Randolph looked at her with affection. “She’s been trying to teach me, but it’s rough going, isn’t it, Erica?”
She squeezed his arm. “You’re doing very well, caro. But what are you doing here, Ricky? Were you…of course, you were interpreting at the seminar. What a pleasant coincidence.”
It was all too much for Rick to absorb. The last time he’d seen Erica Pedana was over coffee at their favorite bar on Rome’s Piazza San Lorenzo in Lucina. It had not been a pleasant encounter, but at that point it hadn’t mattered. He was departing the next morning for an interpreter job in Milan, and she was leaving for the States to take a lecturer position in art history. Rick had joked that night that she was taking this decision to move on with their lives too literally, making a transatlantic move. She didn’t appreciate the humor, though his jokes had been falling flat for weeks. Her perfume now brought back the memory of their final platonic hug on the piazza before she walked alone to her apartment.
“Pleasant, indeed. It’s wonderful to see you again, Erica.”
Randolph broke the moments of silence that followed Rick’s words. “Well, we should be on our way, Erica. Bassano is out there waiting to be explored. Rick, we will see you later, since we’re all stuck here now.” He noticed Erica’s puzzled look. “I’ll explain later, dear. I mean cara.”
She released Randolph’s arm and gave Rick a soft hug. As he took in her scent, she whispered in Italian.
“Ricky, I must talk to you.”
Chapter Five
Betta Innocenti placed a steaming soup bowl in front of Rick before setting another before her father. She was dressed more casually than earlier in the day when he’d dropped in at the gallery, wearing a white apron to give the outfit an even more domestic touch. After putting a bowl at her own place she pulled off the apron and sat down at the table.
“Buon appetito, please start. I’m afraid this isn’t a very fancy lunch, Riccardo, but my father has to keep his meals simple. Doctor’s orders.”
“Un cretino,” Fabio Innocenti grunted, before taking a sip of red wine and picking up his spoon.
The dining room of the Innocenti apartment faced the square, but gray, gauze curtains covered the windows and the view. Since there was no sign of a Signora Innocenti, Rick wondered if the room’s feminine touches were thanks to Betta. Given her age, he doubted it. More likely the decoration had been done years earlier and retained for sentimental reasons. Centered prominently on the long crochet runner of the sideboard was a large soup tureen, ornately decorated in a style he had seen in the many ceramics shops of Bassano. The decoration continued with a collection of plates that hung from the walls, and with bowls of different sizes and shapes on a wooden bric-a-brac shelf against one wall. He had only just met Betta, but her look and style did not match those of the ceramics of the room. But her cooking abilities, it appeared, were pleasantly old-fashioned.
“This is wonderful, Betta. Pasta e fagioli, am I right?”
“Yes, a Veneto specialty. My mother’s recipe.” She exchanged glances with her father. “Some people drizzle olive oil. Would you like it?”
“No, no. I want to savor the taste of the beans and the other ingredients you’ve put in it. A perfect dish for a cool day, especially with this to go with it.” He broke off a piece of crusty bread. “It was kind of you to invite me.”
“It was my father’s idea, Riccardo. He wanted to talk about the missing paintings.”
The older man’s face wore a slight smile when Rick looked at him, but he immediately turned serious. “Yes, Riccardo, I have some theories on what could be happening, but at this point they are all just that, theories. If there is movement in this case, I see two general possibilities. Both assume that the paintings are in the hands of a private party, and that party wishes to sell them. Most likely they would be bought by another private party, someone wealthy who wishes to have them in his private collection. That’s one possibility. Though it could be an institution, but acquiring them would be messy and complicated. A story would have to be created to make the transaction appear legal, and I have no idea how that would be done. But in Italy, such things are possible.” He paused to take a spoonful of the minestra.
“The only local institution I can think of,” Rick said, “would be the museum. Dottor Tibaldi makes no secret of his desire that it be the premier collection of Jacopo da Bassano works in Italy.”
Innocenti nodded as he patted his lips with his napkin. “True. But many other museums in Italy would welcome the paintings. The Accademia, for example. As you learned in the seminar, Riccardo, the Venetians consider Jacopo one of theirs, despite the painter’s insistence on staying in his hometown of Bassano. There are others as well, with more money to spend than our little museum here.”
“Father, do you really think a museum would be trying to buy these paintings?”
Innocenti sighed. “I suppose not, Elizabetta, but we have to consider all possibilities.” He looked at Rick who had just taken a drink. “Riccardo, how do you like the wine? It is a simple Valpolicella from a winery west of here.” He turned to his daughter. “We should have opened something more elegant for our guest, don’t you think my dear?”
“This wine is excellent,” Rick said quickly before Betta could respond. Considerably better than the half-gallon bottles of Valpolicella in the supermarket in Albuquerque, he thought. Obviously the Italians keep the good stuff for themselves. “Do you still think Muller and Sarchetti are the most likely to be mixed up in this?”
Betta answered for her father. “If you accept the version that the two paintings were carried back to Germany at the end of the war, then Signor Muller would be the logical one to know where they are now. And Sarchetti, as an art dealer with a questionable past—was I supposed to mention that, Father?”
Innocenti shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Riccardo has the complete trust of the art police, according to Captain Scuderi.” He turned back to Rick. “Apparently Sarchetti’s been on their radar for a while for various alleged transgressions.”
Rick scraped the last beans from the bowl onto his spoon and slipped it into his mouth. “So it was Sarchetti’s appearance at the seminar that sent up the red flags for you, Signor Innocenti?”
“Yes, that was part of it. It seemed logical that the one who has those paintings would show up for a seminar on Jacopo. But maybe it doesn’t make any sense at all.” He stared at his wineglass in thought.
Betta got to her feet and took her father’s empty bowl. “Riccardo, can I get you more pasta e fagioli? After this is only cheese and a salad, so—”
“No, thank you, Betta. That was perfect.”
She gathered up the other two bowls and disappeared into the kitchen. Her father watched her go and turned to Rick. “I am very proud of my daughter, Riccardo.”
Rick was not expecting such a comment. “I’m sure you are, sir.”
“When her mother died, she went on to the university, got her degree in fine arts, and came back here to work with me. Without her I…I don’t know what I would have done. But her goal is to join the art squad, and I’m not sure I want that for her. It’s my own fault, for getting involved on an informal basis, and now she’s fascinated by these cases. It’s just that—”
Betta returned carrying a bowl of salad greens and a wooden cutting board with a slice of cheese the color of fresh cream. She put both on the table and retrieved a set of small bottles from the sideboard along with six small dishes. In a large soup spoon she poured oil from one of the bottles, added a splash of vinegar from the other, and dashed it with salt before stirring the mixture in the spoon with a fork. Finally the dressing was spooned over the lettuce and gently tossed in the bowl before Betta divided it between the plates. She served her father first and then Rick.
“I’ve been keeping an eye on Sarchetti.” She picked up her fork, a signal that the others could sta
rt their salads. “He kept to himself at the seminar, as far as I could tell. The bar in the hotel was his favorite haunt in the evenings, though one afternoon, after the session, he slipped out and visited Signora Bontempi.” Innocenti grunted. “She’s an elderly woman with a private art collection that has some interesting pieces. Father has been trying to get her to sell some of them for years but she resists.”
“She loves the attention of art dealers,” Innocenti said, “so she lets the word out that she may be open to parting with some of her pieces. They come, sip some port with her, and leave empty-handed. And not very good port at that. Perhaps when she dies her family will sell.”
“Or at least stock better port.” Rick scored a smile from both Betta and her father.
After the salad, cheese was passed around with what was left of the bread. The soft asiago, from a dairy run by friends of the Innocentis, went perfectly with the last of the Valpolicella.
“Elizabetta, things are slow at the shop, so why don’t you show our guest around the city? You did want to see some of Bassano, didn’t you Riccardo?”
“Yes, but I don’t want Betta to go to any trouble.”
“I have an idea.” She stood and gathered the dishes. “It’s a perfect day to drive up to Asolo. Have you been there, Riccardo?”
“I have not.”
“Un gioiello. Fascinating history, a small museum, wonderful views.”
“That sounds perfect. I’ll go back to the hotel and get my rental car.”
“No need, Riccardo, I’ll drive.”
***
Rick had entered from the piazza side of the building when he’d arrived for lunch, was buzzed in at the door, and climbed the tiles steps to the apartment above the gallery. The commute to work could not have been easier for Innocenti and his daughter. Now he followed Betta as she descended a narrow wooden staircase to the street behind the building. At the bottom was a small hallway, what might have been called a mud room in some parts of the States. A door on the interior side led, he assumed, to the shop, and the other to the street. Betta, now dressed in a red leather jacket, reached into a cubby and pulled out two gleaming black helmets. She passed one to Rick, studying his head.
“That should fit you, Riccardo, you look about the same size.” She pushed open the door to reveal a black and red motorcycle parked on the cobblestones of the narrow back street. It leaned forward, as if unhappy to be standing still.
Rick turned the helmet in his hands. “You must take people on rides often, Betta, if you have an extra helmet.”
“It belongs to the owner. He lets me use his motorcycle while he’s away.”
“Not just any motorcycle, a Ducati Mostro. He must be a very good friend to do that.”
She snapped the chin strap and pulled the dark visor over her face. “He is. He’s also my brother. Marco is doing his military service.”
Rick was pulling on his helmet, so she might have missed his smile. “Can we fit on this thing?”
“There’s only one way to find out, Riccardo.” She straddled the seat, inserted a key from her pocket into the column, and the motor came to life with a low panther purr. He snapped his strap and climbed on behind her. There was enough room, but nothing excessive. He found the foot pads and carefully placed his arms around her as the bike moved forward. The sound of the engine bounced off the buildings of the narrow street. How did the neighbors feel about the Innocenti kids owning a motorcycle? To him the throaty roar was not nearly so annoying as the incessant buzzing of small motorbikes in his Roman neighborhood. But urban noise had become a part of him—he almost couldn’t get to sleep any more without the comforting din from the streets.
She stopped at the corner and checked both ways before steering from the alley behind the shop onto a wider street. Rick’s perch was higher than Betta’s, so he had an unobstructed view over the top of her helmet. The street climbed slowly to the eastern edge of the center of town where they stopped for a traffic light, the engine idling with an impatient growl. Betta had the left turn signal on, but as they sat there she called out something and switched it to right.
“What?” shouted Rick over the sound of the Ducati. “I couldn’t hear.”
“Sarchetti. He just drove by. We’ll follow him.” She revved the engine, and when the green light appeared they shot off to the right, Rick now holding on for safety as well as pleasure. Sarchetti’s car was a silver Alfa Romeo sedan with Milan plates. He was alone. The car moved through the little traffic at the edge of town before heading southwest where houses were farther apart and open fields took over the landscape. Anyone driving this road might think that agriculture was still the mainstay of the Veneto economy, rather than the small businesses and factories that now made it the most prosperous region in Italy, and one of the richest in Europe.
Betta kept a safe distance as Sarchetti speeded up. He slowed only to pass through small towns: Marini, Bessica, Loria, and Riese Pio X which, Rick read on a sign, had added the name of a local priest when he’d become pope. One of the perks of the office. A moment later they were out amid the fields again, on another straight road. The Alfa speeded up but suddenly slowed down and turned into a small driveway with an open gate. Betta slowed down and passed, while she and Rick watched the car start up the gravel driveway toward a low villa. A hundred meters ahead she decelerated and pulled to the side. They flipped up their darkened visors and looked back at the villa, still visible at the top of the small hill.
“We’ll drive by again and get a good look at this place,” she called to Rick. She was about to make the U-turn but waited while a dark blue Fiat drove past and disappeared around a bend. She pulled out and the bike purred slowly past the gate. It was closing, either automatically or from someone inside pushing a button.
The villa where Sarchetti’s car was now parked could well have been designed by Andrea Palladio, the architect of Bassano’s covered bridge. This part of the Veneto was studded with the vacation villas of wealthy sixteenth-century Venetians, and this one looked old enough. Rick was not enough of a student of architecture to recognize it. His eye was drawn to the square, two-story domed center, supported by columns reminiscent of a plantation in the American south. From the core structure, colonnades spread left and right, ending in smaller outbuildings featuring domed roofs that imitated that of the central building. The driveway was protected by low hedges, and it split a wide lawn that ran as far as he could see in both directions. Behind the villa rose a hill covered with large trees, their greens contrasting with the yellow of the building. He guessed that the working parts of the villa, including perhaps pens for animals, were hidden between the villa and the hill, so as not to distract the viewer’s eye from its elegant symmetry. The motorcycle followed a bend in the road and the building disappeared from sight. They both lowered their visors back into place as she picked up speed.
“Nice place,” Rick shouted. “Any idea who lives there?”
She slowed down, lowering the noise level. “There are so many villas around here, Riccardo, it’s hard to keep track of the owners. We’ll stop in town and see if we can find out.” Within minutes they got back to Riese Pio X. “Let’s stop here for a coffee. It may be the best place to get some information.” Rick gave a thumbs-up, and she pulled in front of an establishment called Bar Pio X on the main street. Both instinctively ran their fingers through their hair after dismounting and pulling off the helmets. Rick chuckled as he held the door open for Betta.
“What’s so funny?”
“I have a good friend from the university back in America who graduated from a school named St. Pius X. I wonder how he’d feel about a place in the pope’s hometown called Bar Pius X?”
“But I’ve heard that a bar in America is not the same as a bar in Italy.”
“True, but he wouldn’t know that.”
It was a typical Italian bar, with a few tables on one sid
e, and a long counter on the other. Tall bottles with strange shapes and decorations ran along the shelves behind the counter, looking like no one had dared to take a drink from them in years. Old men, and no women, sat at one of the tables playing cards, none of them smoking. The yellow tint on the ceiling was a reminder of when cigarettes were not just allowed but encouraged. Rick and Betta walked to the bar where a woman in a white apron sat on a stool staring at the screen of a small TV hanging from one corner. It was black and white, which fit with the rest of the room, and the program Rick guessed was a soap opera.
“Due caffé, per favore,” he said.
The woman pulled her attention from the TV, stood, and took two small cups from a shelf next to the espresso machine. As they watched, she placed them under the double spigot of the machine, pulled off the handle above it, filled the filter with brown coffee and slapped it back into place. Soon the water was hissing and dripping through the coffee, becoming a dark brown liquid. Still glancing every few moments at the TV, she put the half-filled cups on their saucers and placed them in front of her two customers before positioning a large sugar bowl between them. Rick noticed that Betta took her espresso without sugar. He added two spoonfuls to his cup.
“Excuse me, Signora,” said Betta. “Just before we came into town we noticed a beautiful villa on the right. Is it a Palladio?”
The woman sighed, finally accepting that she would not be able to give full attention to her TV program. She squinted in thought. “That would likely be Villa Berti. Not a Palladio, but I don’t know who built it. The new owners had it renovated a couple years ago before moving in. It took forever to complete the work.”
Betta exchanged a glance with Rick. “Who owns it now? Must be someone with a lot of euros.”
“That’s for sure. It’s some businessman, owns a few factories in the area. It seems like every day somebody’s building a new factory. More than one farmer around here is selling his land for a small fortune, then sitting around all day counting his money. It beats working in the fields, I suppose.” She looked at the men playing cards. “Not them, of course. They’re just regular pensioners. One coffee when they come in, and then they sit there all afternoon.”
Murder Most Unfortunate Page 5
