Murder Most Unfortunate (13 page)

“On the radio. It must be connected with the two missing paintings.”

She certainly goes right to the heart of things. “I agree. But how?”

“I was hoping you'd figured that out. Have the police talked to you?”

“Last night. Let's meet so I can tell you about it.”

“I was going to suggest the same thing. How about a bike ride to clear our minds? It always helps me. I'll pick you up.”

He immediately remembered having his arms around her waist. “Sounds good. But I have work to do here. Detective DiMaio wants me to translate when they interview Muller and Oglesby again. They're in with—wait, Gaddi's coming out now.” Rick watched a haggard Professor Gaddi emerge from the make-shift interview room. He gave Rick a weak smile and walked to the elevator. “The poor guy looks terrible. I'll call you when I'm done—it shouldn't take more than an hour.”

“Fine, I'll await your call. Ciao.” She hung up.

As Rick slipped his phone into his pocket Occasio appeared at the door followed closely by DiMaio. The inspector spotted Rick and turned to his assistant. He gestured toward Rick and spoke into DiMaio's ear before hurrying toward the door. A moment later the sound of a police siren wailed to life on the street outside and then disappeared in the distance. Occasio has left the building, Rick said to himself before walking to the detective's side.

“I don't get the pleasure of assisting the inspector in his investigation?”

DiMaio cracked a half smile. He looked tired. “Surprisingly he has left the interview of the German and the Englishman to me. I don't think he enjoys sharing the stage with a translator. Cramps his style.”

“I'm starting to wonder if his style is to let you do all the work.”

“I reserve comment on your comment.” The elevator door opened at the other side of the lobby and George Oglesby appeared. “Before we talk to the Englishman, perhaps you would like to hear about our visit with Rinaldi last night after we left the bridge.”

“I'm all ears.” Rick signaled to Oglesby that they would be with him shortly, and the two men entered the conference room. The hotel had provided fresh water and clean glasses, but otherwise it looked the same. They took seats opposite each other.

“Angelo Rinaldi greeted us wearing a smoking jacket. I'd thought people only wore them in old movies, the ones where they used white telephones. And he wasn't even smoking. Occasio, as I'd expected, demonstrated the proper amount of obsequiousness with the man. No bowing and scraping, but close to it. Rinaldi waved it off—I almost think he was enjoying it all—and offered total cooperation, even after he was told that Sarchetti had been murdered. Not the reaction of a man who had anything to hide.”

Rick shifted in the chair, remembering that at dinner Beppo's uncle never mentioned meeting Sarchetti. Of course he never said he hadn't, either. “What did he say about his encounter with the murder victim?”

“Strictly business, if you can call the sale of art a business. Sarchetti had been recommended to him by another businessman who is also an art collector, so he called Rinaldi when he got to Bassano.”

“Did Rinaldi buy anything?”

DiMaio looked at his watch, as if remembering that Oglesby was waiting. “He said the encounter was simply to meet the man, to size him up. No offers made nor accepted. I suppose one has to be careful when one buys expensive paintings, and those on the walls of that villa looked very expensive.”

You don't know the half of it, Rick thought. “Did he have an alibi?”

DiMaio chuckled. “It was almost painful for the inspector to ask, given the high status of Rinaldi, but he reluctantly did, and our host said he'd been at the villa alone all evening. Listening to opera, no doubt, in his smoking jacket. But his staff could corroborate his story if the inspector wished to interrogate them. Occasio waved it off. A pillar of the business community would be believed.”

“It doesn't sound like you got much.”

“No. Except that Occasio was able to make a new contact.” He flipped open his notebook. “Let me move on to information that is actually verifiable and not the testimony of a peripheral suspect.” He noticed Rick's frown. “Forgive me, Riccardo, but despite Rinaldi's being the uncle of your friend, we must consider him a suspect.” He turned the pages of the notebook until he found the one he was searching for. “The initial medical examiner's report came in, which you may find of interest. Sarchetti was stabbed at close range, but since few stabbings take place at long range, no surprise there. The weapon was a knife, again expected. But it is almost certain that it was the same weapon that killed Fortuna.”

“So the same killer.”

“Riccardo, your powers of deduction are extraordinary. Your uncle would be proud.”

Rick accepted the gibe, but could not help wondering why DiMaio was giving him such details of the investigation. A family connection with the police was one thing, but the detective was sharing more than would be expected under the circumstances. Certainly Occasio would not have approved.

DiMaio stood. “We should not keep our two foreign guests waiting, but let me mention one more thing. I talked to our colleagues in Milan this morning about Sarchetti. He apparently had some shady dealings, but nothing they could ever prove. Exporting things he perhaps shouldn't have, that sort of thing. It sounded more in the purview of the fiscal police or even the art cops. They were going to check around to see if any Milanese criminal element could have had it out for the man. My guess is that they'll never come up with anything. Shall we talk to our British friend?”

When Oglesby entered the room Rick was not sure if he was wearing the same clothes as he had the previous day in the bar. Maybe he'd packed just enough clothing for the length of the seminar. And having the hotel do laundry is not cheap, especially if you need it done quickly. “You remember the drill, George, I'll translate back and forth for both of you.”

Oglesby nodded deliberately, making Rick wonder if he'd already been to the bar. Ironically it was Marcello, the barman, who could confirm that the Englishman had not left the hotel all evening, since that question would likely come up. It did. DiMaio asked about other contacts with Sarchetti, and the answer was that there were none. Other questions followed, but the interview went nowhere, the policeman realized it, and grew impatient. Finally he thanked Oglesby for his cooperation, signaling an end to the session.

“Can I leave now? I mean return to England?”

“I'm afraid not yet,” was DiMaio's answer, then duly translated. Rick was sure that Oglesby would be heading straight to the bar when he left the interview. When he was gone, DiMaio stared at his meager notes and gave Rick a silent wave of his hand to bring in Muller.

The German was dressed in a herringbone tweed jacket and brown slacks, a solid gray knit tie covering the front of his button-down shirt. Apparently in the fatherland one dressed well when meeting with the authorities, especially the police. He entered the room with a frown, but his mouth turned more pleasant when he realized that Inspector Occasio was not in attendance. They took their places, Rick sitting at the head of the table with the other two on either side to facilitate the translation. The detective was about to begin when Muller spoke.

“I should tell you immediately that I had dinner with Franco Sarchetti last night.”

“Tell me about it,” said DiMaio after Rick had translated. He turned the page in his notebook.

“He suggested that we dine together, saying that we're both prisoners in the town and should make the most of it. He also wanted to know if I was familiar with some art dealer in Munich he was considering doing business with. His German, by the way, is—or I should say was—quite good. He learned it in Vienna, and spoke with a definite Austrian accent. Do you speak any German, Rick?”

“Just enough to order a beer.”

Muller nodded, and glanced at DiMaio. “Anyway, Sarchetti insisted that the dinner would be on him. Naturally, I accepted.” He took a sip of water and continued. “The man was in a jocular mood, which surprised me, since he had been somewhat serious on the few occasions during the seminar when we'd spoken. With the help of the wine, he dominated the conversation. The food was excellent, so I made a point of enjoying it and let him talk. He began by giving me his opinions of everyone at the seminar, and they were so negative I wondered what he would have said about me outside my presence. Fortuna was a bully, George Oglesby is a lightweight, the banker Porcari is pompous—that sort of thing. I almost defended my friend George but decided he was too far into his cups to make a difference.”

Rick translated, marveling at Muller's English fluency by using the phrase “in his cups.” DiMaio scribbled a few notes, but mostly listened.

“He asked about the dealer in Munich, but I think it was perfunctory. What he really wanted to talk about was the two missing Jacopo Bassano paintings.” The policeman looked up quickly at Rick before writing something down. “Have you heard about this mystery, Detective?” When DiMaio indicated that he was familiar with the two paintings, Muller continued. “Sarchetti wanted my opinion on whether they would ever be seen again. The issue had been hashed over in the seminar, goodness knows, but for some reason he wanted to hear from me directly. I told him.” He paused to take another drink of water, but also, it appeared, for effect. “They will never be seen again, at least in our lifetimes. The works of a second tier painter are not immediately recognized by the layman, and I believe they are hanging on the wall of someone who has no idea of their value. A Leonardo, or a Titian, people know that style, but who is aware of how Jacopo Bassano painted? Or even who he was? Very few.”

“And how did he react when you told him?” It was Rick who asked, but DiMaio didn't seem to mind, likely because he knew of Rick's interest in the subject.

“I expected him to be disappointed, but he wasn't. I remember that he merely smiled and poured himself more wine. By then we were into our second bottle. Then he brought up the murder of poor Fortuna. I expected that, of course, since it is the reason we have all been forced…the reason we have all remained in Bassano.”

“Did he have any theories?” DiMaio's voice indicated he didn't expect much in return for his question.

“He was convinced, Detective, that it was one of us involved with the seminar. I trust you've been told of the argument between Fortuna and Tibaldi, the museum curator. There may have been other confrontations outside the formal part of the program. Fortuna had a way of antagonizing people, if I might understate.”

“We've heard that a lot,” said DiMaio. “Did Sarchetti tell you that he was going to see anyone later in the evening?” His eyes turned to Rick, but Muller likely thought it was an invitation to translate.

“He did, but he didn't say who he was going to meet. When he asked for the check I recall him looking at his watch. I think it was about nine-thirty at that point. Yes, that would be about right, since I left him in front of the restaurant and walked back to the hotel. When I got there it was a few minutes until ten.”

DiMaio tapped his pen on the table top. “Is there anything else Sarchetti said that could be helpful? Anything that sent up a red flag in your mind, especially now in light of what happened to him?”

Muller rubbed his chin in thought. “There was one thing, though it's likely of no consequence. When he was talking about Fortuna's death, he said something like, ‘Well, that's one less Jacopo scholar to worry about.' He laughed when he said it, but I felt uncomfortable since I consider myself a Jacopo scholar. A very peculiar comment.”

***

After Muller left the room, the policeman flipped through his notes before looking over at Rick. “What does the nephew of Commissario Fontana think of what our German said?”

“It sounds like Sarchetti was already in a good mood during his dinner and it continued when I met him on the bridge. He told me that Bassano had been good to him, though he wasn't specific. Perhaps some real business was transacted with Rinaldi, despite what the man told you and Occasio last night.”

“Or Sarchetti thought there was a good chance of future business,” DiMaio said, still reading his notes. “And that final comment, about one less Jacopo scholar?”

Rick shook his head. “No clue. Perhaps he'd had his fill of academics in this seminar. Can't say I blame him. But that reminds me of something Sarchetti told me at the bridge. He said in the past he'd had some dealings, whatever that means, with Fortuna.”

“The man was an art dealer, perhaps he'd asked Fortuna to authenticate some paintings.”

“That would make sense.” Rick thought a moment. “What I found most fascinating in what Muller said was the exchange about the missing Jacopos. And Sarchetti's reaction when Muller told him they'll likely never be seen again.”

DiMaio shut his notebook and tucked his pen into his jacket pocket. “There is one major problem with Muller's recollection of his meal with Sarchetti. I might add, Riccardo, that your uncle would have been the first one to point it out, and perhaps he did in the course I took from him. It's this: when someone describes a conversation with a murder victim, we can't consult with the dead man to get his recollection of the conversation, can we?”

“So Muller could have made it all up, to suit his ends.”

“Precisely.”

Chapter Eleven

The motorcycle had no problem with the steep curves. Rick swung his head to catch the views while he clung tightly to Betta's waist and joined with her body leaning left and right through the turns. They had ridden slowly through the town of Marostica, a few minutes west of Bassano and famous for its annual human chess match in the main square. That piazza was devoid of chessmen today, live or otherwise, but a few locals meandered across it, enjoying the rays of mid-morning sun. Betta left the narrow streets and climbed the road that ran along the side of the town. They drove outside Marostica's wall system, which looked from a distance like a short version of the Great Wall, complete with periodic bastions protecting it from invaders from above. At the top the
Castello Superiore
presided over the valley below with views over to Bassano on the east and, on a clear day, to Vicenza in the south. The castle was their destination.

Betta drove slowly through a gate in the wall to emerge in an open courtyard below the castle building. In classic Italian fashion the castle was now a restaurant, complete with tables outside, though at this hour the few set for lunch were still unoccupied. It was questionable that they would be used, since clouds began to form, blocking out the diagonal rays of sun and dropping the temperature. Instead, the diners at midday would likely be eating inside, in what Rick supposed would be a dining room fit for a king, or at least a duke. Betta brought the bike to a stop, lowered the kickstand, dismounted, and pulled off her helmet. She pushed her hand through her black hair, though it was so short nothing needed to be put back in place. Rick brushed his hair as best he could with his fingers, realizing that, for the first time in his life he was dating a girl whose hair was shorter than his. Dating? Is that what's going on here?

Carrying their helmets, they climbed a short set of stairs to the covered patio. Both wore appropriate attire for a motorcycle ride—blue jeans, short jackets, and boots. Except for the footwear, Betta's attire clung much more snugly to her body. Her boots were brown leather with the right length heel for the bike, with a strap peeking out from under the cuffs of her jeans. He wore the more casual of the two pairs of cowboy boots he'd brought on the trip. When they reached the top of the stairs Betta turned and made a sweeping gesture with her free hand.

“Do you have views like this in New Mexico, Riccardo?”

“Sorry to disappoint, but yes, we do. Did you know that, by square kilometers, you could fit all of Italy into the borders of New Mexico? In a state that large you can find a lot of different terrain, including views like this.”

“Did you work for the state chamber of commerce?”

“It's a nice place, Betta, you should visit sometime.” He found himself again looking into those green eyes and added quickly, “Can we get some coffee here, or is it too early? A cappuccino would be perfect to warm us up after the ride.”

“I know the manager, I'll go in and ask.” She put her helmet on one of the chairs and pushed through the door to the inside. Rick placed his helmet next to hers and sat down to absorb a view which was indeed spectacular. Areas of open fields and groves of trees spread out to the south, broken by an occasional small town or a strip of road. To the east and west the first wrinkles of the mountains started their climb to the Austrian border. Betta reappeared and took a chair across from him.

“
Due
cappuccini
coming up.” She leaned back and they both stared into the distance. Their silence was broken by the waiter's arrival with two large coffee cups. He took them off his tray and placed them on the table along with a bowl of sugar and a small plate of cookies.

“With Livio's compliments.” The man gestured toward the plate. “Baked this morning.”

“
Grazie
,” said Rick and Betta simultaneously.

“You must come here often.” Rick dropped sugar into his coffee.

“Not that often. But I spent a lot of time here last year planning for the wedding reception. The one that never took place.”

Rick wasn't sure what to say, but sensed she wanted to talk about it. “With the guy from the bank?”

She took a sip and flicked the foam from her upper lip with her tongue. “Yes. We called it off about a month before the date. We were at a party with friends and he had too much to drink. There was an argument and he got rough with me, which was the wrong thing to do with my brother Marco there. I thought Marco was going to kill him, it took several friends to restrain him. By the end of the evening the engagement had ended.” She stirred her coffee. “That's all there is to tell.”

“I will remember what you said about Marco and be on my best behavior if I ever meet him.”

She smiled. “My brother's a sweetheart. And I hope you will meet him.”

“I do, too.”

She reached across the table and covered his hand. Her fingers were warm from holding the cup. “Let's talk about something more pleasant, like murder and stolen art.”

“If we must,” answered Rick. He reached the cookies, using his free hand. “Unfortunately they appear to be connected. We now have one less person who could know something about the missing Jacopos, and he was our prime suspect. Maybe we've been deluding ourselves about the two paintings. Muller, the German professor, said again this morning that he thought they'd never be seen again.” He didn't mention that it was during a police interrogation that Muller said it.

“Let's get to the paintings later. Tell me about last night.”

He told her, leaving nothing out. “The inspector probably would have interrogated me longer if they didn't have to go talk to Angelo Rinaldi. It's very curious that they received an anonymous tip about his having met with Sarchetti at the villa.” He looked carefully at her but she picked that moment to take and taste one of the cookies.

“Yes, very curious. These cookies are quite good, don't you think?”

Rick smiled and shook his head. “They certainly are. Speaking of villas, did we ever find out if Rinaldi's villa is the same one as where the paintings disappeared?”

Betta brushed a cookie crumb from her jacket. “It wasn't. The villa of the Jacopos was in Fossalunga, but Angelo's villa…”

“Fossalunga? Wait a minute. Remember when I told you about meeting with Oglesby, the Englishman, in the bar at the hotel?”

“Of course. Complaining about his
suocera
feeding him too well. You'd never hear that from an Italian.”

“Right, likely not. But when you mentioned Fossalunga it came to me that it was the town where his in-laws live. Do you think…?”

She picked up another cookie. “I think we're grasping at straws, Riccardo. It would be perfect if they'd had the paintings, gave them to their English son-in-law, and now he's selling them to the highest bidder. But I doubt it. Coincidence. Just like it's coincidence that Muller's grandfather was around here in the war. But we can check it if you'd like. What was the name of his wife's family?”

He looked at the last cookie and then at Betta. She nodded, and he took it. “Let me think. It was a northern name, Venetian. You know, no vowel at the end.” After a bite of the cookie he remembered. “Vizentin, that's it.”

Betta patted her lips with the paper napkin and held up her finger before pulling out her cell phone. She scrolled through her directory and tapped on a number. “Ciao, Gisa. We're coming by to do some more research.” She listened and rolled her eyes. “Riccardo is right here, Gisa, and might have heard that. Listen, could you pull out something about the town of Fossalunga? And any genealogical material on the Vizentin family that lives there? Separate it and we'll go through it when we get there. Right, Vizentin. We're in Marostica, so we should be there in about twenty minutes.” Another pause. “Very funny, Gisa.” She tapped the phone off and slipped it back into an internal pocket. “It's time to go back to work, Riccardo.”

He held a hand over his heart. “It doesn't feel like work when I'm with you, Signorina.”

“There you go again.”

***

Betta managed to squeeze the motorcycle into the middle of a row of Vespas a few meters from the entrance to the archives. Rick could almost feel the mini-bikes cowering in the intimidating presence of the Ducati. Carrying their helmets, they mounted the stone steps of the building and walked down a long hallway toward the reading room. An exhibit of crayon drawings mounted on panels set away from the walls lined one side, each identified by name, age, and school, on a card below.

“Future artists for your gallery,” Rick noted.

“You never know.”

“I remember the library in Albuquerque doing exhibits like this. It must be a requirement to get your international library license.” There was no reaction from Betta. “There's actually no such thing as an international—”

“I know, Riccardo. There she is.”

Gisa stood in front of a bulletin board outside the tall doors leading into the reading room. Today she wore another loose sweater with a long, knit skirt and burgundy clogs. She spotted them and walked in their direction.

“So good to see you again, Riccardo.” The words were like honey, and spoken as if she and Rick shared some kind of secret. Her grin added to the impression.

“The pleasure is completely mine, Gisa. You are very kind to help us with our little research project.”

The librarian held up her hands in defense. “What would you expect for an old friend?” She glanced at Betta and back at Rick. “As well as the new friend of an old friend.”

“Okay, Gisa, that's enough.”

“I was just starting to enjoy this,” Rick protested. “But I suppose we have some work to do.”

Gisa shrugged and looked them over. “I have the material in my office, and since I don't want our archive patrons frightened by the appearance of two biker gang members, you'd better read it there.” They followed her through a side door, down a narrow hall, and through another door.

Her rectangular office gave Rick the impression she was organized, but not to the extreme. At one end, next to a small window, stood her wood desk with a computer, telephone, a gooseneck lamp, and a few papers. No books, but who needs them when there are so many in the other rooms? A table and six chairs took up most of the rest of the space, though a single bookshelf stood against one wall, with only a few books, and stacked horizontally. Otherwise, except for a small bronze statuette, it was bare. The only item which could be considered decorative, except for the statuette, was a large photograph of Bassano under snow, its covered bridge in the center bringing memories of the previous evening into Rick's mind. Gisa motioned to a short stack of papers on the table.

“Sit down and I'll tell you what I've found. Not much, I'm afraid, but I don't really know what you're looking for.”

“We don't either, Gisa.” Betta and Rick sat in the chairs across from their host. Two modern fixtures hung from the high ceiling, lighting the table and the room. “If there is something more about the villa where the paintings were last seen, and if we can pin down whether the Vizentin family lived near it, that might help.”

Gisa opened a file and pushed it across. “The villa was never occupied again after the war, and is still in a state of disrepair if not a total shambles. The family line ended in the late 1940s and there was a legal dispute as to the ownership of the property for a decade or so after that, but then everyone seems to have lost interest, and it remains in legal limbo.”

Rick studied the papers, running his fingers down the lines. “You've extracted quite a bit of information, Gisa.”

“Most of it is from an article written in
Il Mattino di Padova
a couple years ago. I'm not that fast. But I did work on your Vizentin family and found an item which may be of interest. We have a pretty good genealogy section here.” She opened the file in front of her. “There are some Vizentins living in the area now, including one older couple in Fossalunga itself.” She noticed Rick and Betta exchanging looks. “It appears you knew that already. The others are scattered around the Veneto, but our records don't go too far afield. The family has been around for a while, of course; I found records of births, deaths, marriages, and baptisms dating back to the sixteenth century. But one more recent Vizentin you likely will want to hear about.” She pushed a sheet between them and tapped a red fingernail on one line. “Coluccio Vizentin was employed as a gardener at your villa in the late 1930s. I did a general search on him, hoping I would get lucky because of his unusual name, and found that he was listed as a member of a partisan brigade that operated around Bassano in the late years of the war.”

Rick put his arm around Betta and gave her a quick squeeze, causing Gisa to raise an eyebrow. “There's our connection, Betta.”

“A somewhat tenuous one, you'll have to admit. Half the male population of the region was fighting in the mountains at that time.”

“But only Coluccio had a connection to the villa where the paintings disappeared.”

Gisa shifted her glance between the two while she listened to their exchange, and then pulled out the last of the files. From it she took a folded piece of thick, and almost ancient, paper. She carefully opened it at the creases, revealing what was likely an architectural drawing of a building. “This is the original floor plan of the villa, if that is of interest to you. Naturally it is anyone's guess where your precious paintings were hung, but most likely it was in one of the public rooms.” She pointed to one of the rectangles drawn within the C-shaped structure. “They were on this side, if I understand the writing here, and the sleeping wing is over here.” Their eyes followed Gisa's fingers over the yellowed paper. “The kitchens and service quarters were in the back, here.”