Cold Tuscan Stone

by David P. Wagner

  “Signor Polpetto will be out of town tomorrow on other business, but we should be able to have something for you very soon.” They were the first words she’d uttered since entering the room.

  “Let me help you with your chair,” Rick said.

  “No, that’s kind of you. I can put it back.” She rolled the chair to one side, making room for the two men to leave. She caught Polpetto’s eye and shifted her glance toward the street.

  Polpetto accompanied Rick out of the curio shop that inhabited his office, and through the bare domain of Claretta. He went the extra mile, or at least the extra meters, and took his guest down to street level where he again shook Rick’s hand with rough affection. He was still standing in the doorway smiling when Rick reached a bend in the street and glanced back, almost bumping into a man who was intently studying a shop window. He excused himself and continued in the direction of the hotel. There were almost two hours until his meeting for coffee with Zerbino, enough time to go back and get some work done on his computer. Some of his normal work, that is.

  The stones clicked against his heels, and he thought about the case so far. He’d laid the ground work with the three prime suspects, if that was the correct term for them, and either Landi or Donatella must have sent Santo. One thing he didn’t want to do was force Beppo to add more names to the list, but if Santo was never heard from again, that might be the next step. Beppo himself believed that these three were the most likely to bear fruit, but had hinted that there were others, including a few outside of Volterra. There was enough to see in this town, Rick thought, most of which he hadn’t yet visited. Hell, the laptop could wait, he should do some more sightseeing. And what better venues to see in Italy than churches? He walked past his hotel toward the San Francesco church near the city gate. As he reached the driveway to the hotel garage he heard his phone ringing inside his coat. He recognized the number.

  “Beppo, come stai?

  “Bene, Rick, your name came up in a meeting with the minister this morning. I told him that the project is right on schedule. E’ vero?

  This was not the old Beppo, the one he’d again seen at lunch after their meeting at the ministry. They were both creeping closer to middle age, but still hung on to the juvenile banter of high school when it was just the two of them, at least at the start of a conversation. Perhaps someone—the enigmatic Signor Vetri?—was in the room with him. “Of course it’s true, Beppo, I am working tirelessly for you and the minister. Relax, you will be the first to hear when Signor Santo contacts me again.” That is, if he contacts me again. “I can report that all the first encounters have now taken place, the third one just now with the exporter, Polpetto. Despite the meeting in the cathedral yesterday, I thought I should keep to the original schedule.”

  “Good idea, Rick.” Beppo seemed to lighten up. Slightly. “How was Signor Polpetto?”

  “A strange bird that one.” Beppo listened to the description of the meeting with the exporter and was laughing at the end. So he must be alone, Rick thought.

  “Okay, Rick, I agree that he doesn’t appear to be the person to lead a band of thieves, but you never know. It could be a clever façade. We didn’t put him on the list on a whim. As I told you in your briefing, he’s been involved in some shady dealings in the past, though nothing that could ever be proven.”

  “I’ll keep an open mind, Beppo, but frankly if I had to bet who was involved, I’d put more money on his secretary than on him. He doesn’t seem to do anything, except maybe play with his toys, without her being involved.”

  “Tell me more,” Beppo said, and Rick described Claretta and her strange relationship with her boss. “The woman behind the throne,” said Beppo, “or at least behind the desk. Of course she may have insisted on being in on the meeting because she is coming on to you. She sounds very much like your type. Remember at school when you dated—”

  “Very funny, Beppo. But to get back to my real work up here, at this point Polpetto is last, and Landi is still at the top of my list as the one who put Santo onto me. Donatella is somewhere in the middle.”

  “Why Landi?”

  “Just a second.” He waited while a man walked slowly past him, obviously curious about what was being said. “Sorry about that,” Rick said when the man was out of ear shot, “A nosey local. Now, Landi. Hard to put my finger on it, but he just seems to fit the profile I have in mind. So much of the stuff he sells in the shop is Etruscan reproductions, why not have a hand in dealing with the real thing? It would be a natural extension of the business, like FIAT going into motorcycles.”

  Beppo became serious again. “You’re probably correct, Rick. I hope it doesn’t take too long for this to play out. If you don’t hear back from this guy soon we’ll have to decide whether to add other names on the list, or admit defeat. As much as I would love to keep you in pasta and wine up there indefinitely, the minister probably won’t. He is already getting anxious about the whole idea, despite the good news.”

  “I’ve only been here for two days.”

  “This is your third day, Rick. Worried that you won’t get time to try out all the restaurants in town?” There was nothing playful in Beppo’s voice, and Rick wished they were face to face to know for sure if there was more to the comment than the usual joking between friends. No doubt Beppo was taking some heat about the idea of sending the American up to do what the police should have handled themselves. Better to let the comment pass.

  “Rick, is there anything else happening that I should know? How about your contacts with the local constabulary? You told me yesterday that you had met with Conti on that first day, but you didn’t go into great detail. And you went back to see him yesterday after we talked.”

  “Well, there is something I didn’t mention, with the appearance of Santo and all I forgot to tell you. There was an unfortunate accident.”

  “Accident?”

  “Well, not exactly an accident. Conti thinks it was murder…Beppo, are you still there?”

  “Yes, Rick, I’m here. What happened?”

  Rick told him about his short meeting with Canopo and what took place after it, though Beppo didn’t sound extremely bothered by the incident. He asked questions, most about Rick’s relationship with Conti, and when they were answered, he returned to the issue at hand.

  “If I thought the man’s death was related to your work, Rick, I would pull you off immediately. But it appears to be a strange coincidence. Who knows why the man was killed? You said he was from Sicily, so that alone opens various possibilities. Anyway, let’s hope that your little trip bears some real fruit, and soon.”

  “I’m sure we’ll hear something before too long,” said Rick. “In the meantime, I’m having coffee with your curator friend later this morning. He’s warmed up after our initial contact. I may have caught him on a bad day when I dropped in.”

  “You didn’t tell me you had seen Zerbino.” The slight edge in Beppo’s voice had returned.

  “Yesterday. He gave me an abbreviated tour of the museum before leaving to attend to some business.”

  “Well, I suppose having coffee with Zerbino will be as good a way as any to wait for Santo to turn up with a relic under his arm.” There was some background noise that Rick could not identify. Someone coming into the room? “I have to go, Rick. Good luck and stay safe. Ciao.”

  Beppo’s last words, though spoken quickly, made Rick feel a bit better about the phone call, and about the advantages of being one’s own boss rather than working in an Italian bureaucracy. Beppo was under pressure from his boss and wondering if his idea might have been a big mistake. Rick’s unpaid tenure with the ministry would be short and relatively painless, but Beppo was a lifer there.

  And what better way was there to support the Italian culture ministry than to soak in some local culture while in an Italian city? The door to the church swung open, and he went from sunlight to semidarkne
ss. The heels of his boots tapped on the stone floor as he walked to the marble bowl attached to a column and dipped his fingers in the holy water. He crossed himself and thought how pleased mother would be.

  ***

  Inspector Conti rose from his chair and walked to the window. The scene on the piazza was never the same—something always caught his eye, something he hadn’t seen before. Today it was a group of children following a teacher, but one boy was lagging behind in the line, staring past Conti’s window up at the ancient tower. The teacher spotted the straggler, called out sharply, and the boy ran to join the class. Just like Enzo, Conti thought, and he smiled at the thought of spending more time with his grandson. But if there was anything he would miss from the job it would be this window view.

  “Commissario?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “The detailed forensic report is in on Canopo, he—”

  “Let me see it.” Conti walked back to his desk and took the folder from the man’s outstretched hand. He slowly went through the pages while the sergeant stood in silence in front of the desk.

  “Porca miseria. This raises more questions than it answers. The dust on his shoes was alabaster from the work shop, we didn’t really need to consult with Florence to figure that one out. But as far as the traces of mud, which was the real puzzle, they are not very helpful. ‘A red clay which is found in various part of Tuscany.’ Thank goodness, we won’t have to extend our investigation to Calabria.” The sergeant had worked for Conti long enough to know that this was a time to keep quiet. The commissario drummed his fingers on the papers and then looked up as if he noticed for the first time that the other man was there.

  “Is LoGuercio around?”

  “I think so, sir, would you like to see him?”

  “I was just curious.” More drumming as he stared at the papers. “Ask him to come in here.”

  The policeman left and Conti tapped the cover of the file. He was about to return to his window when LoGuercio appeared at the door.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Conti almost blurted out another sarcastic reply. “Yes,” he said instead. “What has the American been up to?” It was time to take his mind off the murder, even if it meant dealing with this annoying case from Rome. LoGuercio had taken the sergeant’s place of honor in front of the desk.

  “DeMarzo has been on him most of the time—”

  “The question was what he’s been doing, not who watched him do it.”

  “Sorry, sir.” LoGuercio tried not to show his annoyance that nobody had warned him of Conti’s foul mood. He briefly reviewed Montoya’s movements since the previous evening.

  “This exporter, or importer, or whatever he is: what do we know about him?”

  “I ran a check on him, sir, and nothing turned up. There was a note in the file about the cultural ministry looking into his activities last year, but it didn’t specify what they were searching for.”

  “And of course they wouldn’t tell us, we’re only the local police. But we know why Montoya went to see him. Go on.”

  “He runs a small operation, just he and a secretary, he travels out of Italy occasionally with the business, pays his taxes. Well, pays taxes, who knows—”

  “Yes, yes, Detective. What does he import and export?”

  “He exports alabaster, both the stone itself and things carved from it, some food products like olive oil and honey, some manufactured goods. Coming in, mostly machinery and parts.”

  “The woman, what’s her name…?”

  “Polpetto’s secretary?” Conti shook his head and rubbed his eyes, as if in pain. “Pardon me, sir, you mean the woman Montoya went to see yesterday. Minotti is her name. Sorry, Commissario.”

  “Yes, Minotti, the woman from yesterday. I think I’ve heard of her, and I may have met her at an exhibit opening once.”

  “Exhibit opening sir?”

  Conti tilted his head at the detective. “You are surprised I enjoy something other than police work, LoGuercio?”

  “No, of course not, sir.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another, recalling an episode in grade school when he’d been called before the headmaster. What he couldn’t remember was what he had done that time to get him in trouble.

  Conti looked off toward the window. “The exhibit was last year, something at the Etruscan museum. She’s very attractive, as I recall.”

  LoGuercio spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully so as not to make the meeting get any worse. “I wouldn’t know, sir. DeMarzo had to park outside the grounds of her villa when Montoya drove in, so he didn’t actually see her, or anyone else.”

  “Of course.” Conti resumed drumming his fingers on the desk. “Most importantly, there is no sign that anyone else is keeping an eye on our American friend?”

  “No, sir.”

  A relieved LoGuercio slipped out of the room and Conti eased himself back in his chair. If it weren’t for the sudden appearance of this man Santo, he would have been convinced this was a total waste of time and resources. Now he couldn’t be sure.

  ***

  Rick studied the figures on the wall, a horrific scene of slaughter. King Herod’s Massacre of the Innocents was not the most popular theme in religious art, but this artist had devoted an entire panel to the scene. Each of the babies looked strangely alike, as if the painter could only afford to pay for one infant model, or decided to use a relative, perhaps a nephew, at no cost. Like the other depictions of Bible stories in the chapel, this one’s figures were dressed in contemporary clothing and armor, no doubt very recognizable to the illiterate twelfth century audience which had viewed it with a mixture of fear and inspiration. Rick returned to the twenty-first century, opening his phone to check its digital clock. Enough sightseeing, it was almost time to meet Zerbino. He walked out of the chapel, turning off the lights with a switch on the wall as the handwritten sign next to it had requested. The honor system was still alive and well in the San Francesco church in Volterra. As he stepped outside, the cell phone rang. It was not a number he recognized, but the voice on the line, while it wasn’t Santo, sounded vaguely familiar.

  “Signor Montoya?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  The question was disregarded. “About your need for some Etruscan pieces. We may have something of interest. One of our colleagues will be in contact and take you to where they can be viewed.”

  “What kind of pieces?”

  Apparently the man didn’t like questions. “Do not be alarmed when he appears.”

  The line went dead, and Rick looked again at the number on his phone before scrolling down to see if it matched any of his other calls since his arrival in Volterra. Nothing. He went over what the man had said, which given the length of the phone call was easy to do. There was no mention of Santo, or any reference to Rick’s conversation with him in the cathedral. This was probably more of Santo’s love for the cloak and dagger. But there was another possibility; what if this were someone else? Good God, he thought, how many gangs of grave robbers could there be in this town? But if the call wasn’t connected to Santo, who else had his cell number? Better to ask who didn’t. He had left it with nearly everyone he’d met, from the police to Donatella, and he’d even told the hotel they could give it out if anyone was trying to reach him. Before walking down the church steps to the street, he made another call. Beppo answered on the first ring.

  ***

  Conti carefully placed the phone in its cradle and stared at it, as if it could provide answers to his questions. “Once again it came from a pay phone, this one about two blocks from where we’re sitting. I’m still amazed that the telephone company maintains public telephones, given how much Italians love their mobiles. A service to the criminal class, I suppose, for those who don’t want to spend their hard-earned Euros on disposable phones.” He looked up at Rick, who
sat across from him in front of the desk. “You say you recognized the voice?”

  “I said it sounded familiar, but I can’t remember where I heard it.”

  “An accent?”

  “Vaguely Tuscan, but it was hard to say.”

  Conti frowned and nodded. “We have television to thank for that. Everyone wants to talk like the news anchors, with no accent at all. When I started out it was easy to tell where someone was from. Now…” He caught Rick’s eye. “Do I sound like I’m ready to retire?”

  “Perhaps, Commissario.”

  I can only get a frank answer like that at home, thought Conti.

  “And you have given out your phone number to everyone in Volterra, you said. That would include Landi, Signora Minotti, the exporter Polpetto, and various people who work for them, as well as the hotel. And of course the mysterious Signor Santo has it.”

  “Also Dr. Zerbino, of course.”

  “Of course. Have you notified the ministry?”

  Rick was still pondering his conversation with Beppo. He had expected at least a modicum of pleasure from his friend since it appeared that the plan was now successful, the plan that Beppo had worked so hard to get accepted by the ministry. Instead his voice betrayed concern, though once again it was not easy to detect nuances on a cell phone call. They had discussed who could be behind the call, concluding that it had to be Santo. At the end of the conversation Beppo’s message to Rick had been simple: don’t take any chances. Exactly what chances he shouldn’t take was not clear, but perhaps the news of Canopo’s murder was starting to sink in at the ministry.

  “Yes, I told Beppo what I just told you.” He wondered if the policeman would be annoyed that he wasn’t the first to know of the call. Conti’s face showed nothing.

  “Signor Montoya, if this wasn’t connected to Santo, then which of your contacts so far do you think could be behind this phone call? The bait was put out with each of them, now even the exporter, so you must have some hint as to which one has taken the hook.”

  Rick pondered the question. “Well, as I told Beppo, the most logical would be Landi. He was the top name on the list I had from the ministry, although they didn’t tell me exactly why. Signora Minotti is a mysterious character, I must say, but it isn’t likely that she could be behind this kind of operation. Polpetto? Well, he’s the least likely, in my mind, because he seems more like a character in opera buffa than someone running a smuggling ring. And as I found out when I saw him today, his secretary appears to be the brains behind his business.”