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

pieces here are authenticated to be from his workshop. Isn’t it ironic that forgeries have become so collectible? I wish I had more of them.”

Was this a test? Probably not, since she’d kept her eyes on the shelves as she talked. Unlike Dario, who had his eyes glued on Rick. If I make any sudden move, I’m a dead man, he thought. She began to go from one piece to the next, lovingly pointing out some unique feature or how it related to Etruscan daily life. Rick was fascinated. Thank goodness he had read just enough of Beppo’s book to appreciate what she was saying and could ask a question or two that made him appear to know what he was talking about. For each of the pieces she noted if it were a copy, or in a few cases if it were original. Apparently there were enough authentic pieces that could be sold with the proper authorization from the government, though exportation required almost insurmountable red tape. Rick nodded noncommittally. She was avoiding prices which would arrive in a later discussion, should they get to that point.

With a coquettish twirl she turned from the shelf and looked at Rick. “They are beautiful, are they not?”

“Yes, so much history in each one. I’m not sure they are the kind of pieces my gallery would be interested in. But if they are, is there…”

“Of course.” She raised a finger and looked past him toward the door. Dario had been so silent during her description of the pieces that Rick had almost forgotten the man was there. Now the majordomo stepped forward and passed a folder to Donatella. Without a thank you she passed it to Rick. “There is a sheet on each work in the Etruscan collection in this file. Please take it with you. There is also a price list, though I should note that the prices can change. Shipping and customs paperwork are not included, of course. Nor is the IVA.”

“Of course.” The Value Added Tax percentage on this stuff would be more that what he paid for groceries back in Rome, probably right up there with jewelry and Lamborghinis. He flipped open the file and saw that each sheet had a color photo of the piece with a short explanation. The prices were in Euros. “This will be very helpful. I can fax it back to Santa Fe.”

She glanced at Dario who pulled open the heavy door as if it were made of plywood. There was no need for words between these two, they seemed to read each other’s minds. As Rick and Donatella walked back down the hallway to the living room he could hear the door locking behind them.

“Now will you accept the offer of a coffee, Riccardo?” From the voice, it appeared to him that Donatella the businesswoman had left the premises. Who would take her place?

Coffee sounded like a good idea, a late-afternoon jolt of caffeine was just what he needed. “Grazie, I would love one.” Dario had silently come in from the hallway, and once again she gave him a wordless glance, causing his black bulk to disappear through a door. She watched Rick follow the man with his eyes.

“Dario worked for my family for several years when I was young, and was treated very well by my father. When Papa died Dario left Tuscany and worked in the south. A few years ago he reappeared in need of a job and I hired him. He is very loyal.”

“Somehow I gathered that.”

For the first time she laughed. “Please sit. That chair is not very comfortable; come sit here.” She patted the sofa next to her and then kicked off her shoes as she had done earlier, this time crossing her legs and facing him. Rick put the folder on the table and squeezed himself into the opposite side of the sofa.

“So, Riccardo, you have already made the news here in Volterra, and after just a day in the city.” She placed her hands on her knees, yoga style.

“I suppose everyone reads the local paper.”

“Or watches the news on TV.”

“They mentioned me on a newscast?”

“Well, not by name, but the reporter spoke of a visiting American who is here to buy art. It was you, was it not?”

“Guilty as charged.” He made a face of mock pain. “Perhaps that’s not the phrase to use in this situation.”

He was interrupted by the arrival of Dario with a round tray carrying two small porcelain cups and saucers as well as a bowl of sugar and two glasses of mineral water. He placed it on the table in front of the sofa and shuffled out. Donatella added sugar to Rick’s cup, at his request, but left her own espresso black.

“The newspaper said that the police are still investigating, and likely will be at it for a while.” She settled back into the chair and took a sip. “Don’t you think it will be a while?”

Rick didn’t want to talk about the case. He didn’t know very much of what Conti had found out, though after spending so much time with the inspector, he certainly knew more than Donatella. Given the real reason for his presence in Volterra, the contacts with Conti were something he did not want to broadcast.

“I really wouldn’t know.”

She had her saucer in the palm of one hand and held the cup by two fingers of the other, gazing over them into Rick’s eyes. “We don’t get many murders in Volterra, Riccardo. Everyone will be talking about it for weeks.”

“Murder? I assumed it was suicide.” He couldn’t remember if the newspaper story had speculated as to the cause of the fall.

Donatella reached out and put her empty cup on the tray. “This is a small town, we need something other than local politics to talk about. Suicide would not be half as interesting as a murder, now would it? The man was not old, and had a family. Why would he take his own