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

The uniformed policeman from the front desk tapped on the door. “Inspector, Signor Morelli is here.”

“Tell him to wait, Sergeant. I’ll be right there.” DiMaio stood up and took a set of earphones from among the papers on the desk. “Riccardo, you can come and sit in this chair. Just put these on; they’re connected to the recorder in the next room where we’ll be questioning Morelli. Shall we go, Betta?” They left Rick sitting at the desk. He picked up the earphones, tried them on, and put them down. For a moment he thought about putting his feet up on the desk, but the thought passed quickly.

DiMaio and Betta walked to the waiting area where Cosimo Morelli was standing in one corner talking on his cell phone. He noticed Betta first, his eyes moving up and down her body, before glancing at DiMaio. He said something into the phone before stuffing it into the pocket of his brown suede jacket. The rest of his outfit was equally casual and expensive: a silk turtleneck, well-pressed blue jeans, and loafers. His hair was long, too long for someone Betta estimated to be in his midforties, giving the impression he was clinging to a younger image. The tanned face said the same, as did his physique. The man worked out.

“Signor Morelli? I am Inspector DiMaio.” They shook hands. “This is Dottoressa Innocenti, who is assisting in the investigation of Somonte’s murder.”

“It is my pleasure,” said Morelli as he took Betta’s hand.

“She is with the art police in Rome.”

Morelli stiffened but quickly composed himself. “I welcome you to Urbino, though I don’t understand why your office needs to be present. This is a murder investigation, isn’t it, Inspector?”

“We can get into that inside,” said DiMaio. “Let me lead the way.”

The room was without windows but otherwise not as intimidating as Betta had hoped it would be. The table in the middle looked almost new, as did the four comfortable chairs around it. In front of each chair sat a microphone, its wires joining with the others at one end before running into a plug in the wall. On one side of the room was a credenza with bottled water and glasses on a plastic tray. The walls were bare except for two tourism posters of the city, one a view of the palace, the other a famous self-portrait of Urbino’s favorite son, Raffaello.

DiMaio pointed toward one of the chairs. “Please sit down, Signor Morelli. We will be recording our conversation, which is purely routine, I can assure you. Would you like some water?”

Morelli looked at the microphone. Its red light had come on when DiMaio flipped a switch under the table. “Thank you, no. I’d just as soon get this over with. I have business to attend to.” He sat and focused his attention on Betta, even when DiMaio began to speak.

After noting the day, time, and their three names, he turned his attention to the man sitting opposite him. “How long had you known Manuel Somonte?”

Morelli reluctantly took his eyes off Betta. “Several years. We became acquainted through Ettore Bruzzone, who runs an art gallery here. Ettore had an opening for an artist from Milan, if I remember correctly, and Somonte was in town. We struck up a friendship since we shared an interest in art. Owning art, that is. Whenever he came to Urbino we had dinner together.”

“But in the case of the Piero drawing, you were rivals, were you not?”

Morelli smiled, pleased that he could speak directly to Betta. “You are well informed, but I would expect that from the art police. We both were trying to buy the drawing, if that’s what you mean.”

“You were disappointed to lose out to him, I suppose.”

“Let’s just say that I am accustomed to getting what I want, Dottoressa.”

Betta returned his stare. “Was this the only instance when you were bidding against Somonte?”

“You would have to ask Bruzzone. If there were others, it would have been Somonte who ended up not getting the artwork.” His fingers drummed on the tabletop.

“Did you see Somonte after he arrived in Urbino this time?” DiMaio asked.

“I was expecting that question, Inspector. I did see him the day he was killed, in the afternoon. We met for coffee, had a short chat, and arranged to have dinner tonight.”

“Did he mention the donation of the drawing?”

He smiled. “Oh, yes. In fact, he had the drawing with him in this ornate case, which he opened with great care to show me what was inside.”

“But you had seen it when it was on sale.”

“Of course. But it was Manuel’s none-too-subtle way to remind me who had won the bidding war on it.” He shrugged. “I might have done the same thing if our roles were reversed, though of course I would not be donating the drawing to a museum.”

“Did he say what he was going to do the rest of the day?”

Morelli shook his head. “He didn’t, and I didn’t ask.”

“Where were you that evening?”

“My alibi? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? I was at home.”

“Alone?”

“I am not married, Inspector. But, yes, I was alone.”

It was Betta’s turn to speak. “You were surprised that Somonte decided to donate the Piero drawing to the museum in Sansepolcro?”

He shrugged. “The donation was of no consequence to me. Somonte was free to do whatever he wished with the drawing. It was his. The one who was most agitated about the donation was Vitellozzi, the director of the museum here. He told me, just after the news came out about Sansepolcro getting it, that it was like a slap in the face. I’m sure he’s over it by now, and it isn’t as if his collection is lacking in works by Piero.” Morelli cracked a thin smile. “Donating is not something I would do with my collection unless I were about to die. Perhaps, somehow, Somonte knew that his time was almost up. Now he’s dead and the