The reply came from DiMaio. “It would seem logical that the death of Somonte is connected to the missing work of art.”
“Indeed it would,” Morelli said, shifting in the chair.
“Did you ever meet Signora Somonte?”
“She doesn’t speak Italian, so she didn’t always accompany him on his trips to Italy. At least that’s the reason he gave. I think I saw her at one of the openings here, but we never spoke. He told me the other day that she came with him this time because of the ceremony in Sansepolcro.”
A pause followed his reply, and DiMaio turned aside to Betta. “I have nothing else,” she said.
Morelli rose to his feet. “I hope that has been helpful,” he said, putting an emphasis on the last word. “And I trust you will bring the murderer to justice quickly, Inspector. There is no telling when he might decide to murder another art collector.”
“What kind of art do you collect, Signor Morelli?” Betta was still seated.
“A bit of this and a bit of that.” He pulled a card and pen from his pocket, wrote something on the card, and passed it to her. “Given your position, you must be an expert, and I would be pleased to show it to you. I am having a few friends over this evening—perhaps you could come by then. Let’s say seven?”
“I just might,” she said, slipping the card into her pocket.
“Let me see you out, Signor Morelli.” DiMaio opened the door and walked with him in silence to the reception area. They were shaking hands when Morelli noticed someone standing nearby.
“Ettore, are you a suspect in this as well?”
“Just helping the authorities, as any good citizen would,” answered Bruzzone.
DiMaio checked his watch. “Thank you, Signor Morelli. Signor Bruzzone, if you could wait here, I’ll be with you shortly.” The two men resumed their conversation as DiMaio walked quickly to his office, where Rick had vacated his desk chair and was standing with Betta.
“Bruzzone is here, but before I bring him in, what are your impressions of our friend Morelli?” He took his chair behind the desk and motioned for Rick and Betta to sit.
“Since I could only hear him, I’m not the one to ask,” said Rick. “You two could gauge his expressions and body language.”
“It’s just as well you weren’t there, Rick. The way he looked at me made me very uncomfortable and would have annoyed you. Clearly, he considers himself God’s gift to women.”
“I heard him invite you to see his etchings, but I couldn’t hear what you answered. You put him in his place, I assume?”
Betta’s smile was more sly than playful. “Actually, I thought it might be interesting to see his art, since my office has some questions about him. I didn’t tell him that if I came I would bring a friend.”
DiMaio rapped on his desk like a schoolteacher. “Can we get this back to the murder investigation? All right, Morelli has no alibi for when Somonte was killed—that is worth noting. He also claimed indifference to the drawing being donated, after he missed buying it himself, but that may just be a front. His motive would be more anger that he lost the bid in the first place, since he admits he likes to get his way on such sales. As you noted, Betta, he does not come across as a very simpatico person, not that that matters. The real question is if he’s capable of violence, and if being on the wrong side of a bidding war bruised his ego enough to lash out.”
Rick rose from his chair. “You’ve summed it up perfectly, Alfredo. We will leave you to talk to this man Bruzzone.”
Betta got up as well, followed by DiMaio.
“Don’t you want to stay, Betta?”
“No, Alfredo. I already talked to him about the drawing, which is my main concern. And Rick and I have that appointment at the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche to talk to Vitellozzi. After that, we’re going to drive down to Monterchi to find out more about the drawing’s provenance.”
“Give us a call if Bruzzone confesses to the murder,” said Rick as he started toward the door.
“You’ll be the first to know,” said DiMaio, with a disgusted wave of his hand.
Five minutes later, Bruzzone sat in the chair vacated by Rick.
“I may appear a bit nervous, Inspector. I’ve never been in a police station before, and since it’s in connection with a murder, well…”
“Perfectly understandable. I appreciate you coming in. I know you spoke with Signora Innocenti yesterday, but I have some other questions. How long had you known Signor Somonte?”
Bruzzone was relieved at the calming tone from the policeman, easing himself back off the edge of the chair. “It’s been several years. I can certainly look back at my records to see when he made his first purchase.”
“That won’t be necessary. He simply appeared at your gallery?”
“He did. There aren’t that many art dealers here in Urbino, as you may have noticed, so it would be natural that a collector would come in to see what I had to offer. We struck up a friendship, you could say, and I got to know where his interests lay so that I could alert him when I came into possession of some work he might want to acquire.”
“As with this drawing by Piero della Francesca.”
“Precisely.”
“But there were others who wanted it.”
“My goodness, yes. One was Cosimo, Signor Morelli, whom you saw earlier. He is another of my regular clients, so naturally I made him aware of the drawing as well.”
“He was disappointed not to get it.”
“That would be an understatement. He refused to come into my shop for six months. I haven’t talked to him about it, but I’m sure the decision by Somonte to donate the drawing annoyed him as well.”
“Was there anyone else who was equally disappointed?”
Bruzzone looked at the ceiling, gathering his thoughts. “No one in the same category as Morelli.
