Cold Tuscan Stone (12 page)

The road he took after leaving the city was the main route to Pisa, but now Rick slowed the car to make a left turn and head west. The directions Donatella had given him were clear, there was no need for the map nor the trusty GPS which was still in the pocket of his overcoat in the back seat. A few minutes later he turned onto a dirt road, passing a sign which announced that he was entering private property. No mention of welcome. Ahead he could see the outline of a high stone wall which came in off the hill at the left and disappeared in the distance on the right. When he got closer he could see that the wall's even line was broken by a heavy steel gate topped on one side by a small camera trained on the road. Another sign appeared whose very large letters warned of even larger dogs on the property, with an appropriately vicious canine portrait, no doubt for the benefit of the illiterate. Good security.

Rick stopped at a small metal box on a pole, opened his window and pressed a red button. A voice crackled something from the box, and the gate slowly opened to allow the car to enter. It was another minute before the villa appeared through the trees. There was no sign of any dogs, big or small; perhaps the signs lied.

Outside the wall, several hundred meters down the dirt road from the gate, the driver of a dark blue car stopped and turned off his engine.

The lightly rust-colored stucco of the villa walls reminded Rick of buildings in the Southwest, but the similarity ended with its color. If most Americans tried to picture the typical Tuscan villa, it would be something close to Villa Gloria. Its two-storey main structure was topped by a slightly-pitched-terra cotta roof shading the narrow balcony above the entrance door. The villa's rectangular upper windows had green wooden shutters; not the fake ones found in colonial-style houses in America, but shutters which actually swung open and shut on iron hinges. Framing the wide front door was a stone arch which looked like it had been recycled from an even older structure. Atop the main building was a small windowed cube like on a caboose, built to provide a panoramic view of the countryside. Had someone been up there watching his approach? No need, with the security camera. A wing that's architecture mirrored the main building was built out to the right, forming a protective wall to the front patio along with some well-trimmed hedges. Rick parked the car in a gravel area at the end of the driveway and started up a stone path which led to the patio. All the parts of the villa came together perfectly, making the building warm and inviting. The same could not be said of the person who answered the door.

Rick was not used to looking up at people, especially with his boots on, but this man had him beat by several inches. Not just tall, but large. His black clothing added to the bulk, nearly filling the narrow doorway and making Rick glad that his arrival was expected. The servant's head, topped by hair the color of shoe polish, sat on a thick neck which, thankfully, did not have bolts protruding from its sides.

“Signor Montoya.” The words were said as a statement of fact, as if the man was confirming Rick's presence to himself rather than welcoming a guest to the villa. The voice was like the sound Rick's car tires had made on the gravel driveway. “This way, please.”

After a small atrium they entered the living room, its walls a deep red and covered with paintings, each one lit by a small lamp, as in a museum. Rick's first thought was that they were for sale; the woman is an art dealer, after all. If not, it would seem a bit pretentious. The only other time he'd seen the little lights was on some of the paintings in the American ambassador's residence in Rome, and even that seemed a bit too much. He checked out the low ceiling which was supported by wooden beams, probably the originals, but you never know. Italian building restoration was an art, but on the other hand, even the newest of building could be made to look ancient. He was about to give closer attention to the paintings, almost all of them brightly colored outdoor scenes, when the man spoke.

“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 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.