“Take one of mine. You said you were hungry.”
“You are too kind, Betta. All right, back to Morelli, the man you love to hate. He does make a good villain, I have to admit, and he doesn’t have a real alibi for either the night of the murder or this morning’s attempt on Bruzzone. His motive, of course, is the drawing. He wanted it, didn’t get it, and held a grudge for missing out. By killing Somonte, he both gets revenge for being humiliated by being out-bid, and he gets the drawing that he can enjoy in the privacy of his own home.”
Betta sipped her wine. “I may be wrong, but I don’t think his ego would allow him to possess a work of art that he couldn’t show to his guests.”
Two people left the table behind them and were quickly replaced by a pair of students who squeezed past Rick and Betta to lay claim to the empty places. Groups stood by the door keeping an eye on the room, ready to pounce. The place was getting more popular as the evening progressed.
“Thank goodness we got here when we did,” said Rick. “Do you want another wine? We can try a glass of something different.”
“Why not? At least I can tell the people at my office that I discovered some new wines, even if I didn’t discover who took the drawing.”
Rick was not happy with her self-pity. It wasn’t his favorite side of Betta, but he just shook his head and took the two steps to the bar. After consulting with the barmaid, he returned to his seat. “I told her the Rosso Piceno was excellent and asked for something else local. She’s pouring something from the hills between here and Pesaro, called Focara Rosso. You did want to stay with red, didn’t you?”
“Yes, for sure.” She took another bite of the cheese on toast. “Who’s next? How about the Spanish contingent? Signora Somonte may have a strong motive, especially if Garcia was more than just her husband’s special assistant. With Somonte out of the picture, she gets a hefty inheritance and her boyfriend full-time as a bonus.”
“It would have been easy for Garcia to follow him as he left the hotel and then pulled the gun.” Rick raised a hand to hold a thought. “Wait, how about this: knowing his boss had a key, he might have talked Somonte into showing him the gardens and then done him in when they got there. We’ve always assumed that the murderer forced Somonte there at gunpoint, but perhaps that wasn’t necessary.”
“And the grieving widow is waiting for him back at the hotel. That’s possible.”
Rick noticed that the woman behind the bar was pouring two glasses of red wine. He got off the stool and asked if it was theirs, and when she nodded, he brought them back to the table. When he put one in front of Betta, he noticed that the two serving plates were almost empty. “Do you want me to order something else?”
“Not for me,” Betta said, “but go ahead if you’re still hungry.”
“No, this glass of wine will do it. Where were we?”
“Discussing the Spaniards. But because of the attempt on Bruzzone, it makes more sense that our murderer is someone from here in Urbino, which brings us back to our favorite private collector and museum director. And that takes us to Bruzzone’s own theory that the person who shot him found out that he’d suggested to me that the police talk to Vitellozzi and Morelli. One of them got word of what he’d said to me, was not happy about it, and stormed into his shop with the gun.”
Rick put down his glass after a drink. “You’re forgetting the other possible motive, Betta. Alfredo came up with it after they took Bruzzone off to have his head bandaged up.”
She was about to take a drink but lowered her glass. “And that was?”
“The person who shot at him was not upset about what he’d said to the police but rather by what he might say. Bruzzone may well have more information to tell the cops, and the murderer wanted to be sure he kept quiet.”
“He would have kept very quiet if the bullet had hit him rather than the wall.”
“If that theory is correct, it’s no wonder he was so nervous tonight when we talked to him.”
“Let’s see how nervous he is tomorrow when we speak to him again.” She stared at the glass but didn’t drink. “Do you know what worries me the most, Rick?”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “It’s the drawing, isn’t it?”
A half smile formed at the corner of her mouth. “You know me too well.” She squeezed his hand, then withdrew it to pick up her glass. “I think this is better than the first one.”
Chapter Twelve
The ring came at the perfect time. Rick stopped, leaned forward with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, and pulled the phone from his pocket. As he expected, the call was from his uncle, the only other early riser he knew. He guessed that Piero had reviewed the case on his computer screen and thought, correctly, that now was a time his nephew would be free to talk.
“Commissario Fontana, it is an honor to speak with you.”
“The pleasure is mine, Riccardo. From your voice I suspect I have found you, as I expected I would, in the midst of your morning run. I hope this is not inconvenient.”
“Not at all. I have just climbed one of the steeper streets of Urbino and can use the respite, if you’ll excuse my panting. I imagine you are calling to see how the case is progressing.”
“You imagine correctly. I have been following DiMaio’s reports, and reading between the lines
