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

living. The results of human activity were evident, however: an open plaza, the columns of a classical building, and a distant statue. Late-afternoon—or possibly early morning—sun cast long shadows. The position of the few objects and a clear vanishing point allowed for well-painted perspective, but somehow everything did not line up the way it should, adding another surreal aspect to a picture that was already unearthly enough.

“Do you like it, Rick?”

“Not really my style. I prefer the masters, like the Pieros we saw today.”

Morelli said, “Piero’s Flagellation, which is at the Galleria here in Urbino, has some aspects of this style: an open square, a few silent figures, a certain eerie quality. It could have influenced de Chirico.”

“But look at the perspective here and compare it with Piero’s works,” said Rick as he continued to study the work. “I prefer the master of perspective.”

“Often artists bend the rules just to show they can do it.” Morelli’s voice had assumed a tone of condescension. “That was the case with de Chirico. If you had ever studied—”

Betta stepped in. “Cosimo, it would be rude of us to get into a heated discussion when we’re guests in your home, even over such a fascinating topic as the qualities of surrealism. And unfortunately we can’t stay; we have a dinner engagement with Inspector DiMaio.”

The mention of the policeman took Morelli’s attention away from the painting, but he quickly regained his composure. “I am sorry not to be able to enjoy your company longer, but it was a pleasure to see you nonetheless.” His words were to Betta. Rick had once again become invisible.

They complimented him on his apartment and the art collection, and he accompanied them down the stairs to the street.

“You must be sure to give my warm regards to Inspector DiMaio.”

Betta promised they would. The door closed and they started down the street.

“That was certainly enjoyable,” said Rick as Betta took his arm.

“He does have a certain reptilian character, but his collection is impressive. Were you able to get a picture of the amphora? That was my main reason for going.”

“He was so enthralled with you that I photographed not only the amphora but also several of the other items. I can send the photos to your phone.”

“And I’ll forward them to my office. It’s a bit of a long shot, but who knows? It might be on the list of missing amphorae, but I doubt it. He’s got a huge ego, but he’s intelligent enough not to show a stolen item to someone from the art police.”

“He knows Greek is not your specialty, and besides, his desire to get you alone must have clouded his thinking.”

Betta smiled. “Did you notice that he claimed not to know Loretta Tucci?”

“At lunch today she gave the impression she didn’t know him either.” He glanced down at her face, which was still smiling. “Betta, I may be just a naive American, but it occurs to me that perhaps they really don’t know each other.”

She shrugged.

Rick moved on. “I didn’t know we were having dinner with Alfredo.”

“He doesn’t either. He thinks he’s dining alone with Pilar. That was the call I took at the hotel.”

“Dinner probably won’t be a good time to tell him about my meeting with the widow.”

“No, Rick, it won’t.”

Chapter Eight

The restaurant was near the Palazzo Ducale, not exactly around the corner from Morelli’s house but still within the city walls and therefore walking distance. They strolled down his street and retraced their route to get back to Via Raffaello. The shops on it were already shuttered or about to have their gates rolled down and padlocked. In only one could they see any customers, a salumaio with last-minute shoppers picking up something for dinner. At the bottom of the hill they passed the small square in front of the municipal building, and a theater across the street showing a French film that neither of them recognized.

The street name changed to Via Vittorio Veneto, but unlike its wide and tree-lined Roman namesake, this one was narrow and steep, barely wide enough for two cars. Which was likely why it was in a pedestrian area. And pedestrians there were, mostly young people whom Rick guessed to be students at the university, heading in the opposite direction, down the hill. Perhaps the cheaper restaurants were down there, away from the tourist area surrounding the duke’s palace. As they got to the top of the hill, the street widened slightly and on the right were steps leading up to the cathedral. Betta looked at her watch.

“The restaurant is close and we’re early. Do you want to walk down toward the university?”

Rick looked up at the cathedral facade, a clean white marble showing the required features of the classical style. He was certain there had been a church on the site for more than a millennium, given the age of Urbino, but he was equally sure that this was not the original structure. Two people emerged from the right door.

“The duomo is still open; why don’t we check it out?”

“I recall you telling me that when you were a kid you dreaded being dragged into churches by your parents.”

They started to climb the steps. “I also didn’t like girls when I was in grade school. A guy can change, can’t he? I am now grateful that my parents insisted on taking me into all those churches; it gave me my first appreciation of history, art, and architecture. This one, however, looks like the classic case of taking a wonderful ancient church and renovating it into the stylistic flavor of the moment.”

They went through the door and immediately decided his assessment was correct. A panel just inside gave a short history of the building, which they read after dipping their fingers in the font and crossing themselves. The first cathedral on the site had been constructed in 1021, but it was rebuilt by Duke Federico da Montefeltro in the fifteenth century. A devastating earthquake in 1789 required