Murder Most Unfortunate (6 page)

Was there a faint twinge in the face of the woman when she was introduced to Betta? After the introductions, the woman insisted on sitting with Betta while her host stood with Rick. The man who had ushered them into the room reappeared with two thin glasses of prosecco. After serving Rick and Betta, and assuring himself that the others didn't need refills, he disappeared through the doorway. Rinaldi called out a brief toast to the ladies—already deep in conversation—and turned back to Rick. They stood in front of the fireplace, its fire sending out the faint smell of a wood Rick couldn't place. He was sure only that it wasn't the piñon pine he remembered from winter nights in New Mexico.

“Beppo spoke very highly of you, Riccardo. Said you had been very helpful in some case of his, but didn't go into detail.” Rinaldi noticed Rick glancing at Betta. “No, I won't mention Beppo's profession to your lady friend, I sense that you have not either.”

“No, I haven't. It didn't seem relevant.”

Rinaldi chuckled. “I suppose not. And what does she do?”

“She and her father have an art gallery in Bassano.” Rick glanced around him, noticing paintings of various sizes and styles on the walls. “Perhaps you've been to it.”

“I don't purchase my art locally. I use dealers in Milan and Zurich, and one in London.” He sipped his prosecco. “They know my tastes.”

“And Signora Savona? What brings her to Bassano?”

“Not just to see me, I will admit, but I'm pleased that she's here.” He looked at the two women conversing on the sofa and back at Rick. His voice lowered slightly. “I must confess to you, Riccardo, that I am the black sheep of the
famiglia
Rinaldi.” Rick's eyes narrowed and the man continued. “Nothing that serious, I assure you, but I've never married and my siblings find this shocking. I've had the opportunity, of course, and was even tempted to tie the knot a few times, but never succumbed. I justify a lifestyle that my family considers satyric, supported by a firm belief that they would be more upset if I had married and then divorced.” He looked again at the women before turning back to Rick. “But I have not answered your question. Caterina is in the art field, though I'm not sure exactly what part of it. A mutual acquaintance alerted me to her arrival from Milan today—just as with you, Riccardo—so I took the opportunity to ask her to join us. She is a delightful woman.”

When the
maggiordomo
announced that dinner was ready to be served, Rinaldi offered his arm to Betta and Rick followed suit with Caterina Savona.

“You work very fast, Riccardo,” she said softly in his ear. “Betta tells me you two met only this morning.”

“It's been a busy day. Are you staying here at the villa?”

She gave his arm a playful pinch. “Heavens, no, I'm just here for dinner. I'm staying in town at the Belvedere.”

“That's where I am. A very pleasant hotel.”

“So I've heard, which is why I chose it.”

The dining room was on the same wing, with another set of doors on one side looking out on the colonnade. Lights between the outdoor columns lit the stone walkway and spilled out onto the first few meters of grass. In the darkness faint twinkles hinted of another villa or farm in the distance. Rick was expecting a large room with a long table, but instead it was considerably smaller than the living room and had only a sideboard and round glass table set for four. Perhaps there was a banquet room further down the wing. As in the other room, the ceiling was lined with dark wood beams, likely the originals. Decorative pole lamps in the corners threw light upward, the only lighting other than four candles in an arrangement at the center of the table. The gentlemen held out the chairs for the ladies and everyone was seated.

Rinaldi took his napkin from the plate and spread it on his lap. “Since Caterina and Riccardo are not from the Veneto, I thought we would have some regional specialties. I hope you won't mind, Betta.”

She had Rick on her left and the host on her right. “Absolutely not, Signor—excuse me, Angelo—we must show these
stranieri
what they are missing.”

Rinaldi beamed. “And
vino locale
too, of course, starting off with a Breganze produced just to our west, a smooth Pinot Bianco.” As if on cue the butler appeared, and after the host had gone through a cursory tasting, filled the glasses of the two women, followed by those of the men. The four toasted and sipped the straw yellow wine.

“Excellent,” said Caterina. “I will have to look for it at my wine shop in Milano.” She put down her glass and turned her eyes to Rinaldi. “Angelo, you have the reputation of a discriminating collector of art. Tell us what you are looking at these days. Collectors are always thinking about their next acquisition, you must be the same.”

“My dear, you are correct in characterizing the collector, but at the moment I am concentrating on business.” Rick and Betta exchanged quick glances, unnoticed by the other two. “We are considering expanding into a new line, and it's been consuming my attention. But I'll get back to art soon enough. Once you have the itch…” The first course arrived in individual bowls, rice dotted with peas and pieces of
pancetta
sprinkled with parsley. Rick recognized it to be a dish he'd tasted as a kid on a school trip to Venice. Rinaldi confirmed it. “
Risi e bisi
should be thick, but not too thick, and of course the rice and peas must be perfectly
al dente
.
Buon appetito
.”

The conversation turned naturally to food, specifically rice dishes. Caterina told the group about the history of
risotto alla milanese
, how rich Milanesi in the middle ages actually used gold dust to color the rice. Though no one at the table had ever tasted gold, they all agreed that saffron likely provided a better flavoring. Rick admitted that rice balls filled with cheese and fried,
supplì di riso
, were one of his favorite antipasto dishes, and went on to describe the delicious simplicity of the beans and rice he'd had when visiting his parents in Brazil. It was while the dishes of the first course were being removed that Rinaldi changed the subject.

“Riccardo, it was that seminar on Jacopo da Bassano where you were working as an interpreter, wasn't it?”

“Yes, it was. An interesting topic, I learned a great deal about the man and his times.”

Rinaldi inclined his head toward the empty bottle and the butler, removing the last bowl, nodded in recognition before walking toward the door. “The bank sponsored it, if I remember right from the posters I saw around town. Stefano Porcari was probably behind it.” He turned to the lady on his left. “Stefano is the vice president of the Banco di Bassano, Caterina, and very much interested in art.”

“Have you ever considered collecting from that period, Angelo?” It was Betta. “Jacopo or one of his contemporaries.”

The girl's got spunk, Rick thought. He waited for Rinaldi's reply, but it was interrupted by the need to taste a newly opened bottle. It was a red, this time, almost garnet in color.

“No, my dear, I think Jacopo is a bit too dear for an amateur collector like me. Of course I would love to have something by our most famous local son, but his work is likely out of my price range. Not that they come on the market that often, of course.” He watched the butler fill everyone's second wineglass. “The grapes for this Montello were grown not ten kilometers from where we are seated, by a good friend. I'm afraid it is not one that you will find in your wine shop in Milano, Caterina.
Salute
.”

The butler appeared again from the kitchen, this time accompanied by a woman dressed in a white apron. Each carried a platter in one hand and a serving spoon in the other. Going first to the ladies, the butler placed a small half bird on each plate, then stepped aside so that a spoonful of roasted potatoes could be placed next to it.

When everyone was served the master of the house waved a hand asking them to begin eating. “Pigeon is usually thought of as a specialty of Umbria, something which I've always found curious, given that it was the home of Saint Francis, but these stuffed pigeons are a Veneto tradition. I hope you'll enjoy them.”

Rick discovered that the bird had been conveniently split in half, allowing easy access to a ham, breading, and herb filling inside. There was little meat, but what there was fell easily off the bone into its own juice. The crunchy potatoes contrasted deliciously with the savory flavors of the pigeon. “This is a splendid meal, Angelo.” He raised his glass. “Our compliments and thanks to your cook.”

“One of the best in the Veneto, Riccardo.” He joined his guests in another sip of the Montello. “To return to the seminar, if I may. I heard on the local TV news before you arrived that one of the participants was killed last night. Do you know about that, Riccardo?”

From the look on Caterina Savona's face, it appeared that this was the first she had heard of it. Betta looked at Rick, awaiting his reply.

“Professor Fortuna, one of the specialists in all things Jacopo. He met his end last night after our final dinner for the panelists, organizers, and sponsors. It was quite a shock this morning to everyone, as you might imagine, when the police descended on the hotel.”

“It certainly would be a shock,” Caterina said in a halting voice. “What do they think happened?”

“I really couldn't say. They questioned all of us, of course, and we've been told to stay put for the moment. Which is going to inconvenience some of the participants.”

“Who were the other participants, Riccardo?” Betta's question, Rick knew, was intended to draw out their host. The wine and food had not diverted her from the mission.

“There are three foreign specialists. Jeffrey Randolph is from a university in America. George Oglesby is similarly employed in England. And Karl Muller is a German who is apparently quite a Jacopo specialist. Among the Italians, besides the late Lorenzo Fortuna, was Taddeo Gaddi, another university professor, and the curator of the Jacopo collection at the museum, Dottor Tibaldi.”

“I've met Tibaldi,” said Rinaldi. “Knows his art, but you would expect that from someone in his position.”

Rick caught Betta's eye and then continued. “There were a few other people who weren't on the panels but participated to a certain extent. Some graduate students…oh, and there was a man from Milan named Sarchetti. Art dealer.”

Rinaldi's face showed nothing. “From Milan? Do you know him, Caterina?”

She grasped her wineglass. “I recall hearing the name.”

“But do the police have any leads, Riccardo? It would seem to me that a group of art historians would not be the best pool for finding a murder suspect. Perhaps some enemy of the man followed him here and did him in. I trust that the usual robbery gone bad theory has been floated?”

Rick put down his fork. “The police will probably tell you that they are not ruling anything out. That's their usual statement, isn't it?”

“Which usually means,” Caterina said, “that they have no idea what happened.”

“Well, I hope they find out quickly who did it. We don't need an investigation dragging on. But as your host I should not have brought up such a subject, I prefer to discuss more enjoyable topics. Such as art.” He turned to Rick. “We are in the presence of two women who know their art. I would love to get their opinion on something which must have come up at the conference, Riccardo—those two lost Jacopo paintings. Here in Bassano, they are considered part of our city's patrimony.”

Rick tried not to show any reaction. “Definitely discussed. I had never heard of them, so I found it all fascinating.”

“What I've heard,” Betta interjected, “is that they are hidden in some cave, or stashed away in the home of a wealthy collector. Have you hidden them in one of the rooms here, Angelo?”

She gave the host a sly wink, and Rick wondered if the wine was finally having an effect on her. Rinaldi laughed. “I wish that were the case, my dear. Caterina, have you heard about these paintings in your travels?”

Caterina Savona had been watching the exchange, and thought for a moment before replying. “Yes. If I remember the story, they disappeared at the end of the war, so wouldn't that increase the likelihood that they were spirited out of Italy altogether? They could be hidden in plain sight on the wall of some German house without the owner even knowing how valuable they are. Such things can happen. There was a famous case of a missing Caravaggio turning up in someone's basement years ago.”

“I will search my basement first thing in the morning,” said Rinaldi. The dishes from the second course had been cleared during the conversation, and he returned to the subject of food. “For dessert we have the most famous of our local dishes,
tiramisú
, created just down the road in Treviso. It has been imitated throughout the world, most often with disastrous results, but it remains a classic. In London last year I was forced by good manners to have one that bore no resemblance to the dish you will savor now.”

“That's quite an introduction, Angelo.”

“And well deserved, Caterina, thanks to my wonderful cook. So, do you think these paintings will ever appear?”

“My opinion is worth nothing, but I would wager that they will never be found. If the person who has them does not know their value, the paintings will likely stay put. And if they do know they have masterpieces, they probably know how they got there, and want to keep anyone from finding out.”

No one had anything to add, and they were rescued by the arrival of dessert.

***

“He didn't even blink when you mentioned Sarchetti.”

Rick drove slowly along the two-lane road. The Alfa's headlights reflected off the kilometer markers, and at intersections they picked up rectangular signs pointing the way to small towns in this part of the valley. Clouds had spread over the area while they'd been in the villa, blotting out the stars and any glimpse of a moon, as well as hinting of rain. As they went through Riese, rain became reality, though the drops were not enough to require the wipers.