The woman was seated with her hands folded on her lap, looking directly at the artist with Mona Lisa–like indifference. The plain background accentuated the elegance of her dress, its folds picking up the light coming from her right. A long neck mirrored other works in the room, including the artist’s self-portrait, but her most striking feature was her hands, adorned by rings and holding what appeared to be a piece of parchment.
“Why is she called the silent one?” Rick asked.
“It’s unclear, if I recall my Raffaello course at the university. It could be the way her lips are tight, like someone who is averse to speaking, but it may refer to us not knowing the identity of the sitter, though there are various theories on that. The positioning of the hands was almost certainly influenced by those of the Mona Lisa, which Raffaello saw before painting this portrait.”
“The hands are beautifully painted. I doubt if she’s washed many dishes.”
“Probably not.”
They studied the painting for a few more minutes before Rick noticed two people carrying on an animated conversation near the door. “Alfredo has arrived.”
Betta looked to see DiMaio standing silently with arms folded while Vitellozzi moved his hands and talked. At the end of what had to be his explanation of something, the director gave the policeman a “What’s the big deal?” shrug. Whatever he’d said, Alfredo did not appear to be convinced. His face indicated that the discussion was ended, and he looked around the room. He spotted Rick and Betta, said something to Vitellozzi, and strode toward them between the invitees.
“It didn’t appear that you were congratulating our museum director on the event,” Rick said when he reached them.
“Ciao, Betta; ciao, Rick. No, I was asking him where he was at the time Bruzzone was shot at, and he didn’t have much of an answer. I also inquired about something I found out when we did a check of travel records.” He looked even more fatigued than when they’d seen him at lunch. The circles around his eyes appeared darker, as did his unshaven face.
“And that would be?” asked Betta.
“Vitellozzi flew to Madrid twice in the last couple years.” DiMaio flagged down a waiter and took a glass from the tray. “The first trip was around the time Somonte purchased the drawing, the second a few months ago, just before it was announced that the donation would go to the Sansepolcro museum.” He took a long drink of the wine. “This is just what I needed.”
“I suppose he told you he was consulting with his major donor about support for the museum, including this exhibit.”
“That’s precisely what I expected him to say, Betta, and he didn’t disappoint me. He also said that losing Somonte, such a great benefactor, will be a major blow to this museum.”
“Meaning,” said Rick, “‘I didn’t kill him so take me off the suspects list.’”
“Exactly. And he has a point. But guess who else has been traveling to Spain.” He started to raise the half-empty glass to his lips.
“Morelli?”
DiMaio lowered the glass and looked at Betta. “How did you know?”
“Do you think we’re just here to enjoy the art? He told us a few minutes ago.”
“And, Alfredo, Betta got it out of him without any heavy-handed interrogation methods, I might add. He said he was buying olive oil in the south, the other end of the country from Somonte’s wool mill. Which rings true. It’s not as if he and Somonte were close friends, Alfredo.”
DiMaio let out a deep sigh that immediately turned into a yawn. “Sorry.” He looked around the room. “What other information have you two dug up?”
Rick and Betta exchanged looks.
“Tell him,” Rick said.
She recounted her visit to Vitellozzi’s office, which didn’t appear to concern DiMaio greatly, perhaps because he was too exhausted to become upset. “You get points for the initiative, Betta, but there isn’t much there for me to work with.”
Rick was about to say that his reaction was the same, but he held his tongue. Instead he said, “You missed the excitement when an inebriated Signora Somonte addressed the group.”
That got the policeman’s interest. “Really? What did she say?”
“Not much, except that she blamed Italy for her husband’s death and almost said that she thinks someone present this evening is responsible. Then Garcia hustled her off the podium.”
“The rant of a grieving widow. I wish I could have seen it. She could have at least done me the favor of narrowing it down to a half dozen names.” He deposited his glass on a passing tray. “You two enjoy the art. I’m going to do my best to avoid our mayor and that journalist, both of whom I spotted when I came in. I’m going to slip out and return to the office.” He left their side and took a circuitous route to avoid encountering Pilar Somonte, who was talking with a woman twice her age.
“Betta, has something crossed your mind about Vitellozzi’s trips to Spain?”
“That he went there to convince Somonte to donate the sketch to his museum, and when the man refused, he found other means to get it? Which is why he had the book in his office marked with Somonte’s card, one that he must have been given on one of those trips.”
Rick kept his eyes on Pilar. “That’s possible, of course, but it’s not what I was thinking.”
She took his hand. “And what were you thinking?”
“That Vitellozzi may have gone to Spain to see someone else.”
* * *
Betta and Rick had eaten enough canapés so that regular dinner didn’t sound appealing. Nor did the idea of going back to the hotel, thanks to all the theories about the investigation running through their heads, none of them making much sense. A wine bar they’d passed earlier seemed like a good alternative to a full restaurant meal and would give them the opportunity to unwind and talk about what they’d heard during the exhibit opening. Located near
