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

your ability.” He looked at his watch, an old trick he used to make people answer quickly without doing too much thinking. The policeman is in a hurry.

“Of course, of course, I’m sorry.” Landi looked over at the men who appeared not to have heard the exchange. “Well, Canopo was a very intense worker. Not overly serious, mind you, he was always in a good mood, but he took everything seriously. He worked even harder after his daughter was born, no doubt wanting to do the best for her, and it was then that I thought he could become something more than just a skilled craftsman. Over the last few years he lived up to my expectations and was doing very well for himself.” He gave Conti a worried look, as if expecting another dressing down. “I hope I haven’t strayed from your question, Commissario.”

“No, not at all. Go on.”

“That’s all, really. I didn’t notice anything different in his behavior in the days before his death.”

“What was his normal work schedule?”

“The workshop opens early and closes at five every day, so after the workmen left he would usually come to the store and stay until it closed at seven.”

“Weekends?”

“Saturday he was at the store, this place is closed on weekends.”

“Any travel, business or otherwise?”

“I do any needed business travel, Commissario. Wait, I did send him up to Florence a couple months ago to check on a client. Not much to it, it was a way to break him in, to give him experience with another part of the business. He did fine.”

“I’ll need the names of whoever he saw up in Florence. And you have no idea who the man could be who stopped him on the street that day?”

“As…I mean, no, Commissario, I have no clue. I didn’t know that much about his personal life, other than his immediate family. Perhaps it was some relative who appeared. He was from Sicily, was he not?”

Right, thought Conti, let’s blame the mafia.

“Who’s in charge of the workshop now? When you’re not here.”

“That would be Malandro. I think you spoke with him the last time.”

“I did. Will Signor Malandro be getting a raise with his new responsibility?”

Landi glanced at the foreman, who was working at a far table, and turned back to Conti. “Yes, I suppose I will give him a higher salary. If I understand what you’re implying, Commissario—”

“I’m not implying anything, Signor Landi, I’m just trying to get some questions answered.” Conti knew that Malandro and the other men had given the same alibi for the time of the murder: they were working here in the shop. It made sense, given their normal work schedule. But perhaps it was time to check those alibis more carefully, questioning the men again, one by one.

Back in the car, Conti pulled out his cell phone. “Sergeant, this is Commissario Conti. Is there any word on Canopo’s bank statements?…I know what they told us…No, don’t bother, I’ll have to call the bank myself when I get back….Yes, yes, I’m on my way.”

They always want to know when I’m coming back to the station, thought Conti, and let out a small chuckle.

“Sir?” asked the driver.

“Nothing Sergeant,” he said. “I was just wondering if after I retire Signora Conti will always want to know when I’m coming home.”

The driver kept his eyes on the street and said nothing.

Conti put the phone in his pocket and glanced out the window at a patch of hills visible in the distance at the far end of a side street. Suddenly he remembered where he had seen that Etruscan reclining figure he had picked up from the shelf at Galleria Landi. It was in that shed with the other fake antiquities.

***

Villa Gloria, the country residence of Donatella Minotti, was about a twenty minute drive from Volterra. Rick steered his rental car through the narrow one-way streets before squeezing through the north gate and starting around the city’s wall to the west. The Roman ruins appeared on his left. How many hours had it been since Canopo’s life was ended there? It seemed like a week, but in fact the time could be measured in hours. Would Commissario Conti come up with the murderer, assuming he was correct that the death wasn’t suicide? He seemed like an intelligent policeman, but as his uncle Piero had told him many times, luck plays a part in any criminal investigation. Would Conti get lucky? He slowed down as the car in front of him turned into the parking lot below the wall. Perhaps it was Herb and Shirley, returning for a bit more excitement before jetting back to Iowa.

He had almost made a complete loop, but just before coming to the Porta San Francesco, near his hotel, Rick took a sharp right turn and drove down the hill to the north. The road clung to a contorted finger of high ground that dropped off steeply on either side, slowly descending from the city’s high promontory. It was easy to see why the Etruscans chose this spot to build the city. There were just a few ways to reach the hill, all of them difficult, and with its thick walls the town became virtually impregnable. The road cut sharply left and right as it worked its way down, passing a few buildings perched on small patches of flat land overlooking the deep gorges. Short, scrubby trees and sharp rocks were the dominant features of the area, giving it a wild and timeless look, but the harshness of the surroundings softened as the car descended to flatter land. He was coming into the valley of the Era River whose waters started near Volterra and flowed north before merging with the Arno and passing through Pisa to the sea.

The clouds that hung earlier over Volterra had thinned to only a few white wisps, and the temperature was warming as the afternoon progressed, creating a perfect fall day. This was a section of Tuscany that saw relatively little