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

was an American art dealer who is in Volterra on business. Without thinking he looked quickly around the room to see if anyone was looking at him, but everyone seemed more interested in their coffee.

He shook his head, opened up the paper, and forced himself to read more local news. A political crisis in the Tuscan regional government mirrored the situation in the national parliament. There were rumors that a local soccer star was in negotiations with a team in Milan. The city tourist bureau announced the summer’s cultural events, including July concerts in the main square. He folded the paper and pulled back the cover of the yoghurt, trying to put the death of Canopo out of his head.

It was not a good start to the morning, but he brought his thoughts back to the day’s schedule. He would have to return to Landi’s shop. Beppo had put the man at the top of Rick’s list, apparently convinced that he could be involved in the ring, or at least be close enough to the action to point Rick in the direction of the actual tomb robbers. But given the death of Landi’s employee, it might be politic not to show up immediately this morning. Instead, Rick would continue down the list of Beppo’s names. He pondered the second person on the list, Donatella Minotti. When her name came up in the ministry briefing he had failed to tell Beppo that the woman was Erica’s college friend. Nor had he told Erica afterward about Donatella’s appearance on the list. If Donatella was just an honest art dealer, as Erica believed, it wouldn’t be an issue with either Beppo or Erica. Under the opposite scenario it could be difficult, to say the least, if Donatella turned out to be involved in trafficking. But no use worrying about it now. Rino Polpetto, the exporter, was the third name. Rick decided to drop in on him after breakfast, but first he would call Donatella.

***

“Signora Minotti? My name is Riccardo Montoya, I am visiting from Rome.”

There was hesitation on the other end of the line. Perhaps she noticed a slight Roman accent and was puzzled since the name was not Italian. “Yes, Signor Montoya, how can I be of assistance?” Rick went through his routine, and she listened to it patiently. “Possible purchases for a gallery in America? Yes, I would be pleased to talk with you.” There was another pause. Had she seen the story in the paper? It was almost impossible to get a sense of the woman over the phone, without the gestures, body language, and facial expressions which define Italian personalities. Her voice revealed almost nothing, which he decided was intentional.

“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