Cold Tuscan Stone

by David P. Wagner

  “Of course not,” he said. “It was pure coincidence that I happened to be with the man just before his death. The police are satisfied I had nothing more to do with him. The commissario I am dealing with for my, uh, work here, is the same one investigating the death of the man.” Rick slowed down, he was talking too fast. He also took his foot off the gas pedal and wondered if using a cell phone while driving was illegal in Italy. If so, the police could make a fortune giving out tickets.

  “So you and this policeman are old friends by now.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. He’s not happy about my presence in Volterra, and my connection with the murder is not helping things. Fortunately he found out about Uncle Piero, and that seems to have softened him a bit.”

  “The uncle helping the nephew. That has a long tradition here in Italy.”

  “True. But Uncle Piero isn’t the pope.”

  “Also true. Ricky, class is about to start, I’ll talk with you tomorrow. Be safe, caro; ciao, ciao.” The phone clicked and he wondered if there might have been an edge in her voice. Was it his involvement in a murder investigation or the meeting with Donatella?

  ***

  He was still thinking about the conversation with Erica when he drove through the city gate and turned into the hotel parking garage. The dashboard clock showed that it was late afternoon, which in Italy meant that much of the day still lay ahead. Many offices worked until six or seven, shops were still open, and most Italians wouldn’t even start boiling their pasta water until eight. Best to plug in the lap top and get some translation work finished before dinner. After pulling his coat and Donatella’s folder from the back seat, he locked the car door and walked out of the garage to the street, dodging a blue sedan that had just come through the gate. It was getting colder, but he didn’t bother putting on the coat since he was steps from the hotel. He felt the warm air welcome him when he pushed open the glass door to the lobby. The woman behind the desk was talking loudly on the phone, as if it were long distance.

  “…yes, you should be able to reach him at that cell number, he—” she looked up and saw Rick, waving her hand at him with the clawing motion that Italians use.

  “Just a moment, please, he just walked in,” she said into the receiver before looking back at Rick. “A call for you, Signor Montoya, you can take it on the house phone.” She pointed to a telephone in a small niche on the side wall.

  Laying the coat and folder over a chair, Rick walked to the phone.

  “This is Riccardo Montoya.”

  “Ah, yes, Signor Montoya, I was fortunate that you appeared as I was calling. My name is Santo.”

  The voice was low and smooth, and had a guttural quality that would indicate a person raised somewhere north of the Po River, though Rick was not yet good enough with accents to be more precise than that.

  “How can I be of service, Signor Santo?”

  “I hope that it is I who can be of service. It is my understanding that you may be in the market for some works of art.”

  Rick held the phone away from his mouth while he took in a quick breath. This is it, Beppo’s scheme has worked. But who is this guy, and is he for real?

  “Possibly, Signor Santo, but tell me, how did you learn of my presence in Volterra?”

  “Besides from the newspapers?” The voice switched to a laugh, which stopped abruptly. “You’ll forgive me for making light of a tragedy. Your question is a valid one, but what is more important is that we have made contact.”

  Rick decided not to push it. Certainly the source of the referral would come out eventually, so at this point the man was just trying to be cautious. Rick couldn’t help trying another line of questioning. “Do you do a lot of business with that person?”

  “I would rather discuss doing business with you, Signor Montoya, but it would be better if we spoke in person. Would that be possible?”

  The guy was good, Rick thought. “Of course,” he answered, glancing up at the clock above the hotel reception desk, “when would be convenient for you?”

  “I could see you in about forty-five minutes.”

  “Where are you?”

  The man hesitated before answering, and Rick wondered if he was trying to get too much information from the man. But asking him where he was didn’t seem that unreasonable.

  “I’m not in Volterra, and it will take me some time to get there.”

  That could mean either that he did not live or work in town, or was outside town at the moment. Rick opted not to ask for a clarification. “I can meet you in the bar of the hotel in an hour, we can talk there.”

  “If you don’t mind, I would prefer somewhere else. Do you know the cathedral?”

  “I know where it is, but I haven’t seen it yet.”

  “Ah, it is a jewel of a church, very much underrated. And a perfect place for us to talk without being bothered by anyone. Only old women and tourists are found in our churches at this time of day, even the cathedral, and none of them will be interested in our conversation. I will see you there in one hour.” He hung up.

  Rick looked at the phone while he gathered his thoughts, his first one being a question if Santo was really the person Beppo was trying to catch. “Works of art” the man had said. It would be just Rick’s luck that there was a misunderstanding, and the man was only an art dealer, like Donatella. Santo could have read about him in the paper and tracked him down at the hotel, a logical place for an American art dealer to stay in Volterra. But then why the cloak and dagger meeting in the church instead of a place like the hotel where business would normally be done? No, this looked like the real thing; the question would be whether he had the real thing to sell. Rick picked up his coat and papers and started toward the elevator, catching the eye of the receptionist. For the first time she gave him what appeared to be a genuine smile before going quickly back to her computer screen. Must be his celebrity status.

  ***

  Rick pulled the coat’s cloth belt tightly around his middle and tied it in a loose knot. He was glad he’d packed the coat. The weather in Rome hadn’t been that cold lately, but here either a front had moved in or it simply got colder in this part of the country. Volterra was way up on this hill, after all. He pulled his small GPS from the coat pocket, switched it on, and read 1694 feet above sea level. He really should have set it to meters now that he was in Italy, but the reading confirmed why there was the chill. Volterra was much higher than Rome, which was barely above sea level, and Tuscany was also much farther north. He repocketed the GPS and started up the street toward the cathedral, focusing on the mysterious Signor Santo, and who could have sent the man. It had to be Landi. Who else had he contacted? Well, Donatella, of course, he could be working for her or with her. The only other persons he had seen were Conti, not a suspect, and Zerbino, the same. Polpetto, the exporter, would have been a contender, but Rick hadn’t met the guy yet. Unless his secretary with the red glasses could have taken his mention of Etruscan art and run with it. That could explain the difference between their brief encounter in the office and the equally brief meeting on the street. But that would be unlikely, since the boss would want to meet Rick before making any decision to pass his name to someone else.

  He took the right fork in the street, passing a small chapel wedged into the triangular corner. Inside he could see a few votive candles flickering weakly in the dim space. The chapel was dedicated to Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, a category Rick fit right into at the moment. It wouldn’t hurt to have some extra help on this trip; he should stop in on the way back and say a prayer. That and this visit to the cathedral could also get him some points with his mother, if he wrote about them in the right terms. As he continued up the hill his mind went back to Santo, and something he had been considering since the man had called. Should he call Beppo or Conti before the rendezvous with the man? He had gone back and forth with himself and
decided in the end to wait until afterward.

  Okay, it was a macho thing: report when there is something to report, don’t look like you are afraid of some guy in a church pew. What’s he going to do, pull a knife on you in front of the old ladies and tourists? Rick was sure the man wouldn’t dare try that on a guy wearing cowboy boots.

  He entered a small square in front of the cathedral. On one side was the baptistery, an octagonal structure which had likely taken its design from the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, seen by crusaders and recreated in religious buildings around Italy after their return. Rick silently thanked his father, whose interest in architecture had packed such obscure facts into his head, and then faced the cathedral itself. Unlike the baptistery, which stood apart, it was flanked on both sides by other buildings. In case there was any doubt, the large rose window and arched façade made clear its religious vocation. Rick pushed through one of the side doors and found himself in the rear of the church. To his left was a room which looked like a museum, but looking ahead his eye was drawn to the large cross above the altar. Because it was already getting dark outside, he needed little time to adjust to the shadowy ambience. Out of habit he crossed himself, then stood for a few moments in the back looking for Santo. Or someone who could be Santo, since the man had neglected to describe himself.

  At least Santo had been correct about those found worshipping in the cathedral at this hour. Three tourists, who looked Scandinavian, were clustered around an ornately carved pulpit halfway up the left side, one reading in a low voice from a guidebook while the others peered at the ivory stone. In the very front row two women sat in silence, their heads bent in prayer. From their black clothing and gray hair, they could have been sisters, but they sat on opposite sides of the row. Rick walked down the right aisle, chose a pew far from both the tourists and the women, and sat down. On, of course, another hard wooden bench. He stretched his legs and noticed some movement at the front of the church, to the left of the altar. It was a short, bearded priest, clad in dark robes. The priest walked to the front of the altar and surveyed the visitors for a moment, his eyes resting on Rick, who clearly did not fit the profile of church goers for this time of day during the week. Rick momentarily entertained the thought that Santo was a priest, which certainly would have been ironic, for the name if nothing else. But the robed figure stepped down and walked briskly to the far side of the church where he took out a key and opened the donation box. Rick heard the clink of a few coins as they were put into a small sack the priest had pulled from his robe.

  “May I?” A man slipped into the pew next to Rick, looked up at the altar, and slowly crossed himself. “I hope I have not kept you waiting.”

  Rick was sitting almost too close to size up the man, and he slid a few inches to one side to put some space between them. Santo was unbuttoning a lined raincoat to reveal a wool turtleneck sweater, causing Rick to remember poor Canopo, who hated the cold. He glanced down at Santo’s wool slacks and dark boots, noticing a few specks of mud on the toes. An art dealer who lived on a farm? Unlikely.

  “No, not at all, I just arrived and sat down.” Rick now studied the man. There was no facial hair, a few wrinkles on pale skin, and a slightly receding hairline. Probably not a farmer, or he would have had some kind of sun exposure, even at this time of year. Rick guessed an age of around forty, but in good shape.

  “The most famous piece of art here is probably the pulpit.” Santo nodded toward the group of tourists. Then he turned back toward the altar. “But my favorite is the wood carving there to the right of the high altar. Thirteenth century, unknown artist, a powerful yet crude deposition.” Was this an art history class? The dealer seemed to sense Rick’s thoughts. “But we are here to discuss Etruscan art, are we not? Let me get right to the heart of it, Signor Montoya. I am not yet convinced that you are a serious buyer.” Santo kept his eyes on the wood carving.

  The comment surprised Rick, but he couldn’t hold back a slight smile. “Is there something I’ve said or done that would justify a lack of confidence?” Perhaps the answer would reveal Santo’s contact.

  Santo chuckled. “I suppose not. We have done a check on the gallery you represent, and it exists. The web site shows the styles of art sold there, which is impressive, though not anything that would appeal to me.” Rick almost told him that Texans visiting Santa Fe have unique tastes in art, but he kept silent. “I think I just wanted to meet face to face before deciding whether you would be the kind of buyer who…” he searched for the words and found them, “who we normally deal with.”

  “If I may be frank, Signor Santo, you can be assured that I have the same concerns about the possibility of doing business with you.”

  “Very true, very true.” He nodded his head slowly and stared ahead at the cross before turning to Rick. They might as well have been talking on the phone with the lack of eye contact. “But you should know that I have not been even distantly involved in any suicides or murders.” His mouth turned up in an unbecoming grin.

  If this little joke was intended to lighten the atmosphere, it didn’t work. Rick was annoyed by Santo’s piccolo scherzo, but let it pass in the interest of moving the process along. “So what’s next, Signor Santo?” He put a sharpness into his voice. “I will have to see the works you have for sale, so when will that be? I can’t stay in Volterra indefinitely.”

  Santo shifted his frame on the wooden pew. “Of course, I understand. We will not keep you waiting. I have your phone number and will be in contact.”

  With that Santo reached over and shook Rick’s hand before getting quickly to his feet. He glanced toward the entrance to the church and then walked in the opposite direction, toward the altar. He hesitated for a few seconds in front of his favorite wood carving before crossing to the far left side of the nave and disappearing around a corner. His exit took no more than a minute.

  Rick remained in the pew and gathered his thoughts while recorded classical music seeped into the church through hidden speakers. If throwing those last words at Santo hadn’t jinxed the transaction, it was mission accomplished. Or at least a good start on accomplishing it. Unfortunately he still didn’t know who had put Santo in contact with him, but that would have to come out eventually, the police would see to it. And speaking of the authorities, he’d better let them know right away what just happened. Now, at least, he had something to tell them, and he hadn’t been attacked while getting it. But before that, he decided he had to check out the man’s favorite work of art in the cathedral. Rick rose from the pew and, like Santo, walked to the front.

  The deposition was in the uncomplicated style of the pre-Renaissance, its thin figures carved in a loving but unsophisticated hand, but with colors surprisingly vibrant for art almost eight hundred years old. After reflecting on the work Rick surveyed the corner where Santo had gone and headed for it. As he crossed in front of the altar he checked the two women, still there and still deep in prayer. The tourists had left, but a lone man in the back of the church was getting to his feet while gazing at the cross behind the altar. Rick came to the small side chapel, and next to it a narrow corridor which led to a door. Of course, he thought, when the church was built in the 1200s, the fire marshal would have insisted on another exit. He pushed open the door and found himself in Volterra’s vast main square directly across from the police station. How convenient. As he walked across the piazza he dialed Beppo.

  ***

  Conti looked up when Rick tapped on his open door. The commissario was in shirt sleeves, the first time Rick had seen him without a suit jacket, studying overlapping papers covering the top of the desk. The points of his collar were showing wear, the downside of being carefully ironed over the years. It seemed to Rick that Conti, or his wife, wanted the man to be presentable, but without the sartorial pretention of the newer generation of policemen. The knot of his tie, slightly larger than was fashionable at the moment in Italy, confirmed the impression. He mot
ioned Rick to the usual seat. After Rick recounted his meeting with Santo, Conti was kind enough not to ask him immediately why he had gone to the cathedral without alerting him beforehand. Instead, Rick brought it up.

  “I wasn’t sure the man would even show. And simply meeting him didn’t seem to be an issue. It was just like my meetings with Landi and the others, but maybe fruitful as well. We’ll have to see.”

  “You have the phone number?” Conti did not seem upset.

  “No, Commissario, he called me at the hotel.”

  Conti made a terse phone call to one of his sergeants while Rick waited. “He will call the hotel to get the number, and then check it. Now, you said you called the ministry. Their reaction?”

  “Beppo was pleased, understandably since this whole scheme was his idea. He’ll be ready to come to Volterra as soon as there is something more concrete, which would be when I actually see something for sale.”

  Conti leaned back in his chair, causing a high-pitched squeak. He didn’t notice the sound, which had become a part of his office like the furniture and the smell of disinfectant. “It would be wise for your friend not to pack his bags yet, Signor Montoya. There are at least three possibilities here.” He held up a thumb, Italian style, beginning the count. “The first, and the one we all wish for, of course, is that you have indeed drawn out the very person the ministry has been hoping to catch.”

  From Conti’s tone, Rick doubted if the man truly wished that outcome. The policeman’s skepticism was still evident in his voice and face.

  The index finger was added to the thumb of his still upraised hand. “But another is that Santo is simply a legitimate dealer with a penchant for secrecy.” Finally the middle finger joined the others, and Conti turned his wrist slowly in the air. “The third is that Santo, if that is really his name, is trying to sell you fakes.”

  “I will only know that once he has shown me the merchandise.”