Cold Tuscan Stone (9 page)

“Yes it was,” Rick replied. “This is certainly the kind of thing that would interest the gallery. How much of it is done by hand, and how much by machine? Handmade pieces would certainly be more attractive to our customers.” Rick thought how easy it was to slip into his role, and he was enjoying the challenge.

“Well, as you can see it is a combination of both, but when it gets to the final stages, it is mostly by hand. We save time, and of course expense, by using machines to get the stone into the general shape required, but then it is small drills and a lot of old-fashioned chisels which create the final contours. We can use sanding machines up to a certain point, but in the end handrubbing is the only way to bring out the brilliant shine from a perfect piece of alabaster.”

He walked with Rick to a corner table holding a rectangular slab whose surface was decorated with classical figures in bas-relief. Two women in diaphanous gowns danced under a tree, while a hoofed satyr sitting between them played a double flute. The scene was framed by garlands of leaves and fruit.

“This work started from a piece of alabaster cut to size using that large mechanical saw over there. Then its figures were shaped with small electric drills, but mostly the worker used chisels whose design and function have not changed for centuries. Many of the techniques go back to pre-Roman times.”

Rick turned his eyes from the stone to his host. Landi had an expectant smile on his face, spoiled somewhat by the row of yellow teeth. No doubt he was hoping for at least a pro forma compliment about the merchandise, or perhaps something about a firm sales order. But instead Rick went to a new topic. It was time.

“Signor Landi, your mention of ancient art brings up something else of interest to me. While these pieces could be appropriate for our normal customers, we also have very affluent collectors in our city who are, might I say, looking for something exceptional, even extraordinary. They see a beautiful work of art in a museum and want to own such genuine art themselves. When they purchase rare works they often keep them locked away in a private room, for safety and for the joy of owning something unique. If you know of any items like that on the local market, my associates in America could be interested. Obviously the gallery would show our appreciation to you if we were pointed in the right direction.”

Landi's face went serious as he took in Rick's words. Did he get the message? And if he did, was he the right person to do anything about it? Rick was beginning to doubt it when the man began to nod slowly.

“I think I may know someone who could be of help. Let me make a phone call when I get back to the store.” He was smiling again as he turned to the men who sat near where they stood. “Dino, our thanks, we will let you get back to work.” The foreman nodded sullenly and got up, followed by the other craftsmen who put out their cigarettes and shuffled to their tables. The air, which was now almost clear, would soon be filled with dust again.

Back in the street, Landi brushed off his clothes with rough slaps. “No matter how careful I am when I go in there, I always come out covered. I don't understand how the men stand it. At least Malandro, who you met there, will start to get a break from the shop. I haven't told him yet, but he will likely be replacing Canopo, splitting his time between the store and the workshop.”

He's going to have to clean up quite a bit before he's put out in front of the tourists, Rick thought. At that moment his cell phone rang, and he pulled it out of his coat pocket. Not a number he recognized, but a local one. He looked at Landi.

“Please take your call, Signor Montoya, I really should be getting back to the store anyway.”

They shook hands and Landi stepped quickly down the street.

“Montoya.”

“Signor Montoya, this is Commissario Conti. I need to see you right away. Are you close to my office?”

Chapter Six

Rick's first entry into the back of the building went without a hitch. He didn't even have to show an identification before being waved past the policeman. Conti was so anxious to get Rick to his office quickly that he must have alerted security. As Rick stopped to get his bearings, a man who had entered the building just behind him brushed past and hurried down a corridor. Unlike the others milling around inside the entrance, the man did not have a uniform. Rick found the stairway that took him up to Conti's floor.

“Signor Montoya, thank you for getting here so quickly.” Conti had come to his feet when Rick entered, and now shook his hand before motioning him to the chair in front of the desk and sitting back down. The smile today seemed more genuine. Was the policeman more accepting of Rick's assignment? Would that be the reason for the call? He settled into the same chair as the previous evening, noticing that the seat was just as hard, and looked at Conti.

“Of course, Commissario. Has something come up regarding my activities here in Volterra?”

“No, not directly. I am in need of your help on another matter, one that you are aware of because of your…” He searched for the right words. “Your connection with the subject of my investigation. I am referring to the Canopo case.”

“But Commissario, I already told you everything yesterday. Certainly there could not—”

Conti held up his hands. “No, no, I fear I have not made myself clear. Your involvement in the…the accident, is not in question. What I need is your professional assistance.”

Rick shifted in the chair, wishing it had some kind of cushion. “I don't understand.”

“Signor Montoya, there were two American tourists who witnessed Canopo's plunge from the wall. When they returned to their hotel they told their hotel manager about it, and he, fortunately, called us. When I did a check on you yesterday, purely routine, of course, I found that you are a professional translator. Alas, my English is almost non-existent, so I thought that—”

“Of course, I would be pleased to be of assistance.” Rick smiled.

Conti returned the smile, which this time did not seem forced. “There is something else that I found out about you, Signor Montoya.”

Now what?

“You did not mention to me that your uncle is quite a high-level policeman in Rome. Most Italians would have immediately brought up such a family connection when finding themselves in a difficult situation with law enforcement authorities, as you had yesterday. It is obvious to me now that you are American, or mostly American.”

Perhaps Conti had a point; it had never entered Rick's mind to mention Uncle Piero. He made a mental note:
Montoya, next time you're a suspect in an Italian murder investigation, act more Italian.
“It didn't seem relevant, Commissario.”

“Of course it didn't.” Conti actually chuckled as he rose from his desk, a first in Rick's presence. “I believe they are in the waiting room, but please stay seated. I think I have enough English at least to greet them and bring them here.” He motioned to the other end of the office. “We will sit at the table.”

When he found himself alone, Rick got up, walked to the window of the office and looked down on the piazza. A group of tourists were staring back at him, probably thinking he was a cop if they somehow knew this was the city's police station. Would Conti have left him here by himself, with the papers on the desk, if he didn't know about Uncle Piero? He knew Conti hadn't actually talked to his uncle, or Rick would have had a call from Rome immediately after the two had spoken. But it was clear that whatever Conti's source about Rick's family, the man was now more comfortable around him. As he pondered this development, he heard Conti's voice in the hallway.

“Is this door,” he said in English, and pair of seniors entered the office ahead of him. They were dressed for comfort, including running shoes, white for him, black for her. Both wore zippered wind-breakers, good for warmth as well as protection against anything but a heavy rain. Very practical. They had probably researched weather history for Tuscany before leaving on the trip, and packed accordingly.

“I present Mister Montoya, my colleague.” Rick was considering the use of the term “colleague” when Conti turned to him and switched to Italian. “Signor Montoya, this is Signor and Signora Rudabeck, they are from Iowa.” He pronounced it ee-OH-wah.

As he shook hands with Rick, Mr. Rudabeck spoke.

“WE DON'T SPEAK ANY ITALIAN.”

Rick had witnessed this before, especially with Americans: if you just talk louder, the person will understand your English. Translation through volume.

“You don't need to shout, Mr. Rudabeck, I'm an American. The Commissario has asked me to help with his interview since his English is, well, somewhat rusty.”

“See, Herb, I knew they would have someone who speaks English. Where you from, Mr. Montoya?”

The classic question from an American tourist. “I live in Rome now, but went to school in New Mexico.”

“We've been to Phoenix,” Herb said in a normal voice, relaxed after hearing Rick's English. “We're from just outside Davenport. On the river.”

Rick was deciding how to reply to the Phoenix reference when a look from Conti indicated it was time to get to the business at hand. The couple was invited to sit at the conference table at the other side of the room. Rick and Conti took the chairs opposite them. Coffee was offered to the Rudabecks and they politely declined. Conti said to Rick that what he needed was simply a description of what they saw, and the couple was ready when Rick relayed the question in English. As they spoke, Rick kept his eyes on their faces and gave a running translation into Conti's ear. Thanks to his work, the routine was second nature to him.

“I'm the one who saw the accident, Herb, so let me tell him. We were coming back to our car in the parking lot. We have a rental car, we picked it up in Florence.”

“They don't need to know about the rental car, Shirley.”

She ignored the comment. “It was just getting dark, and my husband was putting the key into the lock to open the door. I was looking up at that moment, back toward the town, and that was when I saw the man falling off the wall. I didn't hear anything, but it may have been too far away. Do people usually scream when they fall, like in the movies?” From the look on her face, she was beginning to understand it had not been a movie.

“I don't know, Mrs. Rudabeck,” answered Rick. “Did you see anyone up on the wall after he fell?”

“I'm not sure. It was dark, like I said, and I think my eyes naturally followed the man as he fell. If there was anyone up there, he might have left before I looked back up. I did look up at the top of the wall, I know that, because I remember thinking how long a drop it was. But I can't recall seeing anyone.”

“We had just walked along that very street when the sun was starting to go down, about an hour before that,” added her husband, who seemed oblivious to his wife's growing emotion. “Looked down at the Roman ruins. It's a long way to fall.”

So the length of the fall was well established.

Conti relayed a few more questions, trying to find out what else, if anything, the tourists had seen. When it became clear to him that they had nothing more to add which could be of any help, he stood up and gave the couple an appreciative bow.

“I thank you very much.” Conti hesitated, trying to think of something else to say in his limited English, and repeated, “I thank you very much.”

“You're very welcome, officer.” Mr. Rudabeck turned to Rick. “And thank you for your help, Mr. Montoya. We'll be telling this story to our friends when we get back to Davenport, that's for sure. It's even better than what happened to Shirley on the bus in Florence.”

The bus incident did not appear to be something Shirley wanted recounted. She quickly stuck out her hand to Rick. “Be sure to look us up if you come through Davenport. We're in the phone book.” She turned to Conti and took his hand in both of hers. “That poor man,” she said to the silent policeman.

Rick volunteered to see the couple to the building's front entrance, much to Conti's relief. When he returned, the commissario was sitting at his desk looking at papers in a file, and Rick took the seat facing him.

“Was that helpful, Commissario?” He knew the answer, and Conti confirmed it.

“Not helpful, but necessary. It confirms what we knew already, which is always a good thing, but didn't give us anything new. Now if she had seen someone above…”

Conti's voice trailed off. Rick watched the man's eyes, which were pointed at the papers in front of him.

“You think it was murder, Commissario.” It was not a question. Conti looked at Rick, hesitating a moment before speaking.

“You are the nephew of a colleague, so perhaps you have discussed some of his cases with him. I suppose it would not be a problem if I shared my thoughts with you, since you are involved, so to speak, with the case. I trust your discretion.” The introduction sounded to Rick that Conti was talking to himself and not the person he faced. “Yes, Signor Montoya, I believe it was murder.” He pressed a finger to the papers. “The initial autopsy report points in that direction, though I suspected foul play almost immediately. It did not make sense that the man would have taken his own life, and my conversation with the widow convinced me even more that he didn't commit suicide.”

“What did the autopsy indicate?”

Conti pulled a paper from the file and placed it on top. “Two items of interest. There were some fresh bruises on the body which likely were not caused by the impact of the fall, indicating that he had been held or pulled.”

“To get him to the edge and over.”

“Exactly. And there were traces of skin under the fingernails of one hand, meaning that he had scratched someone. This and the bruises seem to point to a struggle. A short one, perhaps, but a struggle none the less.”

“So someone wrestled him to the edge and pushed him over. Or more than one person.”

Conti smiled. “You think like a detective, Signor Montoya. Yes, one or more persons.” He closed the file with a quick hand motion. “And your situation? Is there anything new there?”

Rick wanted to continue talking about the murder, but respected Conti's wish to change the subject. Canopo's death would come up again.

“I trust you saw the paper this morning, Commissario?”

“Yes, you are now famous. Be assured that it was not I nor my men who told the reporter about you being the last one to see Canopo alive. But at least your name did not appear in the story.”

“It might as well have, there aren't that many American art dealers in town. I suspect that Landi, or someone in his shop, told the newspaper about me. I should have asked him that when I saw him this morning.” Rick recounted the meeting with the shop owner, and the hint he dropped with the man about items of special interest.

“Do you think Landi understood?”

“I'm not sure, Commissario. But he did say he was going to call someone. We'll have to wait and see.”

Conti's face said that he was still annoyed, or bored, by the whole artifacts business. Or perhaps it was simply that his mind was on the murder. “Where are you going next?”

“This morning I stopped by the office of the exporter, Polpetto, but he can't see me until tomorrow morning. I have an appointment with Signora Minotti late this afternoon. So after lunch I thought I would drop by the museum to meet Dr. Zerbino.”

“I would ask you to give him my regards, but obviously that would not be appropriate.”

“No, Commissario, it wouldn't.”

They stood up and Rick noticed, for the first time, that Conti was wearing the same rumpled suit as the previous day. He could not be sure of the tie.

***

“
Ciao Beppo, a presto
.”

Rick snapped his cell phone closed and looked down at the plate of pasta that had just been put before him; cheese tortellini with a thick meat ragú, the perfect dish for a cold day. Beppo had been pleased with the update, but didn't seem especially anxious to hear about the details. The call might have caught him at the wrong time, when he was busy with other cases or dealing with the annoying office politics of the ministry—what Italian government office was immune to infighting? Bureaucracy may have been invented by the French but Machiavelli was an Italian. Or maybe Beppo was in the middle of his lunch, and like most Romans considered the
pranzo
a sacred part of the day, if possible enjoyed without interruptions from less important issues. Since Beppo had seemed in a hurry, Rick had not even brought up the murder case. Now he wondered if he should have mentioned it, even though it had nothing directly to do with his ministry work in Volterra. He'd leave it for the next call. Rick pulled the Etruscan book from his coat and spread it open above the plate.

The tortellini, an ample bread basket, and the quarter liter of red wine were filling enough to keep him from following the pasta with a main course. Instead he had a small green salad and asked for a few more slices of bread. He watched as the waiter mixed the oil and vinegar in a spoon before tossing it with the leaves. No choice of dressings here. He had been one of the last people to enter the restaurant and now he was likely to be close to the last to leave. Only two other tables were still occupied. One held a group of East European tourists who had just ordered another round of grappa, and were clearly developing a taste for the stuff. For Rick, drinking it was like sipping kerosene, albeit a very high quality kerosene. At the other table, in a corner, sat an older man across from a girl in her early twenties, an empty wine bottle between them. Rick had caught her looking in his direction earlier when the conversation between them had stalled.
Isn't that precious
, he thought with an inward smile, the man is taking his niece out to lunch. Family is so, so important to Italians. Rick raised his hand to catch the eye of the waiter.