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

wall behind him, Christ rising from the Holy Sepulcher—San Sepolcro—while soldiers slept in the foreground. Jesus stared directly at the viewers, challenging them to interpret the penetrating look of his eyes. Was it resignation? Doubt? Determination? Or simple exhaustion? The lips, forming neither a frown nor a smile, offered no help. Behind the figure the landscape was barren on one side and starting to grow on the other. After being dragged countless times through Italian museums and churches as a kid, Rick knew that every aspect of a painting had meaning, and he assumed the background was an allusion to rebirth, as was the brightening morning sky. His eyes were moving over other parts of the composition when Betta spoke.

“This painting shows the connection between the religious and civic life of Sansepolcro. It was commissioned by the city elders for the communal hall and prayed to before each of their council meetings. The name of the town comes from the relics of the sepulcher brought from the Holy Land, and Piero included one right there.” She pointed to a crude chunk of stone in the lower right corner of the painting. “Today, though, our interest is connected to him.” Her finger moved to one of the sleeping soldiers leaning against the stone sarcophagus.

Rick stepped to get a closer look at the soldier. “That’s the one in Somonte’s donated drawing.”

“Correct. And according to tradition, it is a self-portrait of Piero della Francesca himself.”

Rick remembered listening to a former Italian girlfriend talking about the works she had studied as an art historian. Her specialty had been Mannerism, the period that followed Piero and his contemporaries by several decades, but he recalled her using the phrase “according to tradition.” He turned to Betta and smiled. “I know enough about Italian painting to know that when they talk about tradition, it probably isn’t true.”

“Art historians always have differing opinions on just about everything. That’s how they make names for themselves. But even if it’s not Piero’s face, it’s still a good story.”

“And it makes the donated drawing even more valuable. It looks like they already have a place of honor waiting for it over there.”

They walked to a glass case set against the wall, empty except for a small printed card. Betta was leaning over to read the inscription when hurried footsteps caught the attention of the guard. Rick was stepping forward when Signora Rossi appeared, breathing heavily.

“Terrible news,” she said when she spotted Betta. “Signor Somonte. He’s dead. They just called from Urbino.” Her eyes darted to the empty case, and she clasped her hands into a tight knot. “But it’s worse. The drawing is missing, and the police believe he was murdered. Do you think someone killed him and took it?” She looked at Rick and Betta. “I must advise the mayor.” She turned and rushed from the room.

Betta pulled her phone from her purse. “I have to call my boss.” She looked at the guard and retreated to a corner of the room out of earshot.

Rick watched her punch in a number and then gesture with her free hand as she talked in a low voice with the ministry in Rome. He sighed and walked to another of Piero’s works, identified as a fresco fragment depicting San Giuliano, taken from a local church. The saint stared over Rick’s left shoulder, his face surrounded by thick blond hair and crowned with a disk-like halo. Again Rick tried to read the face the master had created. Fear? Bravery? He would have to look up the hagiography of Giuliano to get a hint. Betta’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“Rick, we’re going to Urbino.”

* * *

The seventy-one kilometers between the two cities would have meant about a half-hour drive for Betta if the roadway had been like the toll road between Rome and Arezzo. Instead, it would take well over an hour to navigate the two-lane strada statale that coiled through the mountains. Making matters worse, a number of trucks plodded slowly up the inclines, and several times Rick had to urge patience, lest Betta try to pass on a curve. There was no need to add to the day’s death toll. This pace was agony for someone like Betta, who was used to riding motorcycles. He tried to get her to think about something other than their progress.

“Tell me more of what you know about this drawing, Betta.”

“We don’t know a whole lot. Provenance usually is not recorded for a simple drawing like it would be for a painting. When it turned up a few years ago in Urbino, the ministry was advised of its appearance. Since there was nothing illegal—it hadn’t been reported stolen—my office didn’t get involved. Works of art appear all the time in someone’s attic or basement, and in many cases there’s no way to know how it got there. It could have been in the family for centuries and nobody knew or cared, or it might have been hidden during the war to keep it out of the hands of the Germans. Then someone finds it in a trunk, thinks it might be worth something, and goes to an art dealer. I think that’s what happened with this drawing when it was sold to the dealer in Urbino. That’s something we’ll find out when we get there. If we ever get there.”

A straight section of road appeared after a curve, and Betta gunned the engine to pass the truck they had been following for ten kilometers. Rick’s head pushed back against the seat, and he gripped the armrest. She groaned as another truck, this one even larger and slower, appeared in the distance.

“But now that the drawing has disappeared, we are involved.”

“Art cops to the rescue,” said Rick as he tried to relax.

It was early afternoon when they made a final ascent and came around the last section of Urbino’s southern walls. A wide parking area spread out to their right. Above it the Palazzo Ducale stood anchored to