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

DiMaio shook his head. “Apparently not. The signora is suffering from a cold and had food sent up to the room. The assistant ate in the hotel dining room. They don’t know where Somonte had dinner, or if he did at all, but the autopsy will tell us if he ate something.”

Rick offered the last two olives to Betta, and when she declined, he spooned them to his plate. “It seems somewhat strange that they wouldn’t know what the man did last night. Was it normal for him to wander off by himself?”

“That’s what you can ask the wife and assistant, Riccardo. As I said, I couldn’t get much out of them and hoped that she would calm down by the afternoon. I had asked for a Spanish speaker from the university to step in, but now that you’re here, it won’t be necessary. We’ll put you on the payroll.”

Rick thought for a moment. He had helped the police on various occasions, but it was always pro bono. Having official status in the investigation, even if only as a contract translator, could come in handy. “Va bene, Alfredo. I’ll charge you my usual hourly rate.”

Betta spoke. “Did the hotel clerk see him go out?”

“We called the guy at home,” said DiMaio, “since he works nights, and his answer was yes. Somonte had appeared at the desk at precisely seven o’clock, just after the clerk came on duty, and asked to get something out of the hotel safe. That something was a leather briefcase. Somonte signed for the briefcase and left through the front door. The one thing I got out of the assistant this morning was that Somonte kept the drawing in that briefcase. If the clerk hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t know about your precious work of art, Betta.”

“And it’s a good thing,” Betta said, “since the missing art is likely connected to the man’s murder. Unless he didn’t trust hotel security, he must have taken it with him to show it to someone.” She closed her eyes in thought. “Had the hotel made any dinner reservations for him, or perhaps helped him with directions to walk somewhere?”

“No. I talked to the clerk who was on the desk during the day and who’d chatted with him in the afternoon. Somonte always stayed at the same hotel when he came to Urbino, which was apparently at least once a year, so the clerk knew him. They talked about the big exhibit that’s about to open at the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, since the hotel had a poster for it on the wall. The clerk didn’t notice anything different about the Spaniard from the previous stays, and in fact, he said Somonte was in a good mood and looking forward to the exhibit opening.”

“Somonte didn’t mention the donation of the drawing?”

“I’m afraid not, Betta, and I asked the clerk that. Nor did Somonte say anything at all about driving down to Sansepolcro today.”

“When did Somonte get into town?” Rick asked after a sip of wine.

“They checked into the hotel two days ago in the late morning after flying from Madrid to Florence and renting a car.”

“What did they do between arrival and last evening?”

“That’s something else I hope to get out of the assistant when we talk to him.”

The empty plates were removed by yet another waiter who happened to be walking past the table. Service was a team effort, like as in most Italian restaurants.

Betta dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “If Somonte came to Urbino many times, he must have known a lot of people here, so the suspects list could be long. But if the murder was committed to get the drawing, that might exclude many of them. Such as the director of the botanical gardens.”

“Who has the delightful name of Salvatore Florio. He showed up at the crime scene about the time I did. I asked him where he was last night, and his alibi was not strong, to say the least, but since Somonte was a donor to his gardens, it would seem that Florio would want to keep the man alive. I’m going to interview him again. I won’t need you to translate, Riccardo.”

Two waiters appeared. The first held a plate of the vincisgrassi in one hand and a bowl of grated cheese in the other, both of which he carefully arranged in front of Betta. The second waiter had the other two plates of pasta, which he put down with considerably less ceremony in front of Rick and DiMaio before he departed with his colleague. The three diners studied their dishes—multiple layers of paper-thin fresh pasta alternated with a rich meat sauce and béchamel—before Betta sprinkled some cheese and passed the bowl to the men. An already-strong aroma was made stronger by the melting Parmigiano-Reggiano.

“May I suggest,” said Rick, picking up his fork, “that we speak of things other than murder and missing art while enjoying this wonderful food?”

They agreed, and the conversation turned to when they had met in Bassano del Grappa. Rick had been in town working as a translator for an international conference of art historians, and Betta was helping her father in his art gallery. They were all drawn together when one of the seminar participants was murdered and DiMaio was part of the investigation. Perhaps because they were now sitting in a restaurant, after reminiscing about the murder investigation, the subject of Bassano’s cuisine was raised, specifically the town’s famous white asparagus. They had not been in season then, so Rick had never tasted them, much to DiMaio’s dismay. He urged Betta to take Rick back to Bassano during the annual asparagus festival.

Their pasta course finished, Betta returned to crime.

“One person we must interview, Alfredo, is the dealer who sold the drawing to Somonte in the first place. I asked my office to look it up in our files, and they were going to send me a text.” She unzipped her purse and pulled