To Die in Tuscany by David Wagner (uplifting books for women .txt) 📗

“I am worried that this drawing will never be found.”

“It’s been barely twenty-four hours since it went missing, Betta. You’re the art cop; don’t these things take time?”

“I’m afraid that the theft and the murder are connected, and every hour that passes makes it more likely that neither crime will ever be solved. So I hope we learn something tomorrow. This man Morelli, the art dealer, seems the most likely to have committed both crimes. He gets revenge on Somonte for having outbid him for the drawing and has it in his hands as well. We encounter this kind of collector frequently, one who doesn’t care if the artwork is stolen but gets pleasure from simply having it in his possession. It doesn’t matter that he can’t show it to anyone else.”

“Couldn’t you say the same thing about Vitellozzi, the museum guy?” Rick inclined his head toward the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche. “He files it in some drawer in the museum archives and it magically turns up somewhere in town a few years from now. Then he convinces Somonte’s heirs that it really should stay in the collection in Urbino.”

Betta shook her head. “That’s a bit of a stretch, but I guess it’s possible. We’ll be meeting both Morelli and Vitellozzi tomorrow, so let’s hope we have a better idea about them after that.” She tugged on his arm. “Let’s go. You have to get up early for your run, and it’s already been a long day.”

“I was thinking we could extend it a bit longer.”

“What a coincidence…I was thinking the same thing.”

Chapter Five

Rick’s morning run had been a trip through a cloud. Urbino’s fog was not the heavy, wet kind common to Mantova, where he had worked a few months earlier, but rather a fine mist that barely clung to his T-shirt and shorts. When he finished, the moisture on his body was mostly sweat. The route had taken him up the hill to the duomo and palace, a loop around the obelisk, and back down the steep Via Veneto before climbing the even steeper Via Raffaello. He passed Bruzzone’s art gallery but did not notice it since his eyes were squinting through the fog at the plain facade of the house of Raphael on the other side of the street. The top of the hill offered some respite, thanks to a flat, grassy area around the battlements of the Fortezza Albornoz. He stopped, panting, at the edge of the park where he knew there had to be an excellent view of the city, now obscured by the mist. He turned and started the easy descent that would take him back to the Hotel Botticelli for a hot shower and breakfast with Betta.

The coffee was hot and waiting for him as he entered the breakfast room. Like the hotel itself, the room was small or, as the hotel described it on their website, cozy. Betta sat at a table against the wall talking with Pilar Somonte. He should have realized that Alfredo would have found her a room at the same hotel. She was dressed more casually than the night before, in well-cut jeans with a sweater. It appeared that her wardrobe always included something in wool, which would make perfect sense. She was a walking advertisement for the family business. Betta was back to her police business attire, a dark blue pantsuit and white blouse. He pulled out his chair and stood behind it.

“Buon giorno, Pilar.”

“Buon giorno, Rick,” she answered with a small wave.

“Pilar was just telling me about the women’s fashion business. There’s juice and coffee here for you.” Betta pointed at the buffet table. “I recommend the almond cornetto.”

Rick took the advice, not needed since he was starved after his morning run. It was interesting that Betta had adopted the Roman word for the crescent roll that was called a brioche in much of her native north. Besides the cornetto, he loaded his plate with cheese, yogurt, and a banana before returning to the table. Betta had poured his coffee and added hot milk. He sat and stirred in sugar to his coffee before downing the orange juice.

“Keeps me from getting scurvy,” he said, putting down the empty glass and lifting the cup of coffee for his first shot of caffeine. “What are your plans for the day, Pilar?”

“I was going to work on transporting my father’s remains back to Spain, but Alfredo told me this morning that the Spanish consul is in contact with Isabella on that, since she is considered the next of kin by both the Italian and Spanish authorities. That’s fine with me.” She looked at her empty coffee cup, considering whether to pour a refill. “I think I’ll go out and see Urbino this morning, since I’ve never been here before. I need to clear my mind. The reality of my father’s death is starting to sink in, and I think walking around in one of his favorite cities would help. Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely,” said Betta.

“And what about you two?”

“I’m interviewing Morelli, the art collector, with Alfredo. Then Rick and I will be going to the museum to talk to a man named Annibale Vitellozzi.”

“Someone my father knew?”

“He knew both of them and probably saw them on this trip.”

Pilar held up her hands. “I don’t think I want to know the details, but I hope it helps find whoever did this to my father. And helps you find that drawing.” She started to get up and then sat down. “Do you think this could have just been a mugging that went wrong? I asked Alfredo that yesterday when he brought me here to the hotel. He didn’t rule it out but thought it unlikely that a mugger would be carrying a gun and would know that my father had that valuable drawing.”

“I leave the murder investigation to Alfredo,” said Betta. “Either way, the drawing will turn up eventually and be returned to you.”

“I’ll have to fight that woman