“Signora Minotti will see you in a moment. May I get you something to drink?”
When Rick declined the man disappeared without a word, making the room feel larger. He stood in the center and studied the furnishings, which were not different from those in many apartments he’d seen in Rome, except for the number of paintings. A large Persian carpet in the center of the tile floor held a low rustic table spread with art magazines in English and Italian. Facing the table, a leather sofa flanked one side, three modern chairs made of chrome and leather the other. Rick tried unsuccessfully to remember the chairs’ designer, someone Scandinavian, then walked to the wall to examine one of the larger paintings. The scene showed a man and a woman in peasant clothing walking along a river bank holding hands. It was not the figures which dominated the painting, but rather the strong colors of the trees framing them. Rick leaned forward to study the thick brushwork of the leaves.
“I am a great lover of the Italian impressionists. Unfortunately they do not get the credit they deserve. Even the more educated collectors blindly prefer their French counterparts.”
“Signora Minotti, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Please call me Donatella.”
If this visit had been purely business, without his Erica connection, would Donatella have dispensed so quickly with the formalities? The soft smile went with her voice and body, but that was where the softness stopped. There was something in her manner, despite the feminine exterior, that said “tough.” Make that a very feminine exterior. She lowered herself to the sofa and gestured for him to take a seat on one of the chairs. Strange, she had said two sentences and he’d come to the conclusion that she was not the kind of woman he’d want to negotiate a real business deal with. Fortunately his role as an art buyer was just that, a role.
Erica was correct, Donatella was certainly attractive. And as would be expected of a passport photo, the image he’d seen at the ministry briefing did not do her justice. She slipped off the pair of black loafers, leaned her knees to one side, and tucked her bare feet under the designer jeans. It struck him as an almost girlish gesture, perhaps done on purpose, like she’d been told by someone to soften her manner. Brushing the dark hair from her eyes, she pushed up the sleeves of her wool sweater as if to indicate that the business part of the encounter should begin. But even the most serious of meetings had to start with the necessary social exchanges. This was Italy, after all.
“Dario said you didn’t want any refreshment. Can I change your mind?”
Somehow the man’s name fit. “Thank you, no.”
“And how is the lovely Erica? Doing well, I trust.” Too much emphasis on the word lovely.
“She is, thank you, and she sends her warmest regards.” The comment did not, he noted, change the smile on Donatella’s face. Had there been a rivalry? “She is hoping to change her schedule to come up and join me.” The smile tightened. The rivalry was still there.
“That would be wonderful, I would love to see her. So, tell me about this business of yours.” So much for a discussion of Erica, Rick thought, and just when it was starting to be fun.
He explained his buying venture while Donatella settled deeper into the cushions. She interrupted him a few times to ask questions, but mostly let him talk. By the end of his explanation she was nodding and smiling more than when he began. This time genuine smiles.
“There may be something I can help you with, Riccardo. I deal mainly in traditional Etruscan motifs, though not the smaller pieces you might see in the tourist shops like bronze geese and lizards. My clients are interested in one-of-a-kind larger pieces. Ones that look like they have been taken from a tomb.”
If the comment was made to get a reaction from him, it worked.
“Donatella, that may be just what would interest the gallery. Is it possible to see the kind of art work you have in mind?”
“Of course.” She stood up, slipped on her shoes, pulled down her sweater, and walked toward Rick, who was already on his feet. “Let me take you back to one of my storage rooms.” Though there was enough room between the chairs, she brushed him with her hip as she passed. “I’ll lead the way.” He knew he was expected to notice her tight jeans, and, being a good guest, he obliged.
Rick followed her down a long hallway and they came to a heavy metal door. It was clear that Donatella had planned for Rick to see this room; waiting for them was the butler, majordomo, or whatever title the huge man carried. Dario removed two large keys from his dark coat and inserted them into separate locks before pushing open the door and reaching inside to flip a light switch. He stood aside to let Rick and Donatella enter.
“This room contains pieces which could be described as the business inventory rather than my personal collection.” She stepped into the room, adding, “But that doesn’t mean I value them less. Everything I own has been chosen with care and love, and is relinquished with no small amount of regret.” It was a good line, and Rick wondered how many times she’d used it.
The windowless storage room had an eclectic mixture of art that gleamed under the light of various neon lamps in the ceiling. Against the left wall, paintings hung on rolling wood panels that could be pulled out like large vertical files. The other walls supported shelves of various sizes holding works in stone, metal, and wood. In the center stood a rectangular table covered with a thick felt, so that items could be pulled from their storage spots and examined more closely. After looking around the room Rick glanced down at the spongy carpet which covered the floor. It and the hum of the room’s invisible dehumidifier served to soften the sound of Donatella’s voice when she spoke.
“The carpet has saved more than one piece of fine art when dropped by a clumsy client. I trust that you will be more careful than they were.” Before he could answer she walked to the right corner of the room. “The Etruscan pieces are over here.”
Two shelves held stone sculptures in various sizes, some quite large, all with that mixture of Greek and Etruscan styles that only a specialist could sort out. Three bowls were decorated with figures carrying shields and swords, a stone panel depicted a hunter spearing a boar, and a small square of painted ceramic tile showed two women dancing. Rick scanned the shelves quickly.
Without thinking, he said, “I don’t see any burial urns.”
“No, I don’t have any at the moment. Giachi didn’t do that many, and they have been snatched up by other collectors.”
“Giachi?”
She gave Rick a puzzled look. “Francesco Giachi, of course. The most famous of the 18th century forgers of Etruscan work. Most of the 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 sil
ent 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 life? The obvious conclusion: murder.” Her smile struck Rick as hardly something that should go along with talk of a death.
“I’ll stay out of the speculation game.”
“Not a game, Riccardo. Especially if you are the murderer.” She noticed his reaction and added, “I meant if one is the murderer. You don’t look like the kind of person who would have done this man in.” For her it was a game, and she was enjoying playing it with him.
“Or done in anyone else, I hope you meant to say.”
She kept the playful expression on her face. “Of course. And more than one person would have been needed to push him over the wall. You probably didn’t have time to recruit any accomplices in town, or did you bring some Roman thugs along with you?”
“Just me on this trip.” He was starting to feel very uncomfortable. Was it the line of conversation or the woman herself? Erica should have warned him, perhaps if she had gone into more detail about her friend, Rick would have treated this meeting differently. Like meet her at a neutral place in town. Did Erica avoid the details on purpose, perhaps as a test for him? Could Donatella be in on it? Hold on, Montoya, it’s true that this is Italy and not Albuquerque, but let’s stick with reality here.
“Ancora un caffe?”
“No, thank you, Donatella, one was just right. And I really should be getting back, I have some messages to send back to the gallery to let them know what I’ve been up to. I don’t want them to think I’m just drinking wine and eating pasta at their expense.”
They rose, and as if on a signal Dario appeared at the doorway. As Rick picked up the folder, he remembered the real reason for the visit.
“Donatella, what you showed me here was very impressive, I hope something will be of interest to our clients in America. May I also mention that some Americans have very specific and—how shall I say?—exceptional tastes. They are always looking for something unique that can be enjoyed purely for its—”
“For its beauty,” she interrupted. Unlike Landi, the woman appeared to get the message immediately. “Something to have in a special place and enjoy in privacy.” She gestured toward the walls of the room with her hand. “Yes, Riccardo, I think I understand. Let me think about it and call you.” She took his arm as she walked him toward the door where Dario was already opening it for them. Rick nodded to him, eliciting an almost imperceptible nod in return, and he and Donatella walked out to the terrace. The sun was starting to drop over the hill west of the villa, taking much of the afternoon’s warmth with it. At the edge of the brick he turned to his hostess and extended his hand. She took it and held up her face to let him kiss her on both cheeks. They had only just met, but after all, she was a friend of Erica.
***
Rick turned on his lights as he passed through the gate of the villa compound, accelerating without noticing the blue car parked just off the dirt road. Rick was soon back on pavement, wondering if his cell phone would work in this corner of Tuscany to call Erica. It did.
“Ciao, Ricky.”
“Ciao, bella. I hope I am not interrupting class or something else important.”
“What would be more important than talking with you, caro? Tell me what you’ve been doing. Here it is the usual dull routine. You are having the fun and all I have to look forward to is a room full of bored students.”
Might as well get it over with.
“I saw your friend Donatella.”
“Aha. And how is la bella Donatella? She did not make any advances on you, I hope.”
“Not that I was aware of.” He crossed two fingers on the hand doing the steering. “She has an impressive collection.”
“Are you referring to her art?”
Rick laughed, hoping it didn’t seem too forced. “I’m beginning to wonder why you suggested I call her. I though
t you two were friends.”
“She is a friend. Not close, but a friend. She does have a certain reputation, and from my experience at the university, it is not unwarranted.” She paused. “But Ricky, if you saw her collection, to use your words, you must have visited her villa.”
It was time to come clean about Donatella, but how to do it without getting into too much detail? He had felt guilty keeping it from her—though likely not guilty enough for her liking—yet if he told her too much now, it would not go well with Beppo. While all this was fun, if his translation business didn’t pan out, working undercover was probably not the career he would pursue.
“Erica, Beppo thought that it might be a good idea to make contact with Donatella. Professionally, I mean. Perhaps he thought it would add credibility with the other people I’m seeing.” Stretching the truth?
“Ricky, you don’t think your friend Beppo—”
“Erica,” he interrupted, “here’s the thing. If I’m making contact with dealers, it would seem strange if I didn’t call on her, don’t you think? I doubt very much if Beppo thinks she could be mixed up in this.” OK, now he was stretching the truth, better to change the subject. “Something else has come up, which has nothing to do with my little mission.” He told her about the death of Canopo and his involvement in the case.
“This isn’t another attempt by your uncle to get you involved in police work, is it Ricky?” It was an issue that had come up before in Rome. It could have been his mother talking.
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