“I have to agree,” said Betta. “It was not easy to deal with those Spaniards.” Was she having the same thoughts as Rick?
Three plates of pasta were placed on the table. They were similar in their basic creamy color, but the plates with the artichoke were sprinkled with greens and browns while Rick’s cacio e pepe showed only the white of the cheese with flecks of black pepper. Rick made a mock protest when both Betta and his uncle stole forkfuls of his pasta for a taste. He counterattacked by taking bites from each of their plates before everyone tasted their own. It was declared a tie, and they returned to the suspects list.
“Before Betta solved it,” Rick said, “I thought it was Vitellozzi, the museum director. He struck me as just too smooth an operator, and he had the motive of missing out on getting the drawing, not just once but twice.” He looked at Betta. “You were leaning in his direction as well, weren’t you?” He didn’t mention her questionable foray into Vitellozzi’s office since it might have chafed his uncle’s professional sensibilities.
“Either him or Garcia,” Betta added. “Garcia was the assistant to the murdered man, Piero, and he seemed to have had a relationship with Signora Somonte. Or Garcia with the support of Signora Somonte. They had the most to gain from the death of Manuel Somonte.”
“Along with Somonte’s daughter,” said the policeman. “I assume she inherited something.”
“She did, Zio. She got the family business, where she was already working. There is some question in our minds whether she and Garcia might be romantically involved.”
“This Garcia fellow must be quite the ladies’ man.” He pushed the pasta with his fork before twirling some on it. “Any other suspects?”
“There was another, the director of the botanical gardens where the body was found, but it was difficult for DiMaio to take him seriously.”
“How is that, Riccardo?”
Rick told his uncle about Florio’s penchant for publicity to boost his attendance numbers, and how the man’s interest in crime fiction made him think that he could solve the murder.
Piero smiled. “I’ve had a few like that. Usually they just walk in off the street and give us their theories, hoping to get a few moments in the limelight. We have to talk to them, since—ogni morto di papa—what one tells us turns out to be correct.”
Piero had used one of Rick’s favorite phrases, “every time a pope dies,” the Italian equivalent of “once in a blue moon.” The policeman placed his fork in the empty dish and patted his lips with the napkin while Rick waited for the inevitable story. Having spent many pleasant lunches with his uncle, he knew when there was more to come—something in the man’s expression said so. Betta sensed it as well and quietly finished her taglioline.
There was a story, but it had nothing to do with public-spirited citizens helping the police.
“When I heard that you were going to Sansepolcro to witness the donation of a work by Piero della Francesca, I was pleased. Several times I have planned a trip to the towns of Tuscany where his works are found: Urbino, Sansepolcro, Arezzo, and of course, Monterchi. The office always got in the way, but I’ll do it eventually. Not only is he an artist who I admire greatly, I feel I have a personal connection with him. No, I am not an aspiring artist—far from it. The connection is through your grandmother, Riccardo.”
Rick and Betta kept silent.
“You said you went to Monterchi to interview the woman who found the drawing. I was hoping you would go to Monterchi and that while there you would stop at the museum to see the Madonna del Parto. If I had known that before you left Rome, I would have insisted, but fortunately, as it happened, you went anyway.”
He stopped to take a drink of his mineral water, either to clear his throat or simply for dramatic effect. Either way, he had their attention.
“You may have heard, when you were viewing that masterpiece, that for centuries, when it was located in a country chapel just outside the town, it was venerated by the local women. Partly it was due to the belief, which I understand to be true, that the artist executed the work to honor his mother, a simple peasant with whom these women could identify. But also, since it was the depiction of the pregnant Virgin Mary, women who were having difficulty conceiving began going there to pray for a child. Naturally, word got around that such a pilgrimage worked, and women trying to get pregnant came from all over Tuscany, as well as farther away, to kneel before Piero’s painting. One of those women, Riccardo, was your grandmother.” He leaned back in his chair and awaited a reaction.
“Zio, that is a wonderful story. Can I guess where I think this is going?”
“I would expect nothing less from my clever nephew.”
Rick raised his glass, which fortunately still held some wine. “Let me raise a toast to the artistic powers of Piero della Francesca, and to my uncle, who was given his name.” They tapped their glasses and took their sips. After some moments of silence, Rick added, “Zio, I have to ask you—did…?”
“No, Riccardo, two years later your mother arrived without any help from the Madonna.”
They decided to skip the main course and ordered fruit and cheese instead.
The Wine and Food
Just as Le Marche does not get the tourism it deserves, the wines of the region are not as well known as those of its flashier neighbors. But don’t take that to mean it is a vinicultural backwater. Among Italy’s twenty regions, Le Marche ranks twelfth in acres of vineyards, tenth in gallons of wine produced, and eighth for DOC (controlled origin denomination) wines. While production is now very diversified, at one time the region was known solely for verdicchio,
