped the last drops of coffee.

“It has been a pleasure, Riccardo. And I will be anxious to hear about your encounter with our Signor Sarchetti at the bridge.” He slipped on his overcoat and they walked out to the sidewalk. The outdoor tables and chairs stood empty under the gray sky, a chill wind weaving its way through their metal legs. The two men started back toward the hotel, pulling their coats around their necks. Rick looked up to see Caterina Savona coming toward them, wearing a long wool coat and boots, her uncovered head bent against the cold wind. As she got close she noticed him and stopped.

“Riccardo, we meet again. And again in passing.” She pulled a hand out of her coat pocket and pushed back the hair from her face. “Perhaps it is time we actually sit down and talk. Though I can't now.”

“Fate seems to be telling us that, doesn't she?” Rick replied before tending to his manners. “Caterina, I'd like you to meet Signor Fabio Innocenti, Betta's father. Signor Innocenti, this is Caterina Savona, also a recent visitor to Bassano, with whom we had the pleasure to dine at Signor Rinaldi's villa.”

As the two shook hands a strange look spread over the face of the older man as he murmured a greeting.