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

such eccentrics showing up all the time, but I can’t. He’s the first one I’ve encountered. The strange thing is that otherwise he seems quite rational. He is, after all, a professor of botany, so he couldn’t be a complete pazzo.”

A different uniformed policeman came into the room carrying a newspaper. “You’ll want to see this, Inspector.” He handed over the paper, looked at Pilar, and made his exit.

“Now what?” DiMaio spread the front page out on the table and began to read the story under a picture of the metal gate at the entrance to the botanical gardens. After a minute he slapped his hand down. “The same journalist who came to see me yesterday. Her story tells how your father’s body was found, including a description of the plant that he donated to the gardens. How did she get this information? I gave specific orders to my officers not to give out any details to the press. Somebody is in trouble.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t someone from the commissariato, Alfredo.”

“What do you mean?”

She stirred her coffee. “It could have been someone who wants to increase the number of visitors to the botanical gardens.”

Chapter Seven

Betta drove back to the main road and waited for a break in what was mostly commercial traffic going between Arezzo and Città di Castello. She went west for a few kilometers before turning toward the old section of Monterchi that rose on its hill just ahead. Signs for the Museo Civico took the car around the base of the town, which was just as well since the steep streets leading up to the center had originally been laid out for foot traffic, not cars. Fields spread out to the right as the street bent along the side of the hill. Two minutes later they found themselves in front of the building that housed one of Piero della Francesca’s masterpieces. It looked more like a school than a museum, since that’s exactly what it had been for the first part of its life. Had it not been for the signs, Betta might have driven right past. Instead she pulled over and parked.

Once again Betta’s Cultural Ministry identification worked its magic, and they were waved in by the man at the counter. The first few rooms dealt with the history of the Madonna del Parto, which Piero had painted on the wall above the altar in a small church at the edge of Monterchi. The building was destroyed by an earthquake in 1785, but miraculously the fresco remained intact. It was carefully removed and put in a small chapel nearby. Only in the late nineteenth century was it identified as being from the hand of the great master, and the people of the town realized what they had. Restorations followed, and it eventually ended up in the former middle school, becoming a required stop—along with Arezzo, Sansepolcro, and Urbino—on what could be called the Piero della Francesca Art Loop.

As Betta and Rick studied the panels explaining the history of the Madonna, a woman came to the doorway with the guard who had checked Betta’s credentials at the entrance. He spoke something into the woman’s ear, and she walked quickly toward Betta. She wore a white silk blouse over a blue skirt, which could have been a uniform except for the string of pearls around her neck and shoes that were not made for someone who needed to spend time on her feet. Reading glasses held by a gold chain hung over a hint of cleavage. She wore no wedding ring.

“Excuse me—I was told you are from the ministry.” Her face was friendly but curious. “I am Loretta Tucci, the director of the museum.”

Betta shook the extended hand. “Piacere, Betta Innocenti. This is Riccardo Montoya. Ours is not an official visit to your museum; we were in Monterchi on other business but of course had to come by to see the Madonna.”

“Other business? Dottoressa Innocenti, this is a very small town. What could you be doing in Monterchi that would be of interest to the Cultural Ministry?”

“I work in the office that looks into stolen art, and we’re investigating a missing drawing by Piero della Francesca.”

The woman flinched. “It couldn’t be the sketch of the sleeping soldier, I hope. I am very familiar with it. But I thought it was going to be donated to the museum in Sansepolcro yesterday. Are you telling me it’s been stolen?”

Betta looked at Rick, deciding how to reply. “We’re not sure,” she said. “The man who was donating it died in Urbino two nights ago, and the drawing hasn’t been located.”

“I got back into Monterchi this morning after visiting my mother in Milan, so I haven’t heard any of this. I was invited to the ceremony in Sansepolcro, but because of my mother’s illness I wasn’t able to attend.”

“It was canceled,” Rick said.

“How did the man die?”

“The police are certain that he was murdered,” said Betta. “Riccardo has been assisting the investigation in Urbino.”

Tucci gripped her hands together. “That’s terrible. Someone killed him to get the drawing? It is a beautiful piece, and valuable, certainly, but enough to kill for?”

“Had you seen it?” asked Betta.

“Certainly. I was the person who certified its authenticity. I have studied Piero’s work extensively, which is how I came to be the director here.” She looked at her watch. “I would appreciate if you could tell me more about the investigation. Are you returning to Urbino immediately? I feel an attachment to that drawing after spending so much time studying it.”

“And I would like to hear about your work with it,” said Betta. “We were going to have lunch before driving back. Perhaps you could join us.”

“That would be perfect.” She managed a stiff smile. “This comes as quite a shock. If someone killed that man to get the drawing, could I have been in danger during the time I had it?”

“That’s highly unlikely,” Rick replied. “When you had the drawing nobody knew it had any value.”

Rick’s