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

she gave him what appeared to be a genuine smile before going quickly back to her computer screen. Must be his celebrity status.

***

Rick pulled the coat’s cloth belt tightly around his middle and tied it in a loose knot. He was glad he’d packed the coat. The weather in Rome hadn’t been that cold lately, but here either a front had moved in or it simply got colder in this part of the country. Volterra was way up on this hill, after all. He pulled his small GPS from the coat pocket, switched it on, and read 1694 feet above sea level. He really should have set it to meters now that he was in Italy, but the reading confirmed why there was the chill. Volterra was much higher than Rome, which was barely above sea level, and Tuscany was also much farther north. He repocketed the GPS and started up the street toward the cathedral, focusing on the mysterious Signor Santo, and who could have sent the man. It had to be Landi. Who else had he contacted? Well, Donatella, of course, he could be working for her or with her. The only other persons he had seen were Conti, not a suspect, and Zerbino, the same. Polpetto, the exporter, would have been a contender, but Rick hadn’t met the guy yet. Unless his secretary with the red glasses could have taken his mention of Etruscan art and run with it. That could explain the difference between their brief encounter in the office and the equally brief meeting on the street. But that would be unlikely, since the boss would want to meet Rick before making any decision to pass his name to someone else.

He took the right fork in the street, passing a small chapel wedged into the triangular corner. Inside he could see a few votive candles flickering weakly in the dim space. The chapel was dedicated to Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, a category Rick fit right into at the moment. It wouldn’t hurt to have some extra help on this trip; he should stop in on the way back and say a prayer. That and this visit to the cathedral could also get him some points with his mother, if he wrote about them in the right terms. As he continued up the hill his mind went back to Santo, and something he had been considering since the man had called. Should he call Beppo or Conti before the rendezvous with the man? He had gone back and forth with himself and decided in the end to wait until afterward.

Okay, it was a macho thing: report when there is something to report, don’t look like you are afraid of some guy in a church pew. What’s he going to do, pull a knife on you in front of the old ladies and tourists? Rick was sure the man wouldn’t dare try that on a guy wearing cowboy boots.

He entered a small square in front of the cathedral. On one side was the baptistery, an octagonal structure which had likely taken its design from the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, seen by crusaders and recreated in religious buildings around Italy after their return. Rick silently thanked his father, whose interest in architecture had packed such obscure facts into his head, and then faced the cathedral itself. Unlike the baptistery, which stood apart, it was flanked on both sides by other buildings. In case there was any doubt, the large rose window and arched façade made clear its religious vocation. Rick pushed through one of the side doors and found himself in the rear of the church. To his left was a room which looked like a museum, but looking ahead his eye was drawn to the large cross above the altar. Because it was already getting dark outside, he needed little time to adjust to the shadowy ambience. Out of habit he crossed himself, then stood for a few moments in the back looking for Santo. Or someone who could be Santo, since the man had neglected to describe himself.

At least Santo had been correct about those found worshipping in the cathedral at this hour. Three tourists, who looked Scandinavian, were clustered around an ornately carved pulpit halfway up the left side, one reading in a low voice from a guidebook while the others peered at the ivory stone. In the very front row two women sat in silence, their heads bent in prayer. From their black clothing and gray hair, they could have been sisters, but they sat on opposite sides of the row. Rick walked down the right aisle, chose a pew far from both the tourists and the women, and sat down. On, of course, another hard wooden bench. He stretched his legs and noticed some movement at the front of the church, to the left of the altar. It was a short, bearded priest, clad in dark robes. The priest walked to the front of the altar and surveyed the visitors for a moment, his eyes resting on Rick, who clearly did not fit the profile of church goers for this time of day during the week. Rick momentarily entertained the thought that Santo was a priest, which certainly would have been ironic, for the name if nothing else. But the robed figure stepped down and walked briskly to the far side of the church where he took out a key and opened the donation box. Rick heard the clink of a few coins as they were put into a small sack the priest had pulled from his robe.

“May I?” A man slipped into the pew next to Rick, looked up at the altar, and slowly crossed himself. “I hope I have not kept you waiting.”

Rick was sitting almost too close to size up the man, and he slid a few inches to one side to put some space between them. Santo was unbuttoning a lined raincoat to reveal