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

out her phone. “Here it is—Ettore Bruzzone. His address is Via Raffaello 12.”

“That’s one of the main streets of Urbino,” said DiMaio. “Named after the painter, of course, since his birthplace is on it. Now the building is a museum.”

Rick recalled when he and his sister were dragged through Raphael’s house and wondering what the big deal was. He now kept the thought to himself.

“Are you ready for the secondo?” DiMaio asked.

Rick and Betta exchanged glances and shook their heads. After all they had eaten already, they would pass on the second course. The policeman sighed and signaled to the waiter for the conto. “Before we get back to the case, should we not find you two lodging for the night? There’s a small hotel just up the hill from here that will be perfect. I know the owner, and he’ll have a nice room for you if I call him.”

Betta folded her napkin and put it next to her empty plate. “That sounds perfect, Alfredo.”

“It’s on a narrow street with no place to park, so I’ll have one of my men take you and your luggage up there.”

Fifteen minutes later the patrol car turned off the main street and squeezed along one that could almost have been taken for an alley. The Hotel Botticelli would be described in the tourist brochures as cozy and warm, which was another way of saying it was small. But all the buildings on the street were as small as they were old. The owner greeted Rick and Betta like family and had his son show them to their room on the second floor. The boy was about thirteen and skinny, but he insisted on carrying the two suitcases up a narrow stairway and down the end of the hall. For being in a building dating to the fifteenth century, the room was spacious and included a modern bathroom. No closet, but a tall wood armoire stood wedged between the door and the wall. Rick tipped the boy and walked to the one window to take in the view. Its panes were just high enough to let him see over a sea of orange tiles, their scalloped waves broken by the occasional dark chimney. In the distance the dome and campanile of the cathedral formed the two highest points of the city, well above the twin towers of the Palazzo Ducale next to it. Church over state, Rick thought. How the Italians love symbolism. He turned to see Betta hanging up clothes she’d taken from the suitcase.

“Rick, I don’t think I need to go along to watch you and Alfredo interview the wife. Why don’t I go see the art dealer, Bruzzone? It’s the missing drawing that interests my office, and I’d like to hear what he has to say about it.”

“You don’t think Alfredo would want to go along?”

“I’ll take notes and brief him. Since I’m with the art police, it makes sense to divide up the labor this way. It’s just a short distance from here, so I can walk to it.”

Rick knew from hanging around his uncle that turf battles went hand in hand with police work, and this had the odor of at least a skirmish. Did he have a dog in the fight? Not really, but it could be fun to watch. “Whatever you think, Betta.”

Chapter Three

They walked to the corner and parted ways, Betta turning left to walk up to Via Raffaello, Rick right toward the police station at the bottom of the hill. The steepness had him thinking about what route he would take on his morning run the next day. Always better to begin with a climb and end heading down a hill, so he would likely start in the direction Betta was walking, but he’d try to scout out the town more later. One thing was sure: the residents of Urbino had to be in good shape since it was all a pedestrian area, and inside the walls all hills. But it would not be walking for DiMaio. He was standing next to a police car in front of the commissariato, talking on his cell phone. He noticed Rick coming through the gate and nodded. By the time Rick reached him, the telefonino was back in Alfredo’s coat pocket and he was opening the door to the car.

“Where’s Betta?”

Rick got into the passenger seat as DiMaio slipped behind the wheel. “She walked up to Via Raffaello to talk to the art dealer who sold Somonte the drawing. Said you and I should be able to handle interviewing Signora Somonte by ourselves.”

DiMaio started the engine and backed out of the space. “I’ll talk to Bruzzone later.”

Rick didn’t know Alfredo well enough to interpret either the comment or the tone in which it was said. The man appeared to be deep in thought, which could be in reaction to Betta’s going out on her own or something totally unrelated. A period of silence continued as the car made its way around the outside of the city, eventually pulling up in front of the Hotel Bella Vista. It sat on the edge of Urbino, green hills and valleys spread out below it, and in contrast to the buildings inside the walls, a new construction. DiMaio killed the engine but remained in the seat.

“The initial autopsy report was in when I got back to the office after lunch. It confirmed the cause of death as a gunshot to the chest. Entry indicated the weapon was about level with the wound, not shot from above or below. Small caliber. Stomach contents didn’t reveal much. He had some pasta with a garlic sauce and bread, but the coroner suspects that it was from earlier in the day. I didn’t think that would be something for us to ask Signora Somonte, so just before you arrived I called the Bella Vista and they’re checking to see what he had for lunch. If it matches, then he was killed before he had