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

is the real reason we are going to Sansepolcro. If his mother’s hometown had a museum, he’d likely have donated this work to them. But Sansepolcro is the next best thing, since it’s virtually next door, and especially since it was the birthplace of Piero della Francesca.”

“Who also did the sketch Somonte is donating, and happens to be one of your favorite Renaissance artists.”

“Bravo. Which is why I was selected to represent the Culture Ministry when Somonte, in honor of his late mother, hands it over to the Museo Civico of Sansepolcro.”

“After which you take a few days off to see the sights with your trusted interpreter. I like this. What else about the guy? Since I’ll be meeting him.”

“His other passion, besides art and making money from wool, is plants. I’m not sure where he picked that up—it wasn’t explained in the bios I read on the internet. My only interest in him is the art, especially this Piero drawing.”

“What do you know about the drawing?”

“I’m anxious to see it. It is one of the sketches he made for The Resurrection, one of his most famous paintings, which is in the museum here. Christ is seen stepping out of the Holy Sepulcher above the sleeping soldiers. The drawing was a study for the face of one of the soldiers.”

“How did Somonte get his hands on it?”

“The drawing surfaced fairly recently, and rather mysteriously, with a dealer in Urbino. Somonte comes to Italy often, buys art, and is a great admirer of Piero. He must have known the dealer, who then tipped him off that it was for sale. That’s often the way dealers work—they know the tastes of their best clients. I’m sure it wasn’t inexpensive, but it being only a small sketch, he could afford it.”

The Fiat slowed for another traffic circle and continued toward Sansepolcro. It crossed the Tiber River, barely as wide as the two lanes of the bridge, and drove under the SS3 highway into the suburbs of the town. The traffic slowed, and they seemed to hit every red light along what had changed from a highway to a street. When the car reached the city walls Betta followed them to the northern side of the city and turned in through one of the narrow gates, ignoring the signs indicating that they were entering a pedestrian zone. After a few turns she pulled up next to the entrance to the Museo Civico. From the glove box she took a large card with the seal of the Carabinieri and placed it against the windshield.

“Here we are, Rick. The last time I was here I was a student, and we had to park outside the walls and walk in. This is much easier. And we’re here with time to spare.”

The way Betta drove, Rick was not surprised.

The outside of the city museum did not distinguish itself from the other buildings on the block. They all had bars over the windows, though the museum’s were more forbidding, and all were covered with the yellow-orange color that was standard throughout the country. Two stone planters filled with bright flowers flanked the entrance, and a discreet banner hung down one side to indicate what was inside. Rick pushed open the door for Betta and they entered a large rectangular room bathed in light from windows built into modern barrel vaults high above the floor. All very twenty-first century, unlike the art collection the museum held. Stanchions and red velvet ropes showed the way to the desk where visitors paid their entrance fees. A woman in a dark business suit talked in a low voice with the man behind the desk. She looked at her watch and then up at the two new arrivals. Her face showed concern, but she forced a smile and approached them.

“You must be Dottoressa Innocenti.” She extended her hand to Betta. “I am Tiziana Rossi, the director of the museum. Welcome, and thank you for coming.”

“It is my pleasure to return to Sansepolcro, Dottoressa Rossi. May I introduce Riccardo Montoya, who will help interpret for Signor Somonte should the need arise?”

The museum director shook Rick’s hand, but the mention of Somonte returned the concern to her face. “I was expecting him and his wife to be here by now. We were going to give him a tour of the entire collection before the formal donation of the drawing.” She looked at a man standing in the corner carrying a camera. “This is quite an occasion for us. The mayor and other city officials will arrive later for the ceremony. I hope nothing has happened to Somonte. The drive down from Urbino is not that long, but it does twist and turn.”

“I’m sure he’ll arrive soon,” Rick reassured. “The Spanish idea of punctuality is sometimes different from the Italian.”

“I hope you’re right. In the meantime please feel free to check out the collection. The Pieros are in hall number five.” She gestured toward a ramp that led to the older part of the museum complex. “I’ll stay here and wait for Signor Somonte.”

They thanked her and walked up the ramp and through a door that had been opened in the wall to connect two buildings whose floors didn’t coincide. A few moments later they found themselves in the room that held the most important pieces in the museum. A uniformed guard eyed them carefully. Rick noticed the door-sized glass panel at one end, outside which two people stood peering into the room. He took them to be tourists and, from their dress, probably Scandinavians.

“That’s a wonderful feature, don’t you think, Rick? There are steps on the street leading up to that little porch where people can look inside without having to pay the entrance fee. At night the painting is lit. It’s a way the locals can show their pride for a work that has become a symbol of Sansepolcro along with the town’s coat of arms.”

Rick turned to see Piero della Francesca’s masterpiece on the