Rick answered. “Certainly that, but I’m an interpreter. In fact, it looks like I’m about to go to work, if you’ll excuse us.” He took Betta’s hand and they walked toward the small stage where Vitellozzi had just stepped to the microphone. Behind him a man surveyed the crowd like he owned them, and Rick guessed him to be a politician. It was the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, after all, so it would make sense that a representative of the region be present. Next to him stood the Widow Somonte, fortunately without a glass in her hand. Lucho was a few steps away watching her carefully. A man with a deep tan stood next to the director. He wore a meticulously tailored suit and looked vaguely familiar. “Betta, do you know either of those two men with Vitellozzi?”
“The one on his right is the undersecretary of culture. I heard he was going to be here.”
“So you know each other.”
“Be serious. He’s probably never even met my boss, let alone people like me. We’re not even in the same building.” She glanced back. “What did you think of Professor Florio?”
“Not exactly the cold-blooded murdering type. Alfredo should cross him off his suspects list.”
“I think he already has. You really should have told Florio we went to his gardens today. It would have been fun to see his reaction. Look, he’s over talking with someone else. I’m guessing he’s searching out the visitors to tell them the real action in Urbino is among the plants.”
The guests were starting to notice the people who had taken their places on the podium and began to quiet down. The waiters also sensed that the formalities were about to begin and retreated behind the bar. While the dignitaries spoke, the waiters would fill glasses for their next turn around the room. Rick squeezed Betta’s hand and walked to the rear of the podium, ready to step up when needed. He hoped that the Widow Somonte had changed her mind about speaking, but she was still next to Vitellozzi. Lucho continued to hover nearby. The director stepped to the microphone, tapped it a few times to be sure it was working, and identified himself before welcoming everyone to the event. Then he began to describe the planning that had gone into bringing all the works of art together, making Rick wonder how long he would drone on before introducing others who would no doubt drone on as well. He thought Betta had to be wondering the same thing and looked out into the crowd to catch her eye. She was nowhere to be seen.
* * *
A series of similar corridors led to Vitellozzi’s office, making Betta glad she had paid close attention to the route that morning. In case she ran into a museum employee, she was ready with the excuse that she had gotten lost on the way to the ladies’ room. The palace had hundreds of rooms, after all, so it would be understandable that a visitor could get confused, as long as there was a bathroom somewhere in the vicinity. Fortunately, she met no one, and the halls were almost silent except for the sound of Vitellozzi’s voice just barely audible far behind her. After a turn down another hallway even that sound faded to nothing—when the duke built the palazzo he had made sure the walls were thick. She came around what she remembered to be the last corner and spotted the office, marked by a simple direttore nameplate in brass next to the closed door. Would it be locked? She turned the handle, pushed it open, and stepped inside. Better to close it, since her excuse would look weak if someone walked by and saw her inside. This was not a room anyone could have mistaken for the toilette.
Fortunately, Vitellozzi had left the lights on, and she could see that everything looked the same as it had that morning. Her eyes again darted to the ceiling, but she forced herself to keep her attention on the desk and surrounding furniture. If she was to find anything of interest, it would be there. The outside view was less of a distraction at this time of day. Dusk had turned the hills from shades of green to grays and blacks, and the sky had darkened so much that a single star shimmered high above the horizon. She walked quickly to the desk. The files that had been stacked on one side were still there, perhaps lined up even more neatly. She took the top one in hand and found it stuffed with spreadsheets that she realized were income and expenses for the museum, arranged by months. Such was the drab reality of running a public institution, even a glamorous museum like this one.
The next file was thicker and more interesting. It held correspondence to and from the museums that had lent works for the exhibit Vitellozzi was speaking about at that very moment. As fascinating as the letters were, they would not get her any closer to finding Piero’s drawing, and time was passing quickly. She put the file back under the first file and noticed that something at the bottom of the pile was different in size, small enough that the files hid it from view. Logic—and neatness—would dictate that the smaller item be placed on top. She lifted the stack and found not another file but a paperback book with a white cover. Immediately, she recognized it as one in a series on famous artists, several titles of which she had read as a student at the university.
This one analyzed the works of Piero della Francesca.
Why had it been tucked in at the bottom of the stack? It had to be so that she wouldn’t notice during her morning visit. However, the
