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

down behind the desk but hit the edge and took a gash out of his forehead. The man fired just as he was ducking under the table.”

“He’s sure it was a man?”

“He’s not sure of anything, Riccardo. He thinks the guy was wearing a mask, or sunglasses, or something covering his face. What he remembers is the pistol, and how it was pointing at him, and how he instinctively ducked down. After the shot, he heard footsteps going back out and the door slamming. That’s when he called us.”

Betta looked around the room, which seemed unchanged from when she had been in the shop. Her hand lifted the hinged top of the glass case and then eased it back down. “Nothing was taken?”

“Nothing.”

“Dottoressa Innocenti, is it not?” Bruzzone had gotten to his feet and was walking toward them.. He held the cloth with his right hand. “You will excuse me for not shaking hands.” He looked at the bloodied handkerchief for a moment before pressing it back to his head.

“You may need some stitches, Signor Bruzzone. I’m sure the police will drive you to the hospital.”

“Yes, yes, there will be time for that later. When the inspector is done with me. And this gentleman? Another agent of the art police?” He noticed Rick’s cowboy boots but said nothing.

DiMaio introduced Rick as someone assisting him in the investigation. “Do you have any sense of why someone would do this, Signor Bruzzone?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” He looked at DiMaio and then at Betta. “I was helping the police, of course, and whoever killed Somonte didn’t appreciate it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Inspector, I mentioned some names to your colleague here, and someone must have found out.”

“But—”

“You cannot be blamed, Dottoressa. This is a small city, and the arts community within it is even smaller. Word gets around quickly about something like a murder and stolen piece of art. So you must…”

He began swaying and Rick took hold of his arm.

“Thank you, Signor Montoya. I think I’m all right now. But perhaps I should have this head looked at. It’s beginning to throb. Do you have any other questions, Inspector?”

“No. If I do I’ll ask them later when you feel better. Let me get you into one of our cars to take you to the hospital.” He took Bruzzone’s arm and led him out the door.

“Rick, do you really think I’m responsible? I may have mentioned to some people that I talked to him, but…” She put her palm to her forehead. “O Dio, Bruzzone is right, isn’t he? It’s my fault.”

“Betta, whoever took the drawing had to know that the authorities would interview anyone who had anything to do with it. Even if you hadn’t mentioned your meeting with Bruzzone to anyone, it would be logical that he and all the others would be visited by the police.”

She grasped his hand. “I hope you’re right, Rick.”

DiMaio came back through the door and stopped. “He’ll live, only because somebody was a bad shot. But if the gunman—or woman—was standing here, it would not be easy to hit Bruzzone sitting at his desk.” He put his outstretched hands together, pointed an index finger at the office, and squinted. “It would be a difficult target for a handgun, which is what I assume was used, and if the person had no firearms training, the tendency would be to shoot high.” He lowered his arms.

“Betta is concerned about what Bruzzone said.”

DiMaio shrugged. “You’re no more to blame for this than I am, Betta. The real culprit is the guy who shot at him. My question is motive. Assuming the shooter is the same one who killed Somonte, why would he want to get Bruzzone? Does our killer think Bruzzone knows something and wanted to keep him quiet?”

“He was pretty quick to blame me,” said Betta.

“Yes, you would be a convenient scapegoat, and that makes me suspicious,” said DiMaio.

“If it was a warning to Bruzzone to keep quiet,” said Rick, “I imagine he got the message.”

DiMaio looked around the room and into the office where the policeman was still working away on the bullet hole. “Perhaps I should take advantage of his absence to look around his office. From the looks of it he won’t notice that it’s been searched.”

“Ecco,” said the voice from the office, and the policeman came out holding his hand palm up. The three of them peered into his hand where a small, squashed piece of metal lay on the gray rubber of the glove.

“Almost certainly a match for the bullet we took out of Somonte,” said DiMaio. “Not a surprise, since we don’t usually get two shootings here in a month, let alone a week. But we’ll check to confirm it. Thank you, Sergeant.”

The policeman slipped the slug into a plastic bag and made his exit. When he was out the door, DiMaio said, “I think I’ll do a quick search of Bruzzone’s office before getting back to the station. Can I ask you another favor, Riccardo?”

“Of course.”

“The Spanish consul wants to talk with me. He may not speak Italian very well.”

“Alfredo, unless the Spanish diplomatic service is very different from that of other countries, he has to speak Italian if he’s assigned to Italy. But if you want me to be there just in case, of course I will.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back at the station in about a half hour. See you then.” He started toward the office but stopped. “I’ll be tied up with this crime scene for the rest of the morning after seeing the Spanish consul. Betta, why don’t you go to the Galleria Nazionale and talk to Vitellozzi. What were we going to ask him?” He rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t get much sleep.”

“If Somonte had the drawing with him when he visited the Galleria. Of course, I’ll go.”

DiMaio rubbed the stubble on his cheek. “I appreciate both of you coming here, but I’m afraid it doesn’t help you very much, Betta. The drawing is still missing.”

“But Alfredo,”