“Ecco. This is interesting. I just did some searching and found the website of our victim. Very well done, she must have hired a first-class web designer. Lots of pictures, easy to use, lets you order her pottery online. On the ‘About Rhonda Van Fleet’ page it makes her seem like the most prominent potter in Arizona, and perhaps she was. Her designs are not exactly what appeals to me, but there must be a market for it. All those rich folks from the north who go to Phoenix for the winter want to bring back some piece of local art, what better than a brightly decorated bowl or pot?”
Betta had again set aside her book and glasses. “So her wealth came from her artistic ability as well as her skill in finding rich husbands.”
“Some of it. She might have used her divorce money to set up the shop, like a hobby, and it didn’t actually pay for itself. That’s what one of the American women told Paolo and me when we interviewed her. It’s impossible to tell from this website if it was a successful business, but it certainly looks like a serious operation. But there is something very intriguing here that you have to see.”
The expression on Rick’s face was intriguing enough. Betta hopped down from the bed and padded to the table.
She bent over and looked at the computer. “Oh, my God.”
“An interesting coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Rick, the decoration on her pottery is virtually the same as what I saw in Crivelli’s shop in Todi. The same wide strokes, the colors, everything.”
Rick clicked the mouse and more photos moved across the screen. “Or Crivelli’s pottery is an exact copy of hers.”
She put her arms around his shoulders and squeezed. “Rick, you’ve found a motive for Crivelli. All these years he’s become rich with a style that he copied from her. Then she shows up in Orvieto and they meet by chance in the piazza in front of the cathedral. He realizes that if she finds out what he’s been doing she could sue him to get a share of his wealth, or at least ruin his reputation.”
“I’m not sure, Betta. It doesn’t seem like a strong enough reason to commit murder. Having met Crivelli, I would guess that he’d try to reason with her, or even more likely, try to buy her off.”
“He may have done just that when they met that night, but it could have turned ugly. They argue, he kills her.”
“As much as I’d like to buy that theory, it doesn’t go with my impression of Crivelli from when we talked to him. Vindictive, cunning, yes—someone who resorts to violence, I don’t think so. But we’ll know tomorrow, before the afternoon when we get on the train to Rome.”
She had moved from behind him to his side, so she could lean in to see the screen better. “How will it be resolved tomorrow?”
“The fingerprint I told you about, remember? Crivelli, and the other suspects are going to be coming in to sign a statement, not knowing that they’re going to have their prints taken. If there’s a match with the print on the buckle, he’s our man.”
She leaned to get a closer look at one of Rhonda’s bowls, even though it took up most of the screen. Her shoulder brushed his chest and he got a whiff of her perfume.
“Betta, there’s nothing I can do right now about this case. I certainly don’t want to have it spoil our little holiday more than it has already. Let’s forget about it until tomorrow.”
She put her arm around him. “You’re right, Rick, you need something to take your mind off it.”
He looked up at her face. His hand moved up to her forehead at the same time she looked down at his head and brushed her fingers over his bruise. They simultaneously recoiled from the pain.
“Maybe we should stay clear of each other’s wounds.” He slipped his hand under her tee-shirt, and his fingers brushed her soft skin.
She took in a quick breath. “Yes, there are better things to do with our hands.”
Chapter Thirteen
It had been an uneventful run, especially in comparison with the previous morning’s encounter with the mayor, but that was fine with Rick. Something about the silence of the morning made Orvieto appear even more ancient than it did the rest of the day. The lack of people helped, allowing him to concentrate on stone and sky, aspects of the town that hadn’t changed in centuries. Before the day’s engine fumes and other modern odors infiltrated the streets, the air remained as it had smelled early in the city’s history. He took in deep gulps of it as his running shoes slapped the stone.
The route took him a few blocks from the police station, bringing his mind back to the murder case. Was it possible that Betta’s instincts were right, that Crivelli was the murderer? That would tie everything up in a nice bow, but somehow it didn’t seem right. The one person he’d woken up thinking about was Donato. He wished he’d gone along to interview the man, to get his own impression, but from the way LoGuercio described him, the caretaker sounded like a two-bit thug. Motive? If Donato was involved, it had to be either a romantic encounter that went bad or someone else put him up to it. Bianca Cappello just didn’t have any kind of motive. On the contrary, she was a good friend of the victim. Unless Rhonda had stolen a boyfriend from Bianca, but that seemed like weak gruel, motive-wise. Which brought him back to the American women. No, he couldn’t envision either of them meeting Rhonda at the bus stop and committing murder. Certainly not Gina.
He was rounding the corner onto the hotel’s street when he felt his mobile phone vibrate inside the zipper pocket of his sweat shirt.
