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

this one was a hive of activity. Sets of panels, connected by hinges, were being positioned by two workers in white overalls. Another set of workers pushed together risers to make a small stage at one side of the room. Two young women were removing artwork from wooden crates, unwrapping each piece with great care and leaning them at intervals against the wall. At the opposite end of the room from the stage, two men were setting up a bar, unpacking wineglasses and arranging them on a long table covered by a white cloth. Standing in the middle of the activity was a man wearing sneakers, blue jeans, and a sweatshirt bearing the words “Keep Calm and Enjoy Art,” in English.

“That has to be Vitellozzi,” said Rick.

The man noticed the new arrivals and walked swiftly toward them. Rick estimated him to be in his late fifties, though the slight paunch could have made him look older than his years. Graying temples added to the aging, along with a hairline that years earlier had begun its retreat toward the top of his head. He smiled and moved his hands like a juggler, which Rick took as a reference to the work of setting up an exhibit.

“I assume you are Dottoressa Innocenti from the art police.”

Betta acknowledged that she was, shook his hand, and introduced Rick as an American working for the police as an interpreter. Vitellozzi showed no surprise, making Rick wonder if he already knew about the investigation. Wouldn’t he be curious as to why an interpreter was needed?

“You must excuse my informality of dress in greeting someone from the Cultural Ministry, but, as you can see, we are hard at work in preparing for the opening tomorrow night. I was speaking this morning to the ministry undersecretary about the exhibit, and he mentioned that someone from his art police was here. Then I got the call from Inspector DiMaio, and here you are.” He held up a hand for Rick and Betta before turning quickly to the workers. “Not there! Center it against the wall!” His attention returned to Betta. “Sorry about that. It never fails that we are working at the last minute on arrangements that should have been taken care of days ago. But it’s also very exciting. For most temporary exhibits I let my assistant curator do the setup, but for one of such importance I decided to get directly involved.”

“All I know,” said Betta, “is that it is about Raffaello, to commemorate the five-hundredth anniversary of his death.”

Vitellozzi’s delivery was rapid-fire. “Yes, Raffaello di Urbino, or as you Americans would say, Signor Montoya, Raphael of Urbino. The city’s most famous native son, who unfortunately is buried in Rome. I am Roman myself, but I’ve come to believe that the master should someday be brought home. I’m sure an appropriate resting place would be found for him here. Fortunately, we were able to schedule this exhibit years ago, making this one of the first of the museums to honor him for the quincentenary. Which seems only right, since he was born in Urbino.”

“What will be in the exhibit?” Betta asked.

“Well, as you probably know, the great scandal of Raffaello’s work is that almost nothing of it is here in Urbino except for La Muta, and another smaller piece, here in our collection.” He gestured toward a female portrait that had already been hung. “There is a painting on the wall of his birthplace that is attributed to him, but except for La Muta, virtually all of his masterpieces are in other cities. This is a disappointment to the wonderful people of Urbino, but what can be done? Well, one thing is to mount exhibits like this one. For it, we have brought in several of his most important works, on loan from museums in Italy. We made some attempts with other countries in Europe, but to no avail. You may know that the Louvre and the National Gallery in London both have numerous works by Raffaello. Fortunately, our sister Italian institutions were more forthcoming, though almost always with a catch, spoken or unspoken.”

“I don’t understand,” said Rick.

“Reciprocity,” Vitellozzi said. “We have paintings in our collection, most importantly those by Piero della Francesca, that they will certainly request on loan at some point in the future. The director of the Pitti Palace, when he agreed to send us the Madonna della Seggiola, as much as said so. The negotiations with the various institutions began years ago. We asked the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana in Milan for the cartoon of the School of Athens, almost sure that they wouldn’t part with it, and we were correct. Raffaello’s self-portrait was easier to get from the Uffizi. They understood that it was virtually a requirement for an exhibit of this type, but there’s no doubt we’ll hear from them sometime to cash in the IOU. Also, they have such a treasure trove there that it will barely be missed.” He clasped his hands together. “I could go on, but you aren’t here to talk about this exhibit but poor Somonte. If you don’t mind, we can talk here so I can keep an eye on the progress. There are some chairs over in that corner with a bit less chaos.”

The chairs were stacked, and he and Rick pulled them off and arranged them in a triangle. Vitellozzi took the one that put his back to the wall, making Rick think of a mafia don in a restaurant.

“You knew Signor Somonte well?” asked Betta.

“I would not say well, but since he always visited the museum when he was in town, I came to know him. His wealth and connection to Italy were not a secret, so any museum director would want to cultivate such an individual.”

“Did he support the museum financially?”

“We are, of course, a government institution, but there is private support for specific events, such as this one. To anticipate your next question, yes, Somonte gave us some financial assistance for this