Cold Tuscan Stone

by David P. Wagner

  “What did the autopsy indicate?”

  Conti pulled a paper from the file and placed it on top. “Two items of interest. There were some fresh bruises on the body which likely were not caused by the impact of the fall, indicating that he had been held or pulled.”

  “To get him to the edge and over.”

  “Exactly. And there were traces of skin under the fingernails of one hand, meaning that he had scratched someone. This and the bruises seem to point to a struggle. A short one, perhaps, but a struggle none the less.”

  “So someone wrestled him to the edge and pushed him over. Or more than one person.”

  Conti smiled. “You think like a detective, Signor Montoya. Yes, one or more persons.” He closed the file with a quick hand motion. “And your situation? Is there anything new there?”

  Rick wanted to continue talking about the murder, but respected Conti’s wish to change the subject. Canopo’s death would come up again.

  “I trust you saw the paper this morning, Commissario?”

  “Yes, you are now famous. Be assured that it was not I nor my men who told the reporter about you being the last one to see Canopo alive. But at least your name did not appear in the story.”

  “It might as well have, there aren’t that many American art dealers in town. I suspect that Landi, or someone in his shop, told the newspaper about me. I should have asked him that when I saw him this morning.” Rick recounted the meeting with the shop owner, and the hint he dropped with the man about items of special interest.

  “Do you think Landi understood?”

  “I’m not sure, Commissario. But he did say he was going to call someone. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  Conti’s face said that he was still annoyed, or bored, by the whole artifacts business. Or perhaps it was simply that his mind was on the murder. “Where are you going next?”

  “This morning I stopped by the office of the exporter, Polpetto, but he can’t see me until tomorrow morning. I have an appointment with Signora Minotti late this afternoon. So after lunch I thought I would drop by the museum to meet Dr. Zerbino.”

  “I would ask you to give him my regards, but obviously that would not be appropriate.”

  “No, Commissario, it wouldn’t.”

  They stood up and Rick noticed, for the first time, that Conti was wearing the same rumpled suit as the previous day. He could not be sure of the tie.

  ***

  “Ciao Beppo, a presto.”

  Rick snapped his cell phone closed and looked down at the plate of pasta that had just been put before him; cheese tortellini with a thick meat ragú, the perfect dish for a cold day. Beppo had been pleased with the update, but didn’t seem especially anxious to hear about the details. The call might have caught him at the wrong time, when he was busy with other cases or dealing with the annoying office politics of the ministry—what Italian government office was immune to infighting? Bureaucracy may have been invented by the French but Machiavelli was an Italian. Or maybe Beppo was in the middle of his lunch, and like most Romans considered the pranzo a sacred part of the day, if possible enjoyed without interruptions from less important issues. Since Beppo had seemed in a hurry, Rick had not even brought up the murder case. Now he wondered if he should have mentioned it, even though it had nothing directly to do with his ministry work in Volterra. He’d leave it for the next call. Rick pulled the Etruscan book from his coat and spread it open above the plate.

  The tortellini, an ample bread basket, and the quarter liter of red wine were filling enough to keep him from following the pasta with a main course. Instead he had a small green salad and asked for a few more slices of bread. He watched as the waiter mixed the oil and vinegar in a spoon before tossing it with the leaves. No choice of dressings here. He had been one of the last people to enter the restaurant and now he was likely to be close to the last to leave. Only two other tables were still occupied. One held a group of East European tourists who had just ordered another round of grappa, and were clearly developing a taste for the stuff. For Rick, drinking it was like sipping kerosene, albeit a very high quality kerosene. At the other table, in a corner, sat an older man across from a girl in her early twenties, an empty wine bottle between them. Rick had caught her looking in his direction earlier when the conversation between them had stalled. Isn’t that precious, he thought with an inward smile, the man is taking his niece out to lunch. Family is so, so important to Italians. Rick raised his hand to catch the eye of the waiter.

  “Il conto, per favore.”

  The cool air of the street felt good on his face, and he took in a deep breath. The lunch had fortified him well, and he was ready to take on Beppo’s university colleague. Rick had not met many museum directors in his life, in fact he hadn’t met any, but his guess was that like any other profession they could be dull or charming, or somewhere in between. It would be just his luck that Zerbino was more the former.

  He consulted his town map before starting to work his way through various streets until he turned onto the wide Via Gramsci. Every town in Italy had a street named for one of the founders of the Italian Communist Party, and Volterra was not going to be an exception. The party was now virtually defunct, or more accurately it had morphed into a new political entity with many of the same characters but a different name. Change to insure survival had been both an individual and institutional tradition in Italy for thousands of years. As Rick knew from the book, the Etruscans had managed to survive by being drawn into the growing Roman empire. The more things change…

  “Signor Montoya.”

  The woman came out of a store and was walking toward him. He didn’t recognize the voice, but when he saw the red glasses he knew immediately who it was. She was not behind a desk this time, so he could tell her shape below her waist. The legs, anyway, and the ankle-high leather boots for Volterra’s stone streets. Still no view of the skirt; a long purple coat nicely covered it. That’s assuming she’s wearing one, he thought naughtily. They shook hands.

  “On your way to your next appointment, Signor Montoya?”

  “You have an advantage on me that you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  The smile was not forced this time, she seemed a different person out of the office. “Claretta. Claretta Angelini.”

  He offered a slight bow. “Un piacere, Signora Angelini. Yes, I am off to another appointment.” That was enough information for her.

  “I hope that you will have time to see some of Volterra. There is not another city like it in Tuscany. Or Italy, for that matter.” She had been moving her hands in a circle to make her point, and now, as if noticing the temperature, she put them into the pockets of her coat. Rick wondered how long she would be able to keep them there. “The civic museum, is just around the corner over there.” Out came one of the hands to indicate direction. “It has some wonderful works of art.”

  “I have been told that, and plan on seeing it.”

  She was still intently studying his face when she pulled up her sleeve and checked her watch, its large face almost covering her wrist. It was edged with red enamel to match her glasses. “You must be going to your appointment, Signor Montoya. I have not yet tracked down Signor Polpetto, he is off on one of his trips, but I am very sure that the appointment tomorrow will be agreeable.” It sounded like it was her decision. She looked up at him with a questioning face. “Are you in contact with other exporters, Signor Montoya? I imagine that we are not the only ones you will be seeing in the city.”

  Rick found it curious that she said “we” rather than “Signor Polpetto,” as if she considered herself an equal partner. “There are various businesses on my list, yes.”

  “Volterra is a small city, but it offers many possibilities.” She was back to studying him, and her eyes had a certain probing quality that had been absent in the office. He recalled the story in the paper and pictured her
unfolding it from that corner on the desk after he left the office, re-reading the account of Canopo’s death. Then carefully refolding it and putting it back in its place on the desk. And now she wanted to bring up the murder, if she could get up the courage. He waited and smiled.

  “Bene, Signor Montoya, it was a pleasure to see you.” She held out her hand for Rick to take. “A domani.”

  She either didn’t have the courage, or something caused her to avoid the topic. Or perhaps he imagined the whole scenario. “A domani, Signora Angelini.”

  Rick watched her return to the store and noticed it was either an art gallery, an antiques shop, or a combination of the two. The window was crammed with dusty figurines, marble busts and small paintings, its clutter the opposite of Polpetto’s outer office. Was this a branch of the man’s business or was the secretary just out for a walk?

  He continued up the street past a small park before coming to the stone façade of the Museo Etrusco Guarnacci. As he did, a man walking his bicycle behind him stopped to lean it against a light pole, taking a cigarette from a pack in his pocket and lighting it. Rick’s city guide book said the museum was named for its founder and benefactor Mario Guarnacci, a local intellectual and early student of the Etruscans. Guarnacci donated his collection of artifacts and books to the city in 1761, forming the core holdings of the institution. To that core collection were added items owned by another prominent Etruscanologist, Pietro Franceschini, thereby making it one of the finest Etruscan museums in the country. Better to know the basics before meeting with the museum’s curator, Rick thought, you don’t want to look bad in front of Beppo’s college friend. And you never know, there could be a quiz. He walked up the steps and through the doors.

  For such an old institution, the museum’s entrance facilities were surprisingly modern. A glass-enclosed ticket booth covered much of the right wall, with two women sitting inside at small computer screens. Ahead, past the turnstiles, he could see all the way down the hall, past rooms which opened on either side, to the windows far in the back. In the middle of the hall a harried teacher was doing her best to herd a group of grade school students into one of the side rooms, without much success. The children were more interested in talking to each other than following her directions, and in a building with little to muffle the sound, their high voices bounced from wall to wall. Just past the ticket booth were the glass cases of a small shop, now a fixture in most museums, or at least any that wanted some extra income. Rick could see Etruscan reproductions in various sizes, similar to those at Galleria Landi, under the glass and on shelves behind the counter. Three of the kids had strayed over to the shop and were squatting down, peering at the bronze ducks behind the glass. One looked over to see the frowning teacher striding toward them, nudged the other two, and within seconds they had scurried back to the group.

  Rick walked to the ticket booth and asked to see Dr. Arnolfo Zerbino. The woman looked over her half glasses at him and hesitated for a moment before inquiring as to whether or not he was expected. Rick made a mental note that if he ever had a secretary, he would tell her never, ever, to ask a visitor if he was expected. He said he was not, but passed his own translation service business card under the glass and asked if she would tell Zerbino that he was a friend of Dr. Giuseppe Rinaldi. Better not to use Beppo’s nickname. Who knows how friendly the two had really been? The woman looked at the card, picked up the phone, and after a short conversation hung up and asked him to wait. As he was turning away, she said something to her colleague that Rick could not hear. The two women laughed and returned to their computer screens. Rick took a seat on a bench. He was becoming an authority on wooden seating—could there be a market for a tourist guide to Volterra’s benches?

  Five minutes later a large man emerged from the elevator. He was dressed in a three-piece tweed suit that had a definite English cut. A large girth under the vest, half glasses at the end of his nose, and a shiny bald head framed by tufts of hair on either side gave the impression that he had just stepped out of a London club. All that was lacking was a walrus moustache. Even his shoes, oxblood wing tips, supported the image. His face showed a mixture of annoyance and curiosity, and Rick again wondered if the man was that close with Beppo at the university. The image of the two of them downing ale together at some pub in Padova was difficult to conjure up, despite the man’s British demeanor and Beppo’s high school persona. Zerbino pushed through the low exit gate, and Rick rose from the bench for the confrontation.

  “Signor Montoya?”

  Rick stepped forward and shook his hand. “My pleasure, Dr. Zerbino.” The curator seemed increasingly perplexed, waiting for some explanation. His eyes fixed for an instant on Rick’s cowboy boots, then bounced back up to his face. “I am an American living in Rome. Dr. Rinaldi, Beppo, is a very good friend, and when I told him I was going to visit Volterra he insisted that I come by to bring you his regards. But I know you are busy, so I’ll let you get back to your work.”

  This seemed to bring the Italian out of his puzzled state, and his face changed to almost a smile. “Absolutely not, I remember Beppo well and it is a pleasure to meet you. The last I heard of Beppo was that he’s at the Cultural Ministry.”

  “That’s correct. I’m not sure what part he works in.” Not a complete lie, Rick told himself, I don’t know the real name of the office.

  “If you have time, I would be glad to give you a tour of the museum.”

  “That’s very kind of you, dottore, but I’m sure you—”

  “Nonsense, it will be my pleasure.” His eye was caught by some movement inside the booth, and both men saw one of the women holding her hand to her ear. “Ah, that’s right. I’m afraid you’ll have to turn off your cell phone and leave it here. We are having some issues with our remote security system.” He took Rick’s phone and slid it under the glass, taking a plastic number in return which he passed to Rick. “So tell me, what brings you to the city? Pure tourism, I trust.” He glanced at the woman behind the glass who immediately clicked open the turnstile so that the two could enter the museum proper. A freebie, thought Rick. Another of the perks of knowing someone from the culture ministry.

  “Well, some tourism of course, but I’m mainly here to scout out possible business opportunities.” He explained the connection with a Santa Fe art gallery and its request that Rick look into buying some art for them while in Italy. He added that art sales was not his profession and briefly described the translation and interpreting business. Rick assumed that the curator would warm up somewhat, but instead the man’s disposition did not change. He sensed that Zerbino had made the decision to carry out an obligation to a former university colleague who just happened to be working at the ministry. One never knew when an extra contact in the government cultural bureaucracy could come in handy. “One hand washes the other” was a classic Italian phrase. So he would be polite, but not much more than necessary.

  The curator took Rick into the first room of the museum’s ground floor and launched into what seemed almost like a canned discourse: a short explanation of the Etruscans, helped by various maps and panels on the walls, after which they moved toward the middle of the floor where the space was divided into numerous smaller rooms. He could have been speaking to anyone, his eyes barely met those of his guest, darting instead from one ancient object to the next as he rattled on. Zerbino knew his Etruscans, that would be expected from the museum curator; what seemed out of place was the disinterested tone. Perhaps that’s the way the guy is all the time. Rick would try to remember to ask Beppo.

  Zerbino unbuttoned the suit jacket and hooked his thumbs in the small pockets of his vest before going on. “The Guarnacci donation, the core of which you see in these rooms, includes one of the finest collections of Etruscan funerary urns in the world, more than six hundred in number, which are divided in the museum by theme. As you can see, those in this room are decorated with animal motifs.” He stood in the middle of
the small room whose shelves were covered with urns similar in size to the one Rick had seen in Beppo’s office in Rome. While Zerbino continued to talk, Rick walked closer to the shelves and examined a few of them, frequently glancing back at the curator so as not to appear rude. The urns were decorated with animals, mostly wild and some more ferocious than others. All were still as vibrant as when their carvers had put chisel to stone more than two millennia earlier. The next room’s urns had a more poignant theme, the voyage from this world to the next. Clearly it was a popular thematic choice; it was the first of four rooms whose urns depicted the transition to the afterlife, always using modes of transportation well known to the Etruscans. Here were horses carrying the deceased, in the next room they traveled in covered wagons pulled by oxen, and in another the chariot was used.

  “There certainly are, well, a lot of urns,” said Rick as they entered a sixth room whose walls were once again lined with shelves. Zerbino emitted the sigh of the cognoscenti forced to mingle with the ignoranti, but managed a benevolent smile.

  “It can be a bit overwhelming, Signor Montoya. But for Etruscan specialists, each one is a treasure. We hate to part with them, even for a short time, but as you can see I occasionally lend pieces to other museums for special exhibits, under the assumption that they will reciprocate when called upon. We also allow serious academics to take them from the shelves for study and analysis.” He pointed to a small card propped up on one of the shelves. It was clear that the missing urn must have been displayed there for decades, its base had left a light, rectangular spot on the wood. Rick had noticed a few other such cards in the previous rooms. If Beppo’s plan were to pay off, would the recovered urns be displayed in one of these rooms? Probably not, there were enough museums in Rome which would love to get their hands on such treasures.