“I also bring greetings from a mutual friend, Erica Pedana.”
“Ah, Erica…but I don’t understand. You work for a gallery in America but you speak perfect Italian and know Erica.”
“Well, I actually live and work in Rome, but have connections with the gallery from my time in New Mexico.”
“So you are not an art dealer?” The term was not one he had used when explaining the reason for the call; she must have gotten it from the newspaper story.
“No, not really. My friends in Santa Fe knew I was in Italy and asked me to help them out. My regular job is a translator and interpreter.”
She digested this information. “I see. Well, I look forward to meeting you in person, Riccardo.” The switch to his first name was noticeable. It was the Erica connection, no doubt about it. Again he felt a tinge of guilt that he had not told Erica about her friend’s inclusion on Beppo’s list. It was like the guilt he’d felt when telling Erica about the whole scheme, despite Beppo’s request not to. But the pangs of conscience were more than neutralized by his enjoyment of all the intrigue. The longer he spent in Italy, it appeared, the more his Italian side was taking over.
“Would this afternoon work for you?” she said. “Unfortunately I’m very busy this morning.”
Rick agreed, got directions to her villa outside of town, and said good-bye. He rose from his seat in the hotel lobby, dropped his key through the slot in the reception desk, and walked out into the street. As the door closed behind him, a man sitting at the opposite side of the lobby folded his newspaper, stood, and walked toward the door. The woman at the desk glanced up and watched him leave.
***
Without realizing it, Rick had passed the office of Rino Polpetto during his stroll around the town the previous afternoon. The street was on a slight incline, sloping just enough to disturb the symmetry of the houses; all were a bit lower on one side, but their doorways were level. He was not good at estimating the ages of buildings, but from the look of their rough façades Rick thought that everything on this street must have dated from at least the 15th century. A historical plaque on one large and ornately decorated palazzo confirmed this. But like most of the other buildings on the street, the one which housed Polpetto’s office was not grand enough to merit special recognition by the local historical society. There were four offices inside, each displaying a polished brass name plate next to the outside door. From the names it was impossible to know what business was carried out in the other three offices, not that Rick cared. He pressed the button under one of the plates:
POLPETTO
IMPORT-EXPORT
SECOND FLOOR
A buzzer unlocked the door with a loud click. He pushed it open and walked into a narrow hallway lit by a single bulb in the ceiling, letting the door close behind him with a soft thud. The building smelled musty, though a glance around did not reveal much dirt. Probably not sufficient traffic to track it in. The bulb cast enough light to find the stairway, but when he got up to the next floor he could barely make out the name plates on the two office doors. He found the right one, and his knock was rewarded with another click. Facing him in the small waiting room was a single desk, behind which sat a woman who stared at Rick through thick glasses. Her eyewear caught Rick’s attention. The glasses were bright red and had points on the sides, reminding him of a character in a cartoon. Dangly plastic earrings matched the vivid color of the glasses, set against blond hair. She wore it medium length in a style that he suspected was vaguely out of fashion. The woman was not unattractive and, unlike most Italians her age, wore very little makeup. Perhaps the glasses added enough color to her face. The desk hid the lower part of her body, and a thick sweater did the same for what showed above the waist.
Two chairs were pushed against the wall opposite the desk, a small table between them. The only decoration on the walls, if it could be called that, was a digital clock above the table. A lone window across from the chairs gave the room its light, since a fixture in the ceiling was not turned on. He could not be sure if his appearance was a welcome break to a boring morning or an annoying interruption to the woman’s normal routine. Her tone of voice didn’t help him decide.
“May I help you?”
“My name is Montoya. I would like to see Dr. Polpetto.” As he spoke he noticed that the only item on her desk, except for the telephone and a thin lap top computer, was the morning newspaper, neatly folded and placed at an angle.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Polpetto is not in this morning. Was he expecting you?” She said it as if she knew the answer.
“No, I arrived in Volterra only yesterday. Perhaps I could make an appointment to see him? I’m interested in buying some local art work to send to America, and have been told that he could possibly be of assistance.”
She adjusted the glasses, which did not appear to need adjustment, and her face changed slightly. Not quite a smile, but close. Was it because he was now a business opportunity, not a distraction, or did she connect him with the newspaper story of Canopo’s death? Perhaps a bit of both.
“I’m sure Dr. Polpetto would be pleased to see you. But may I inquire as to what kind of art are you interested in purchasing, Signor Montoya? I would not want to waste your time, or that of Dr. Polpetto, if it is not something he could help you with.” This time, yes, the mouth did form a smile, though a bit forced.
“Etruscan pieces, primarily. In various price ranges.” He stayed purposely vague.
Her expression did not change, but she nodded. “Yes, he has done considerable business in Etruscan art. Tomorrow morning, at about this time?” Since everything about her said precision, her use of the word “about” surprised him. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a large leather book, opening it to a page marked with a red ribbon. Rick could see that the calendar did not have any entries for the week. He nodded and passed over a card from the Santa Fe gallery on which he had written his name and cell phone number.
“I’m staying at the San Lino, but probably the cell phone is the best way to reach me if there is a problem with the time.”
She stared at the card for a moment, then opened another drawer to take out a pen, which she used to write his name in the book. When she finished, she closed the book and returned the pen to the drawer. The card remained centered on the desk surface. Everything had its place.
“Until tomorrow,” she said, finally with a real smile, though not a very convincing one. When Rick closed the door behind him and started carefully down the dark stairway, the secretary began dialing the phone while looking at the card in front of her.
***
Commissario Conti drove up to the small house on a two lane road about a kilometer outside the walls of Volterra, his second visit in less than twelve hours. Canopo’s residence was about what he had expected, given the location in an area that was not quite rural but offered more space than the cramped neighborhoods in town. The square two-story building stood by itself, a low wall separating its small yard from a bus stop almost directly in front of the wall’s gate. A scrawny tree, doing its best to survive the car and bus fumes, was the yard’s only adornment. A hill started immediately behind the house, its incline covered with bushes and a few small trees. Conti pulled the key out of the ignition and reluctantly unwound his frame from the seat. He never got used to talking with the relatives of crime victims. Perhaps that was why he chose to come without a driver this time, so that he could be alone on the way back and let himself mentally unwind. He put this task on the growing list of those he would not miss in retirement.
Last night the widow had accepted the news with a calm that Conti had seen few times in the past. The tears had followed later, no doubt, after his departure. He tried to compare it to similar heartbreaking occasions over the years. In Calabria the reaction was always the same, a total breakdown, making any questioning impossible, at least until a few days passed. Here in Tuscany the
women were stronger, if that could be a fair description. Certainly less emotive.
He was about to ring the bell a second time when a girl about six years old opened the door and peered out. A voice came from the rear of the house.
“Ask who it is, Angela.”
When the girl continued to stare silently up at Conti, he called out himself. “Commissario Conti, Signora Canopo. I called earlier.” As he finished his sentence the door was pulled back and a short woman dressed in black took the hand of the child and motioned him inside.
“Of course, Commissario. Please come in.”
The widow, in her early thirties, appeared to have aged several years since the night before. No doubt a lack of sleep made her voice low and scratchy, and she seemed to be slightly bent. She led the policeman down a long hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house, its windows looking out on the scrub of the hill. The room was clean and neat; she was either a meticulous housekeeper or cleaning was her way of dealing with the crisis. A small double-chambered espresso pot was on the stove. After sending her daughter into the other room she sat down and motioned him to another chair at the table. “Can I offer you a coffee, Commissario?”
“Thank you, that is very kind, but I just had some back at the office.” Was she relieved? He had the sense she wanted to get the interview over with as quickly as possible. “Let me again extend my deepest condolences. Do you have other family here in Volterra?”
She sat stiffly, her hands clasped in the folds of the black dress. “I am from Lardarello, but my brother lives here in Volterra with his wife. She spent the night with us and will be back this afternoon. They have offered to take me in, since I can’t afford the rent of this house now that…” She took a short breath and pressed on. “Now that Orlando is gone.” Conti was about to speak when she said, “Commissario, my husband would never have taken his own life.”
He had expected her to say it, but was surprised by the steel in her voice. It made it easier to reply. “You seem sure.”
She straightened her shoulders. “I am very sure. He lived for Angela, and we were planning to have more children. We were putting away money for a house, a larger one for the expanded family. We looked at the newspaper every day to see if anything new had come on the market. He had so much to look forward to, it just doesn’t make sense that he would give it all up.” She looked down at the table and added, “And Orlando was very religious. He knew the church’s position on suicide.” She fell back in her chair, breathing heavily, finishing a speech which she had probably been practicing during the night.
“I must tell, you, Signora, that the police on the scene came to the conclusion that your husband’s death was by suicide.” Noticing the drained look on her face, he quickly added, “But as the officer in charge of the case, and after learning about your husband, I found it doubtful. I am proceeding under the assumption that there was foul play.” Her expression immediately changed. “May I ask you some questions, Signora?”
“Of course, of course.” The hands rose from the lap and were placed in front of her on the table, clasped tightly as if to keep them from trembling.
“Had you noticed any change in your husband in the weeks before his death? Had there been anything different in his routine?”
She stiffened, perhaps expecting the question but hoping it would not come. “He had seemed preoccupied recently. I thought it was simply worry about getting a down payment for our house. There had been one for sale about a month ago that we could not bid on because we didn’t have enough saved, and I think he didn’t want another to slip away. He had been working late at the shop almost every evening, to earn more money for that first payment, and he would come home very tired. The long days were certainly wearing on him. He could not spend as much time as he wanted with Angela, and that was hard for him. It was also hard for her.” Her eyes glanced toward the other room where her daughter was playing.
“Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to harm your husband? Were there any old enemies?”
“Commissario, I thought about that most of the night, and I could not come up with a single name. He was not the kind of man to make enemies. Or close friends, for that matter, but of course here in Tuscany, Sicilians are looked on as foreigners.” She looked at Conti, perhaps trying to place his accent. “Orlando’s life was his family and his work. He was a very skillful artisan, and he hoped to move up in the business, but you have learned that already from his boss, I suppose.”
“Not yet. My contact with Signor Landi yesterday was short, but I will be talking with him again. I called on you first.” They looked up to see the little girl standing in the doorway, staring at the policeman in silence. Conti stood up. “I should be on my way, Signora Canopo. If you don’t mind I will call you if I think of any other questions.”
“Of course, Commissario, anything that I can do to help.”
She walked him back down the hall to the front door under the gaze of Angela and opened it, shaking his hand weakly.
“Please find out the truth, Commissario.”
He murmured that he would try, and walked out to his car. As he pulled out into the street he saw that she was still at the door watching him, her daughter’s small hand holding tightly to her skirt. He decided that instead of driving back to the office he would return to the crime scene, now convinced, at least in his gut, that a murder had indeed been committed.
The dark blue police car wound along the streets north of the city and parked next to the archeological area below the tall north wall of Volterra’s center. He stepped out from the driver’s seat and was recognized immediately by the security guard who waved him past the gate. He walked slowly through the stone ruins, looking up at the wall where a group of school children were staring down, some of them pointing. Did they know about the recent death here or were they interested in Roman history? The climb up the steps was more tiring for him than the evening before. The adrenalin always seemed to flow on the first visit to a crime scene, and then the work faded back into the tedious. The yellow tape had been removed along with the body, but Conti remembered exactly the place where Canopo’s crumpled figure had lain the previous night and he climbed up to it. Somehow being here might help make some sense of what he knew so far in the case, as if the ghost of the fallen man could speak to him. He sat down on a slab of stone and stared at the spot before looking up at the top of the wall. The children, thankfully, had gone.
Why would Canopo have been up there? From the point on Via Matteotti where the man had left Montoya, the fastest route to anywhere in town would certainly not have included the isolated street that ran above the ruins. No, this must have been his destination, and his final one, it turned out. On a cold day in the late afternoon, the only reason not to meet indoors would have been to avoid being seen or heard. No chat over coffee at a bar where there would be witnesses. If Conti could only find out who it was he’d met, or the reason for the encounter. He looked down again at the patch of ground, more convinced than ever that the case was homicide. If Canopo was pushed or thrown from the wall above, it would likely have taken more than one man, despite the victim’s small stature. Had they planned to do him in from the start, or had the conversation turned ugly and precipitated the murder?
Conti was getting nowhere, only coming up with more scenarios and more questions. But that was always the case early in an investigation. He got up from the stone seat and once more looked down at the ground. It was a sad place to end your days on earth, but was there anywhere of which that could not be said? After crossing himself slowly, he walked down through the rows of ancient seats, across the stage, and back out to the gate. He barely acknowledged the wave of the guard before getting into his car.
***
Rick held up a hand to signal that he didn’t want to interrupt. Landi nodded in understanding and went back to his customers, two people who Rick decided were Germans. There
was something about those long, belted raincoats that said German tourist, they were not something Italians wore. Nor did tourists of other nationalities, for that matter. Living in Rome, Rick was becoming adept at one of the local pastimes, guessing the nationalities of the city’s visitors. Landi was dressed more somberly than the previous day, in a dark suit and blue tie. The look could be the rotation from his closet, or he might be showing some respect for his deceased employee. His yellowed teeth showed prominently as he spoke to the Germans, carefully pausing between words for the benefit of nonnative speakers.
There was another customer in the shop, and he was being helped by the young woman who had greeted Rick the previous day. She was dressed, as the previous day, in white blouse and dark skirt, the uniform of the Italian shop girl, but her face was not the same. In place of the smile was a dull gaze, and her eyes were reddened either from crying or lack of sleep. She had taken the loss harder than her boss, but had still come to work. When she saw Rick she gave him a quick sad look and returned to her client.
While he waited, Rick studied a shelf of flat alabaster panels decorated with classical motifs. Each sat on a small wire stand, like ones which held the antique plates decorating a sideboard in his grandparents’ home in New Mexico. He took one in his hand and decided it weighed about five pounds, perhaps too much for tourists to buy in any large numbers unless they didn’t mind paying extra at airport check-in. Or were driving home to somewhere in Europe. The scene on this panel was a god with helmet and shield, sitting on a throne surrounded by what looked like warriors. Thanks to Beppo’s book, Rick knew that the Etruscans shared much of their mythology with the Greeks, but since he didn’t know much Greek mythology to begin with, it didn’t help to understand this design.
“Those panels are very popular with tourists.”
Cold Tuscan Stone Page 7
