Murder Most Unfortunate (7 page)

“He never said he didn't know the man,” Rick replied. “It was a clever response. Still, we can't dismiss the possibility that Sarchetti was visiting the butler this afternoon. Or getting some recipe from the cook. It was, you must admit, an excellent
tiramisú
.”

Rick could not make out her face in the darkened car, but from her next comment he sensed that Betta wasn't smiling. “And Caterina said she'd only heard of Sarchetti, whatever that meant, before the subject was conveniently changed by our gracious host.”

Caterina and Angelo must be in cahoots, Rick thought. As happened so often in his line of work, he began to consider translations for the phrase “in cahoots,” as well as possible origins. He would have to look it up when he got back to the hotel, since the wine and rich food weren't allowing his mind to work as it should. A bright light flashed in the rearview mirror, taking his mind off etymology. They had passed few cars since leaving the villa, and none had passed them. But this driver acted anxious to do so. Already going under the speed limit, if there was one at this time of night on Italian roads, Rick slowed down even more, expecting the driver to roar past. Instead, the lights came almost to Rick's bumper.

“What's he doing?” Betta craned to look back.

“I don't know, but I don't like it.” Rick instinctively accelerated to get away from the car, but it stayed glued to theirs. What came to his mind was a defensive driving course his father had taken once to get away from a possible kidnapper, something about slamming on the hand brake while shifting the steering wheel to make a sudden turn. He doubted it would work on a narrow road at night, a road now getting slicker with the rain. He fumbled to find the wiper knob.

“Should we stop?” There was fear in Betta's voice.

“That may be exactly what he wants. Let's see what this Alfa Romeo can do.” He stomped on the gas pedal and the car shot forward. It took a moment, but eventually the lights matched Rick's speed. Far ahead, through thickening drops of rain, he could see the lights of a town. If they could get there…

Now larger lights appeared ahead of him. It was impossible to know how fast they were coming at him but they seemed high. Perhaps a truck. Rick tensed when he looked in his mirror to find that the car following him was speeding up to pass. Didn't the driver see the truck coming? The car barely reached past Rick's front bumper when it squeezed right to cut him off.

“Riccardo, look out!”

There was nowhere to go but off the pavement. Rick wanted to see who was in the car, but he had to concentrate on the road, or what was left of it. He hit the brake, swerving toward the shoulder as the large oncoming truck blared its horn. By braking, the Alfa skidded sideways, its tires sending rough shudders through the entire vehicle. The steering wheel vibrated in Rick's hands but he managed to turn into the slide and regained control. The Alfa skewed off the road and thumped down an embankment, stopping short of a wire fence as the engine sputtered and died. The other car shot past the oncoming truck, its tail lights disappearing into the darkness. They sat for a moment without speaking.

“
Stai bene
?” He put his hand on hers. “You're shaking.”

“A little, but I'm all right now. What was the matter with that guy?”

“I don't know. Let's get out of this ditch. Luckily it's not that deep.” He turned the key to bring the Alfa back to life. The wheels spun slightly before gripping and moving the car slowly back to the shoulder and then into the road. Rick stopped and opened the window to take a gulp of the fresh air, but instead he smelled the diesel exhaust of the truck now gone behind them. It was silent, the only sound the purr of the car's engine. The whole incident, he realized, took no more than a couple minutes. Who was it? As his pulse slowed down he couldn't help thinking that it was not a drunken driver or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. For one thing, there was something familiar about the car. Even in the darkness he could tell that its paint was dark, probably black or dark blue. A Fiat? Not sure, since cars often look alike. Perhaps something would eventually come to mind. He squeezed Betta's hand and took a deep breath before putting the car into gear. A quiet twenty minutes later he drove into the deserted piazza and parked in front of the store.

He turned off the ignition and took her hand in both of his. “Not the excitement we needed to end the evening, Betta. Are you sure you're all right?”

She put her other hand over his. “Can you come up for a few minutes? I don't want to be alone yet. I can make us coffee.”

“Your father won't still be up?”

She smiled. “He may be, but I live in the apartment across the hall.”

He got out and walked around to open her door. When her shoe touched the pavement he remembered where he had seen the car.

Chapter Seven

Rick stifled a yawn as he perused the inner pages of
La Repubblica
, not sure if it was the political news from Rome or the lack of sleep that had caused it. He'd turned the key to his hotel room door well after midnight, but an hour or two less in bed hadn't kept him from his morning run. Bassano's fresh air filling his lungs each morning had invigorated his trip. Even though he ran early in the morning in Rome, before the worst traffic took over the streets, he couldn't escape the fumes that lingered there. Only when it had rained during the night, or a strong wind had blown through, did Roman air take on a quality approaching freshness. He folded his paper, dropped a couple euro coins on the table, and walked to the lobby.

Now that's interesting
.

In the far corner of the room, where he had seen Inspector Occasio talking with the banker the previous morning, sat Caterina Savona. Her outfit was more informal than the previous evening: a short jacket covered a turtleneck sweater, slacks and boots completing the outfit. Her hair was in the same style as at dinner, but combed out. “Businesslike,” was the word that came to his mind. As he watched, she and the man she'd been talking with stood and shook hands, a formal handshake as if they had just met. The man's double-breasted jacket was tailored to disguise the size of his stomach, but a certain amount of neck hanging over the shirt collar spoiled the effect. His hair was as Rick remembered it from looking through the window of his translator's booth: disheveled and in need of a cut. The fellow tried to cut the figure of a neat person despite a few too many pounds, but didn't quite pull it off. Why was he talking with Caterina Savona?

Rick walked to the elevator and was about to press the call button when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“
Buon giorno
, Riccardo.”

“
Buon giorno
, Caterina. Nice to see you again.”

“
Altretanto
. I so enjoyed meeting you and Betta. You make a lovely couple.”

Rick almost returned the compliment, but opted against it. Instead he let his curiosity get the best of him. “I didn't recall your saying last night that you knew Sarchetti.”

She glanced back at where they'd been sitting. “You are very observant, Riccardo. In fact I hadn't met him, but since his name came up at dinner I made a point of doing so this morning. We are both in the art business.”

“I never heard exactly what part of that business you're in.” Was the smile on her face forced or genuine?

“Buying and selling is what I'm involved in, Riccardo, like Franco Sarchetti.”

“I wouldn't think the arts community is that large in Milano. You hadn't met him before?”

“I've only recently moved to Milan from Rome, so I'm getting to know the players. Your questions make you sound like a policeman, Riccardo.” She turned and walked away.

***

The Museo Civico di Bassano del Grappa was one of the oldest city museums in the Veneto region, dating to 1828 when a local natural history scholar donated his collection to the city. Over the decades it grew from plants and animals to include archeology, sculpture, and painting, as well as its extensive collection of Jacopo da Bassano. The museum was blessed with a building that was a work of art in itself, the ex-convent of Saint Francis. Rick and Betta sat at a stone bench at the edge of its cloister, enjoying the open square of sky and grass.

“Why didn't you tell me last night, Riccardo?”

“You were so upset I didn't want to add to it.”

Two boys from a school group ran out into the perfectly manicured grass to peer into a round, stone well at one corner. One whispered something and the other giggled. Their teacher called out and the two scurried back under the cloister roof.

“You probably did the right thing.” She watched the kids march into the main part of the museum. “You are sure that the car was the one that passed us when we stopped to look at the villa yesterday?”

He held up a hand. “I didn't say I was sure. There are a lot of dark sedans in Italy, and especially here in the Veneto. But that's my hunch.”

“And when we were stopped, with our visors up, the driver recognized us—”

“Likely me.” No need to alarm her more, he thought.

“Recognized one of us, and then followed us that evening. But why?”

“I'd love to know. In the afternoon he could have been following Sarchetti, and we got in the way.”

“Then why would he care about where we were going for dinner?”

He shrugged. “Your mentioning Sarchetti reminds me. I ran into Caterina in the lobby this morning.”

“Just getting back to the hotel?” She chuckled. “Sorry, that was not nice.”

Rick forced a frown. “Certainly not. But the interesting thing was that she was chatting with Sarchetti.”

Betta's eyes widened, making them even more attractive. “But she said last night…”

“She came up to me while I was waiting for the elevator. I asked her about it, and she said that after learning Sarchetti was in town, she made a point of meeting him. I believe her. I think.”

“There's something very strange about that woman, Riccardo.”

“Mysterious is the word I would use.” He got to his feet. “Except for one private viewing of the Jacopo collection, I never got out of the conference room during the seminar, so I'm looking forward to seeing the rest of the museum with your guidance. I've never had a museum guide whose beauty matched the artwork on the walls.”

She took his arm. “You do have a way with words, Riccardo.”

“It's my life's work, Betta.”

They entered a long corridor. Paintings hung on both walls, those on one side positioned between the rectangular, curtained windows which looked out on the cloister. Rick pictured nuns walking the corridor when it was a convent, whispering prayers with beads in their hands, an occasional crucifix hanging from the walls rather than brightly colored paintings.

Betta gestured toward the walls. “This section holds paintings of the sixteenth century, including several by Jacopo's sons. The religious themes are typical of the period, and similar to the style of the master.”

“His sons copied him.”

“Derivative is the term art historians use. Doesn't sound as harsh.”

They were viewing one of the larger paintings when a man entered the corridor and stepped rapidly along it deep in thought. His eyes followed the tiled floor rather than the paintings. When he got to the two visitors he looked up and paused.

“Riccardo. I didn't know you were coming to the museum today—you should have asked for me.” He shook hands with Rick.

“Dottor Tibaldi, I didn't want to be a nuisance, we're just playing tourists. This is my friend Betta Innocenti. Betta, Dottor Tibaldi is the curator of the museum and was the organizer of the seminar where I interpreted.” Another handshake was exchanged.

“Why don't you come into my office for a moment? Then I'll let you get back to your tourism.”

Along the hall and up a flight of stairs they passed through a “staff only” door and eventually to a room overlooking the courtyard. Rick wondered if it had once belonged to the mother superior, but didn't ask. Two paintings with a religious theme hung on one wall, a newly framed poster for the seminar on another. The desk was metal and glass. Tibaldi invited them to sit in two of the modern leather chairs arranged in one corner of the room. Modern furniture was virtually a requirement for any office in Italy inside an ancient building. The curator offered coffee which they politely declined. He sat, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and turned to Betta.

“Are you new to Bassano, too, like Riccardo?”

“No, in fact I live here.”

Tibaldi squinted his eyes. “You do look familiar. Could we have met before?”

“I come to the museum often.”

“Excellent. First and foremost our museum is for the residents of the city. But of course we welcome outside visitors, Riccardo. You have recovered from the seminar? I can't imagine how exhausting interpretation must be.”

“That's why we insist on having at least two of us so we can take breaks. The seminar went well, Dottore, from your point of view?”

Tibaldi leaned back and steepled his fingers together. “Unquestionably. The museum can't stand still, it must constantly demonstrate its relevance, not only to the city but also to the arts community in general.”

The man was sounding like some of the university fund-raisers Rick had known in Albuquerque. “What are your future plans?” he asked, “to demonstrate that relevance.”

“Continuing to be the foremost center for the study of local artists, as this seminar demonstrated. And expanding our collection of works is paramount.”

“Including the acquisition of more paintings by Jacopo da Bassano?”

Tibaldi's face showed that Betta's question took him by surprise, but he quickly recovered. “Unfortunately, there are few Jacopos on the market, if any, Signora Innocenti.”

“But Riccardo mentioned hearing about some missing works. What about them?”

Once again Betta's technique impressed Rick. He couldn't have asked that question, but with a smile as innocent as her name, she pulled it off.

Tibaldi cleared his throat before answering. “It is unfortunate that some of the precious time in the seminar was devoted to paintings that have not been seen for decades, and unfortunately may be destroyed, rather than concentrating on known works such as those in our collection.”

***

“It was interesting that Dottor Tibaldi didn't mention the death of Fortuna.” Betta led Rick through the main gallery.

“But understandable. If it had been just the two of us, he might have brought it up, but not with you there.” Rick looked around as they entered a new room. “Here's the Canova room; tell me about him.”

Betta returned happily to her role of docent. After viewing the sculpture they spent a long time with the Jacopo works, walked through an archeology section, passed quickly through rooms reflecting the natural history interests of the museum's first benefactor, and then viewed paintings from the nineteenth century. Rick found once more that what Americans might consider very old art was considered modern in Italy. Every term is relative, especially in the art world. Betta checked her watch and told Rick that she had to get back to the gallery to help her father. As they walked toward the entrance they passed the door to the large room they had seen earlier, the one featuring the works of Jacopo da Bassano.

“Just a moment, Betta.” On the single couch in the middle of the room a man in a rumpled suit stared at the painting before him. “It's Professor Gaddi. You remember which one he is. I should go over and talk to him.”

“Of course, Riccardo.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Call me.
Ciao
.”

Rick watched her disappear around the end of the corridor before walking toward the professor. The old man's eyes never wavered from the picture before him, a colorful scene filled with figures gathering around Christ, who knelt on the pavement before the only woman in the grouping. Merging columns behind the figures gave the impression they were in a temple or other public building. In the distance, idyllic landscape added a Leonardesque touch.

“Professor, may I join you?”

Gaddi snapped out of his reverie. “Ah, Riccardo; of course, please do.”

Rick took a seat and turned his attention to the painting. “I sense that this may be one of your favorite Jacopos in the collection. Am I right?”

He smiled at Rick before returning his eyes to the painting. “One of many favorites, it recounts the story of Christ and the adulteress. He is pestered by the scribes to make a pronouncement on the woman and her punishment, and his reply is that he who is without sin should cast the first stone. It is a memorable phrase, at the same time unfortunately a sad commentary on mankind.”

“But a true one.” He noted the contrast between the faces of the Philistine men who surrounded the adulteress and that of Christ.

Gaddi nodded in silent response. They continued to study the work until the old man spoke again. “It is always a pleasure to spend time with Jacopo, but I hope this investigation is ended soon. I must return home.”

“Classes to teach.”

Gaddi shook his head. “Classes are the least of my concerns. The students can wait, and usually would prefer to wait. No, Riccardo, my concern is more personal. My wife is ill, has been for several months, and I cannot leave her side for long. Our daughter is there now, but she should return to her own family.”

“Is your wife receiving the medical care she needs?”

Gaddi kept his eyes trained on the canvas. “The doctors of the health service try their best, but she doesn't improve. I can't afford to take her to a private clinic or out of the country. Not on a professor's salary.” He turned to Rick with a wry smile. “I didn't mean to burden you with an old man's problems, Riccardo, but there is something about you that makes me feel comfortable talking about it.”

Rick didn't know how to respond. He could do nothing for the poor man, but if letting him talk about his problems had helped, he was glad to listen. There was one thing that Rick could do, which at least would get Professor Gaddi back to his home sooner—he could help solve the murder of Fortuna.

***

Rick found the police station easily. Ever since the time of the Red Brigades, heavy security had been added to
questure
around Italy, and bureaucratic inertia made it impossible to draw it down in more tranquil times. An armed and body-armored policeman, a bored look on his face, stood in front of the building, facing a triangular square below the castle which dominated the highest point on Bassano's hill. Perhaps in ancient times the work of keeping the peace had been lodged behind the castle walls. Now it simply moved outside them to make it less imposing for the average citizen. Once inside the station Rick realized he could be in any police station in the country—like going into a McDonald's and finding the same atmosphere, uniforms, and aromas. He walked to the desk where a bored sergeant sat reading a magazine with pictures, the pages barely visible below the counter.