They started walking to the other side of the room, but after a few steps Betta pulled on Rick’s arm. “Bruzzone seemed a bit on edge.”
“As would be expected after what he went through this morning. He’ll probably be looking over his shoulder until DiMaio finds the person who shot at him.”
The guests moved around the room in slow motion, stopping at one masterpiece before sliding off to the next. Most of the women wore black dresses, as if they had decided they should not compete with the colors of the paintings on the walls. The men had done the same in their choice of suits, and even their ties were subdued in hue and design.
“Look who just arrived.” Betta’s eyes were back at the doorway, where Pilar was engaged in conversation with Vitellozzi. “I’m not that good at interpreting body language, but my guess is that they are not meeting for the first time.”
“Interpreting is my business, cara, and I would agree with you. Look at that—she just laughed and touched his arm. Those two are definitely not strangers, and they don’t seem concerned about anyone knowing it. The question is, did they meet for the first time this week, or on one of her previous trips to Italy.”
“And would it have any bearing at all on the case?” She studied the two, who were still chatting at the doorway. “This morning when I talked to him he claimed not to know that Somonte’s daughter was in town. He could have gotten her phone number and called to be sure she knew she was welcome tonight. Or, he was lying to me and they’d already talked, but he didn’t want me to know.”
Pilar noticed that other arrivals were waiting to greet Vitellozzi. She said something to him and entered the hall, which was starting to fill with people.
Rick nudged Betta. “Now look who’s here.” In contrast with the jeans she’d worn when ambushing DiMaio at the police station, the newspaper reporter wore a skirt and blouse, but she still held tightly to her pen and pad. This evening she was accompanied by a photographer, who snapped pictures of Vitellozzi as he answered her questions. “She covers all the beats, it appears, from murders to culture. Let’s avoid her—she’ll remember we were with Alfredo the other day.”
It was too late. She was already walking quickly toward them.
“I’m Laura Intini,” she said as she flashed her press card. “Didn’t I see you with Inspector DiMaio? Were you at the commissariato in connection with the homicide investigation?”
Rick stepped in before Betta could reply. “Is there a homicide investigation? We are old friends of the inspector and dropped by to say hello. Who got murdered?” He looked expectantly at her while Betta remained silent.
Intini wouldn’t take the bait. “Is Inspector DiMaio coming this evening?”
Rick and Betta exchanged shrugs. The reporter mumbled something and walked away with her photographer in tow. Immediately, she found a couple who looked ready to have their picture in the newspaper to show they were at the cultural event of the year. While they talked, the photographer clicked away.
“Everyone so far wants to know if Alfredo is coming,” said Betta. “Do you think he’ll be here?”
“I think he said something about avoiding the place since the mayor will be in attendance. That may be who our journalist is talking to now.”
Most of the throng talked in the center of the room as if there was nothing to be seen on the walls, and the decibel level rose accordingly. The bar set up in front of the tall fireplace was doing a brisk business, which added to the noise. Rick noticed a man in a dark suit standing against one wall, one of the few with no glass in his hand. His eyes moved around the room.
“That guy’s got to be security,” he said to Betta in a lowered voice.
“Maybe a plainclothes cop keeping an eye on Bruzzone.”
“I forgot about that. You could be right.” He took a drink from his glass. “This stuff is pretty good. Vitellozzi hasn’t spared the expense, it appears.”
“He’s using Somonte’s money for it. Look, Loretta Tucci has made the trip here from Monterchi. And she’s chatting with her fellow museum director from Sansepolcro.”
“Engaging in shop talk about running their museums. But, no, you said that the art professionals would be gossiping about the next opening in the world of Italian cultural professionals. The two of them must aspire to higher positions, wouldn’t they?”
“Absolutely, Rick.”
They walked to where the two women were engaged in conversation. Tucci looked up. “Betta and Riccardo, I thought I might see you here. Let me introduce Tiziana Rossi.”
“We’ve met,” Betta said as they all shook hands. “Dottoressa Rossi received us two days ago at her museum in Sansepolcro, but unfortunately things didn’t go as planned.”
“I hope you are getting closer to finding the drawing,” Rossi said. “The museum was devastated with the news that it had gone missing. The whole town of Sansepolcro was so excited that it was coming home.”
“No news yet, I’m afraid, but you’ll be the first to know.”
It was as if both women sensed Betta’s discomfort. Tucci changed the subject. “Isn’t this a magnificent exhibit? It must be the first time so many Raffaellos have been in the same room—a definite triumph for Vitellozzi. He must have been working on it for years.”
“That’s what he told us,” said Rick. “Getting works on loan from other museums is a delicate process, apparently. But you two certainly know more about that than I.”
“The Madonna del Parto never leaves Monterchi,” said Tucci. “It’s all we have, so without it nobody would come to our museum. Your situation is a bit different, isn’t it, Isabella?”
“I get requests for loans frequently, mostly for the Pieros, of course. With us it’s usually a financial transaction since we don’t often mount exhibits and need some piece from the other museum. But
