Cold Tuscan Stone, David Wagner [i read book txt] 📗

why waste a few hours? It shouldn’t matter to the policeman. Rick finished unpacking, changed out of his comfortable driving jeans and sweater into something more respectable, and slipped on his overcoat.

As he folded the sweater, he remembered his promise to Erica to pack an extra one for the cold, and back out came his phone. He punched a couple of buttons and put it to his ear. After a few rings Erica’s voicemail kicked in and he debated whether to leave a message. “Ciao, bella, sono arrivato.” He hesitated and added, “—the hotel is perfect, thanks for the recommendation. A presto.” When he hit the off button he again checked the time. She shouldn’t be in class at this hour; was she still annoyed? What would be the term in Italian for “drama queen”? Diva is too easy, he thought, there must be something more nuanced. It annoyed him, a professional translator, that nothing came to mind.

A moment later he left the elevator, dropped his key at the front desk, and walked toward the entrance doors. The same woman stood behind the desk, and as the key thumped down she looked up quickly and smiled before returning to her screen. He pulled out his town map, studied it to confirm his bearings, and pushed through the glass door to descend onto the cobblestones of the Via San Lino. The guidebook said it was named for a local priest who had done well in the church hierarchy, though not well enough to become a household name outside of Volterra.

There was no sidewalk. When the street was set up centuries earlier the only non-pedestrian traffic was horses and carts, and everyone shared the relatively narrow space that ran in front of the stone houses. These days, except for the occasional mini-bus or other public vehicle, the street was used only by people on foot, but at this hour most of the locals were still at home having lunch or taking the Italian version of the siesta. They would emerge, rested and sated, by midafternoon. Inside the walls only residents were given passes to drive the narrow streets, and they were smart enough to use their cars only when needed, which was mostly to get from their parking garages out of town and back.

Even without cars to dodge, as he was used to doing in Rome, Rick walked close to the buildings to protect himself from the chill wind. It had been calm when he drove into the town, but the clouds that now covered the sky had brought breezes with them. Rick closed two of the buttons on his coat. The street began an incline on its way up to the main square of the city where the tourist shops are found, including Galleria Landi. But at this point Via San Lino is still part of a neighborhood, with a few small stores on the ground floor of the narrow stone structures, none more than four stories high, most of them two. Some shops had been converted to parking garages for the apartments above, but there were enough businesses to keep the street’s residents from having to walk too far to find the basics. He passed a small grocery, then a hardware store with so much stuff stacked up or hanging from the ceiling that it was a wonder any customers could fit inside. An old woman in a shop selling yarns did not look up from her knitting needles as he walked past her window. The smell of coffee was pushed by a small fan out of a tiny bar, probably to lure passersby like Rick. He was tempted, but still could taste his post-lunch espresso. The street forked just as Signora Liscio’s map had indicated and he bent to the left. A few hundred meters later he emerged into the Piazza dei Priori, the heart of Volterra. Erica was right, it was a magnificent space.

The feel was medieval, beginning with the city hall on his right, its harsh stone softened somewhat by rows of coats of arms affixed to it over the centuries by rulers and prominent families. Decorative pieces of wrought iron stuck out from the façade at intervals, ready to hold flags, or perhaps torches, for town celebrations. His eye moved up past the arched windows to a large clock, and then to the tower above it. An impressive building indeed. He knew from the Tuscany guidebook, a gift from his mother, that it was the oldest town hall in Tuscany still in use, and it looked it.

To the left, on the corner, was the commissariato where Rick would meet Conti in a few hours. It too had a stone tower to add to its imposing bulk, but unlike the town hall a cluster of antennas grew out of its crown, hinting at the profession of its present occupants. Clearly it was the less inviting building of the two, but of course that was the idea. Rick glanced back at the clock on city hall, recalculated his schedule, and walked out of the piazza.

A block later he reached Volterra’s main shopping street where its stores were beginning to open after the midday break. He passed two men chatting about the weather as they noisily cranked up the metal grates in front of their businesses, one selling shoes, the other jewelry and watches. There must be more shoe stores in Italy than restaurants, he thought, with jewelry stores a close second. Two women emerged from a coffee bar and Rick was hit again with the strong aroma of its espresso machines. This time, though only for an instant, he actually considered a quick shot of caffeine, then kept on walking until he reached the address at the top of his list. Climbing two steps, he entered Galleria Landi.

Soft indirect light filled the store, highlighting the glass shelves holding all manner of alabaster carvings. The light brought out the opaque colors of the alabaster, while it gave the thinner