Murder Most Unfortunate (10 page)

“Signor Innocenti, it is my pleasure.” She turned to Rick. “I'm afraid I'm late to a meeting, but we really should meet other than to say hello, Riccardo.”

“Absolutely.” They watched her continue down the sidewalk away from the hotel entrance. “An interesting woman,” Rick said. “At least I think so, not really knowing her.” He looked at Innocenti's puzzled expression. “Had you met her before, Signor Innocenti? She did not seem to have recognized you.”

“No, no. I've never seen her before. There's just something…” He shook his head quickly before turning to Rick. “I must get back to the gallery. With Elizabetta out I had to put up the closed sign, and now there are probably dozens of clients milling around the door, anxious to buy paintings.” He shook Rick's hand. “My pleasure seeing you again, Riccardo.”

He crossed the street and hurried in the direction of the gallery while Rick stood on the sidewalk watching. One thing was sure—Betta had not told her father about being forced off the road the previous night. That would be expected—she didn't want him to worry. What Rick found strange, however, was the man's reaction to meeting Caterina. The enigmatic Signora Savona now became even more mysterious.

Chapter Nine

Italian fashion, like fashion everywhere, swung on a long pendulum. What was
di moda
one year would inevitably fade, replaced by something else which held its place for a few years before something new appeared or, just as likely, the previous fashion returned. Cynics would say that the industry rather than the consumer drove the fashion, and they would be correct. Nowhere was the pendulum more evident than in men's ties. As Rick studied a long rack of them, he was grateful that in Italian tie fashion, traditional had regained its proper place. It was a mere few years ago that every man in Italy was wearing ties that looked like they'd been copied from the canvas of an abstract impressionist. Now the selection, thankfully, included stripes and sedate prints. Since he was picking out something for Uncle Piero, traditional was a requirement. He finally settled on a tie with stripes of various widths and colors, pulled it off the dowel holding the display, and walked to the cash register. His cell phone rang as he handed over his credit card, and he smiled when he read the number.

“
Ciao, Betta, dové sei
?”

Her voice was so low he could hardly hear her. “I'm here at the ceramics museum, watching Professor Gaddi. I was starting to think that following him was a waste of time, but he just got a phone call and seemed to get quite agitated. Now he's looking at the exhibits, but his mind isn't on it. He keeps checking his watch.”

Rick pushed the phone to his ear while he signed the slip. “It sounds like he's going to meet someone. I'm close by, I'll come over there but stay out of sight.”

“All right, but—wait, he just looked at his watch again and now is walking toward the exit. I'll talk to you later.” She was gone.

Rick turned off his phone, took the small bag from the salesgirl, and asked her the location of the ceramics museum. As he'd thought, it was only a few blocks away. He thanked her and left the store, folding the bag carefully and slipping it into his coat pocket. A few minutes later he reached the street he wanted, narrow and one way, on a hill sloping down toward the river. He could see what he assumed was the museum entrance in the distance, a wide gate in the high stone wall guarding what had once been a patrician residence. He kept close to the stores on the opposite side of the street, ready to duck in if Gaddi materialized. Instead he saw Betta appear at the gate, an annoyed look on her face. She was surrounded by a gaggle of children, all dressed in the same school uniform. Rick strode quickly down the hill. When he reached her the kids were all talking at once.

“The old man? He was picked up by blue Fiat.”

“No, it was a Simca, and it was gray.”

“Dark green.”

“Purple. It's my favorite color.”

“Lady, are you a cop?”

“Is the old man a criminal?”

“Did he rob a bank?”

Betta was about to attempt an answer when a nun appeared, glared at Betta and Rick, and shooed the brood away. They giggled and chattered as they were led down the street.

“That's the problem with eyewitnesses,” Rick said. “They're never reliable.” He was grinning but Betta was not.

“I waited for a few moments so I would not be right on his back, but when I got out he was gone. All we can be sure of, it appears, is that he got into someone's car.”

“I hope it was red, that's my favorite color.”

She poked him. “Now what do we do?”

“I don't think there's much we can do about Gaddi, and it's now late afternoon. Why don't we do some research? We may find out more about the paintings that way than from following these people.”

“I know the perfect place to do it.”

***

Rick was hoping that the perfect place for research was at the computer in Betta's apartment, but it turned out to be the city archives. They were housed in a seventeenth-century stone building which, along with a baroque church, took up one side of a wide piazza. The structure had once housed a religious school for the wealthy male youth of the city, connected not just structurally, but also spiritually and administratively with the adjacent church. In the last century, when the school closed, its building had been taken over by the municipal government and everyone agreed that the school library was the perfect space for the archives. Two stories high and domed by a multicolored skylight, wood bookshelves ran along its walls, the top volumes reached by a rolling ladder. Circling the room was a balcony with more shelves, some of them encased in glass. Grouped on the floor below, desks with gooseneck lamps allowed the scholars to pore over their work, though today they were armed with computers rather than quilled pens and parchment. To make things easier, the entire center of Bassano, including the archives, was a WiFi hot spot.

“Impressive, isn't it?” Betta spoke in almost a whisper, in keeping with the atmosphere.

“It certainly is. Are all those books real, or are they painted on?”

“You can go check while I see if Gisa is here.” She went off in search of a friend who was the assistant director of the archive. Rick walked to the shelves and couldn't resist pushing the tall ladder that was attached with rollers to rails at both top and bottom. A man looked up from his book when it squeaked, flashing an annoyed grimace. Rick ignored the man and checked out the books, which were indeed real—hand-tooled leather spines embossed with gold leaf titles. He recognized none of them. Betta appeared at the door with an attractive woman her same age, dressed in jeans and a baggy sweater. Reading glasses with leashes were her only concession to the librarian stereotype. Betta introduced her and they shook hands.

“Gisa says they have files on the final days of the war, so there could be something in them about the missing paintings. There is also an archive on Jacopo da Bassano that could be useful.”

“I'll bring out what we have, Riccardo, and if you don't find what you need I can try somewhere else.” Gisa waved her hand at one of the tables. “Why don't you two sit here and make yourselves comfortable.” She gave Betta a wink and walked off.

“What was that about?” Rick asked.

“She'll be calling me tonight to find out all about you.”

“But you don't know all about me.”

“What little I do know she'll pry out of me.”

About half the places at the tables were occupied. Rick noticed that the age of the researchers fell into two groups: quite young or quite old. The gray heads were salted among the youth who were either university students or the upper class from the
liceo
. The younger
studiosi
were evenly divided by sex, while the older ones were mostly men. Another indication of changes going on in Italy.

Gisa appeared after a few minutes, her arms filled with files which she placed on the table between them. “
Buona lettura
.”

She left, and Rick and Betta started to go through the materials, she taking those dealing with Jacopo, he the war history.

Mixed among lists of names and dates were stories of the final months of the war. Rome had been liberated in June of 1944, after which the Allies continued their slog up the Italian peninsula, but Bassano remained under German control until the following spring. The stories told of a city in chaos, withering under the iron hand of the occupying power with dreadful consequences for those who resisted. But the Italians had eventually won their city back. Since he knew history was written mostly by the winners, Rick could not help wondering how much of these accounts was accurate. And as importantly, what stories had remained untold and never reached the archives. After a half hour he found something and tapped Betta on the arm.

“Here's something interesting.” He ran his finger down a page of names and stopped at one. “A German infantry battalion, stationed east of here before finally withdrawing into Austria, had an
oberlutnant
named Karl Muller. That's the name of the German participant in the seminar, and he told me that his grandfather had been in this area during the war. Do you think that he was named after his grandfather? The ages would be about right.”

Betta leaned back in the chair, removed her glasses, and rubbed her eyes. “I'm not an expert in German names, Riccardo, but I think both Karl and Muller are quite common.”

“You're probably right. Have you found anything in your Jacopo materials?

“The two paintings went missing in April of 1945, which we knew already.”

“That's about the time Lieutenant Muller was here in the province.”

“Along with thousands of other armed men and women. But you'll like something else I found—the villa from which they were taken is just east of here, near Fossalunga.”

“Don't tell me.”

She held up her hand. “I don't think it's where we had dinner, but it's possible. The names of these villas change when someone buys them, as you'd expect, unless the original owner was famous enough that it adds prestige to the new owners and they keep the old name.” She realized that her voice had gone back to normal, and looked around to see if anyone was listening. No one was. “But there are quite a few villas around this province,” she whispered. “There is a folder of clippings from the time about the paintings. The family didn't have them insured, not that they would have been covered anyway.”

“War and insurrection. Standard disclaimers in insurance policies.”

“There was some talk that the family had sold them before the war when they were in trouble financially, but didn't want to admit it. Then they claimed the paintings had been stolen to save face. But that could be some journalist inventing a good story. The family denied it.”

“I'd be shocked if that really happened.”

Betta frowned. “That they'd sold the paintings?”

“No, that an Italian journalist would invent a story.” He put his hand over hers. “I think we've done enough research. Unfortunately I have to check my e-mails at the hotel. I'm expecting a contract from America to do an Italian version of a magazine article. It's morning in America, and that's when people back there usually send me messages. It is the weary lot of a professional translator, always waiting for the next job. But I will be done by dinner time.”

“I should go back to the gallery.”

“While you're working, think about where I'll be taking you for dinner.”

***

As Rick started up the Viale dei Martiri gathering clouds began blocking out the view of the mountains, perhaps in anticipation of a late afternoon shower. He had brought a raincoat on the trip, but his umbrella sat in the closet of his apartment in Rome. It had been wishful thinking, assuming the weather would be perfect. Now he might have to buy one. His phone rang, a local number.

“Montoya.”

“Riccardo, this is Alfredo.”

“I forgot that you had my number, Detective.”

“We are the police, we know everything. I need to talk to you, and it would be better not on the phone.”

“That sounds serious.”

“Not really. I just don't want anyone walking by the broom closet and listening to what I'm saying.”

“Do you want me to come to the station? I'm close.”

“No, not here, Occasio is prowling. Why don't we meet at the castle? Have you seen our wonderful castle yet?”

Rick turned and looked toward the highest point in the city where an ancient stone tower rose stiffly from the surrounding buildings. “I can see it from here.”

“I'll be at the gate in two minutes.”

Rick hung up, turning in the opposite direction from the hotel. He reached the piazza and walked up a narrow street to the castle entrance where DiMaio stood, looking at his watch. “You're late.”

“I stopped for a coffee.”

They passed through a set of heavy wooden doors into a courtyard. Ahead was the
duomo
, the city's oldest church and a sanctuary in former times of danger when the thick, high walls of the castle gave welcome protection to the people of Bassano. Another massive structure, likely the barracks, was built out from another part of the wall. Rick looked up and saw that the sky was still clear. “What did you want to tell me?”

They walked together on the stones, the heels of Rick's boots tapping softly. A group of tourists stood near the entrance to the
duomo
, but otherwise the courtyard was deserted. “Inspector Occasio is finding it peculiar that you have been poking around the city, talking with people.”

“Is he having me followed?”

DiMaio studied the pavement as he walked. “If he were, he likely wouldn't tell me. No, he found out in another way. The inspector always makes a point of cultivating the pillars of the community, and apparently Dottor Porcari mentioned that you'd been to see him at the bank.”

“Porcari neglected to mention that it was he who invited me to stop in.”

A wispy cloud came into view over the high wall. “That detail did not reach me, and I don't know if it got to my
capo
. Have you been seeing other names on our suspect list?”

“Of those few people I know in Bassano, almost all are on your suspect list, Alfredo. And you'll remember I've been looking into those lost paintings, so the people from the seminar are the logical ones to talk to about them.” Rick tried to keep the annoyed tone from his voice, but was unsuccessful. “Is that all you wanted to ask me?”

“Well, that, and if you've had any contact with Sarchetti.”

“I called him, and we're meeting for a grappa tonight at the bridge.”

DiMaio stopped and slapped Rick on the back. “Excellent, I will look forward to hearing what he has to say. Your uncle would be proud of you. Don't let Nardini's grappa cloud your mind.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “And speaking of clouds, it appears that we are going to have a shower. I would love to continue our chat, but I should let you return to the shelter of your hotel. There was something else I wanted to ask you, but it can wait until you call me this evening. You'll call me immediately after seeing Sarchetti, will you not, Riccardo?”