Rick and Betta exchanged smiles. “Well…” Betta began.
She was interrupted by the arrival of their antipasti. All three had ordered the same dish to start the meal: a large artichoke, braised until tender in wine, oil, and herbs. Like so many other Italian dishes, carciofi alla romana were the epitome of gastronomic simplicity. After the traditional “Buon appetito” exchange, they each cut off a piece of the long, tender stem and took a first bite. Conversation resumed.
“It was really just by chance,” said Betta. “We were finally making a visit to the Casa Raffaello, which happens to be on the same street as Bruzzone’s gallery. We were looking at a fresco on the walls of one of the rooms, a work that has been attributed to a young Raffaello but never definitively confirmed as by his hand. Rick, with his usual American humor—”
“I am all too familiar with it, Betta,” said the policeman.
“Yes. Well, he joked that someone could have sneaked into the room and painted a forgery on the wall to make it look like the master’s work. A few minutes later it clicked in my mind. What if the missing drawing was in fact a fake? Once I considered that possibility, then, as you said, the motive and everything else fell into place.”
“You must have immediately surmised that the woman from Monterchi was involved.”
Rick put down his fork. “Since she had authenticated the drawing, she had to be. I remembered thinking when we drove behind her from the museum in Monterchi to the restaurant how it was curious that the director of a small museum could afford such an expensive car. I didn’t say anything to Betta at the time, but I should have. She might have figured out their scam sooner.” He pulled a piece of bread from the basket in the center of the table and tore it in two before using one piece to sop up the oil from his artichoke. “The woman who supposedly found the drawing must have been in on it as well, paid off by Bruzzone. The one good outcome of this may be that her daughter inherited the house purchased with the money.”
“And now Tucci’s in custody,” Betta said, “with an additional charge of being an accessory to the murder since she knew about it and did not go to the authorities. I called Alfredo yesterday, and he said that her boyfriend is going to pull through. So they’ll both be spending time as the guests of the Italian state.” She returned to the last few leaves of her artichoke.
It was decision time. Go on to the pasta course? Skip it and order just a main dish? Have both? Piero recommended the taglioline carciofi e mentuccia, despite their having just finished an artichoke. The artichoke in this dish would be chopped finely and mixed with oil, wild mint, and other herbs, before being tossed in the frying pan with the fresh pasta. It sounded good to Betta, but Rick decided on spaghetti cacio e pepe. The waiter took the order, removed their antipasto plates, filled their glasses, and departed for the kitchen.
“What about the other suspects?” Piero asked. “From the report I read of his questioning, that olive oil dealer seemed like someone I would have loved to take into custody. I only read the transcript, but even without hearing his voice, it was easy to get a sense of the man.”
“Morelli?” said Rick. “He is as oily as the product he buys and sells. I was hoping that the amphorae I photographed in his living room would turn out to be stolen.”
Betta sighed. “Actually, Rick, I heard this morning from the person in our office who traces such things, that it is legitimate. The sale was even registered. Sorry about that.”
“Mannaggia,” said Rick, lightly punching the air. “I really wanted to nail that guy.”
“But in the other picture you took with your phone there was a small, bronze oil lamp. It turned out to be Roman, first century, and unique. It’s worth about three thousand euros and is on the list of items stolen from a museum in Calabria three years ago.”
Rick picked up his glass. “This deserves a toast. After solving the mystery of the missing drawing and now finding a precious ancient artifact, we’ll soon be toasting your promotions, Betta.”
“I’m not counting on it,” she said as the glasses touched.
“Are you going to be sent up to retrieve the oil lamp?” Piero asked.
“No, we’ll leave that to the local police in Urbino, along with collecting a hefty fine from Morelli. He’ll claim he didn’t know it was stolen when he bought it, but he’ll end up paying.”
“Local police?” Rick said. “Somebody we know?”
“It very well could be.”
“Which reminds me,” said Piero, “I was going to ask you about Inspector DiMaio. You both were mentioned in his reports, so you must have been working closely with him. Is your impression of him still the same as after the Bassano case?”
Rick had expected the question. Alfredo’s initial relationship with Pilar still bothered him, and he expected it might not sit well with his uncle. Yet wasn’t it the job of the police themselves, not that of an outsider like Rick, to rule on the professionalism of their own officers? The memory of the exchange of gunfire in Bruzzone’s shop was still fresh in Rick’s mind, and he wasn’t about to pay back Alfredo with even a hint of criticism. On a list of transgressions committed by police every day, this one would be considered minor, and Alfredo had learned his lesson.
“I’m sure his reports bear out our impression of DiMaio’s work, Zio. I can’t see how any other policeman would have done any better investigating what was a rather complicated murder.
