Murder Most Unfortunate by David P Wagner Page B

contrasted deliciously with the savory flavors of the pigeon. “This is a splendid meal, Angelo.” He raised his glass. “Our compliments and thanks to your cook.”
    â€œOne of the best in the Veneto, Riccardo.” He joined his guests in another sip of the Montello. “To return to the seminar, if I may. I heard on the local TV news before you arrived that one of the participants was killed last night. Do you know about that, Riccardo?”
    From the look on Caterina Savona’s face, it appeared that this was the first she had heard of it. Betta looked at Rick, awaiting his reply.
    â€œProfessor Fortuna, one of the specialists in all things Jacopo. He met his end last night after our final dinner for the panelists, organizers, and sponsors. It was quite a shock this morning to everyone, as you might imagine, when the police descended on the hotel.”
    â€œIt certainly would be a shock,” Caterina said in a halting voice. “What do they think happened?”
    â€œI really couldn’t say. They questioned all of us, of course, and we’ve been told to stay put for the moment. Which is going to inconvenience some of the participants.”
    â€œWho were the other participants, Riccardo?” Betta’s question, Rick knew, was intended to draw out their host. The wine and food had not diverted her from the mission.
    â€œThere are three foreign specialists. Jeffrey Randolph is from a university in America. George Oglesby is similarly employed in England. And Karl Muller is a German who is apparently quite a Jacopo specialist. Among the Italians, besides the late Lorenzo Fortuna, was Taddeo Gaddi, another university professor, and the curator of the Jacopo collection at the museum, Dottor Tibaldi.”
    â€œI’ve met Tibaldi,” said Rinaldi. “Knows his art, but you would expect that from someone in his position.”
    Rick caught Betta’s eye and then continued. “There were a few other people who weren’t on the panels but participated to a certain extent. Some graduate students…oh, and there was a man from Milan named Sarchetti. Art dealer.”
    Rinaldi’s face showed nothing. “From Milan? Do you know him, Caterina?”
    She grasped her wineglass. “I recall hearing the name.”
    â€œBut do the police have any leads, Riccardo? It would seem to me that a group of art historians would not be the best pool for finding a murder suspect. Perhaps some enemy of the man followed him here and did him in. I trust that the usual robbery gone bad theory has been floated?”
    Rick put down his fork. “The police will probably tell you that they are not ruling anything out. That’s their usual statement, isn’t it?”
    â€œWhich usually means,” Caterina said, “that they have no idea what happened.”
    â€œWell, I hope they find out quickly who did it. We don’t need an investigation dragging on. But as your host I should not have brought up such a subject, I prefer to discuss more enjoyable topics. Such as art.” He turned to Rick. “We are in the presence of two women who know their art. I would love to get their opinion on something which must have come up at the conference, Riccardo—those two lost Jacopo paintings. Here in Bassano, they are considered part of our city’s patrimony.”
    Rick tried not to show any reaction. “Definitely discussed. I had never heard of them, so I found it all fascinating.”
    â€œWhat I’ve heard,” Betta interjected, “is that they are hidden in some cave, or stashed away in the home of a wealthy collector. Have you hidden them in one of the rooms here, Angelo?”
    She gave the host a sly wink, and Rick wondered if the wine was finally having an effect on her. Rinaldi laughed. “I wish that were the case, my dear. Caterina, have you heard about these paintings in your travels?”
    Caterina Savona had been