Cold Tuscan Stone (8 page)

“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.”

Rick turned and greeted Landi, whose German clients were walking toward the door carrying a large paper bag marked with the tasteful logo of Galleria Landi.

“I was shocked to hear of Canopo's accident, Signor Landi.” Rick could not decide if actual condolences were in order for the dead man's employer. “It must have been terrible news for you.”

“Yes, yes, we are all stunned.” He clasped his hands together and held them to his mouth, almost the caricature of mourning, before dropping them to his sides. “When the police appeared here last night, I did not understand at first. I assumed that Orlando was with you at the workshop, but when I called there—at the request of the Commissario, of course—I was told that you never appeared.” Landi paused and looked at Rick, waiting for a comment.

“Just outside the shop,” Rick said, “he spoke to someone on the street. Then he told me he would have to show me the shop tomorrow. That is, today. And he rushed off.” That was probably about as much as Conti would want him to say.

Landi digested the words for a few seconds, shaking his head slowly. “What could that have been about? He certainly didn't tell me of any possible appointments. I don't suppose he told you who the man was.” Rick shook his head. “Well, life must go on,” said Landi, his wiry smile returning. “Do you have time for a visit to our workshop now? I think that Graziella can handle the store for the moment, and my wife is in the back if she needs help. Shall we?”

“By all means.”

It did not appear that Landi was suffering in his grief.

***

Powdered stone dust floated through the air and covered everything, its dull white softened by the light of the florescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Large blocks of stone lay scattered around the floor, like some of the ruins Rick knew well in Rome. Finished sculpture stood on the shelves, and unfinished pieces were clamped firmly on the wooden tables. Five men wearing long coats and folded paper hats stood at work stations around the shop, but only the nearest of them looked up when Landi and Rick entered. The others were too intent on their labors. In the dusty haze of the room there was little to distinguish the workers from their work; had it not been for their movement, the men could well have been mistaken for crudely carved gray statues.

The sound of machinery had been audible on the street, but now it was so loud that Landi had to raise his voice to be heard. The main culprit was a large lathe at one side of the room which was shaving a trunk of alabaster about three feet long. Landi shouted that the piece would be sliced into thick discs which would then be carefully made into bowls or dishes. He pulled a flat plate from a nearby shelf to demonstrate the nearly-finished product. It was already thin but would be made even thinner, he said, allowing light to shine through it. They moved to a heavy wooden table where another worker was chipping away with a small chisel at a cherub about two feet tall. An assortment of other chisels in various sizes and angles were loosely arranged on the table, their wood grips shiny from years of use. The man held the tool in his right hand and slid it over the pointed index finger of his left, like a small pool cue, softly grinding the alabaster to open a space between two of the angel's toes.

Landi did not identify the first two workers, but the man at the third table was introduced as Signor Malandro, the foreman of the shop. Rick saw that the coat he wore was a different color, a light blue in contrast to the dirty white on the other men, no doubt to indicate his foreman status. Even in the smallest of work groups rank was important. Otherwise the foreman didn't appear much different from the others, though the blue of his coat showed more dust. The man's hands were thick and rough, the hair under the newsprint hat a dark gray, though it could have been stone dust rather than natural color.

Malandro's unshaven face and hollow eyes took stock of the visitor with a long stare before he turned silently back to his table. Rick wondered for an instant if the man knew he was the last to see Canopo alive, and was somehow holding him responsible. Malandro was carefully making marks with a thick pencil on a large block of stone, but it was too early in the process for Rick to even guess what form this piece would eventually take. Landi, with a louder shout, asked his foreman to give the workers a break. Putting down his pencil, he walked over to each of the workers, tapped them on the shoulder and signaled with a chop of the hand to stop working. They were soon seated at various wooden stools, half of them lighting cigarettes. All sat silently, but only Malandro watched the two men who had interrupted their work routine.

“There, that will allow us to talk,” said Landi in a relieved tone. He went on to describe the work in the various corners of the room. This shop, he said, specialized in more traditional styles, the kind of sculpture turned out by Volterra's artisans for thousands of years. Bowls, human figures, vases. Designs were mostly classical to appeal to buyers who wanted something with a clear Italian look to it. Other shops turned out nontraditional alabaster art, both practical and whimsical, but since Rick had mentioned Etruscan-style items, he wanted to bring him here. Was his assumption correct?