Cold Tuscan Stone (16 page)

Rick was analyzing that little exchange when he was stopped in his tracks. The contrast with the sparse outer room was so dramatic that he and Polpetto could have wandered into another building. Shapes, textures, and colors covered the walls, like a tourist shop in Old Town Albuquerque. It was all drawn together—spatially if not chromatically—by the bright orange carpet that covered the floor. The only uncluttered space was the ceiling, but given his size, Polpetto may have worried about bumping into anything hanging from it. Shelving was so extensive and cluttered that Rick couldn't be sure what color the walls were painted. As his visitor took in the scene, Polpetto maneuvered his way to an old sofa and lifted a stack of magazines to clear a place. After looking around for a moment, he dropped them with a thud on the floor behind his desk, where apparently there was some rare space.

“Please, please.” He stretched his hand to the sofa. When Rick sat, Polpetto took his place behind the desk and moved papers to clear his view. “I fear that my habits are not the most organized, despite all of Claretta's efforts.”

So now it was ‘Claretta.' Had the woman really made any attempt to clean up Polpetto's act? Talk about the Augean stables. Rick managed to keep a serious look on his face.

“We all have our own work styles,” Rick shrugged, trying to be as diplomatic as his father, though his father would have had little patience with the disorder of this office. “Thank you for seeing me this morning. I am already impressed by your, uh, collection. Is this the kind of thing you import and export?”

Polpetto's face lit up, if further lighting was possible. “Yes. Or I should say much of it is. No, perhaps most of it isn't. I like to collect things. But I haven't offered you coffee, let me—”

Rick quickly raised his hands. “No, thank you, I just had one. What things do you collect?” Rick again turned his gaze to the rows of shelves. “I see a bit of alabaster.”

“Yes indeed.” Polpetto's eyes darted to the door and back, as if worried that Claretta could come bursting in any moment. “Those shelves on the right hold mostly alabaster, much of it Etruscan, small pieces of minor value, of course, not museum quality, but I enjoy looking at them. The bronze figures are also Etruscan. Though there may be a copy or two among them; it doesn't matter. The animals are my little menagerie, like a circus. That's why the warriors are on either side; we surely don't want the animals to escape.”

Several bronze soldiers bearing shields and spears flanked the various small animals.
They will certainly keep the animals in line,
Rick thought. Time to change the subject. “That shelf there, Signor Polpetto, the stone fragments?”

Polpetto pulled himself from the chair with some difficulty. “I'm glad you noticed, it is one of my favorite collections within the collection.” He beamed as he walked to a shelf of fragments from marble tablets, like the ones he frequently saw cemented into the walls of churches in Rome. Their flat surfaces had letters and decorations, some more worn than others, some more elaborate. Polpetto's large hands picked one up as if it were a bird's nest and held it up for Rick to see. Letters cut into the stone next to a fragment of garland.

“Do you read Latin, Signor Montoya?”

“Only the numerals, I'm afraid.”

Polpetto gazed at the piece of stone as if seeing it for the first time. “This comes from the burial urn of a likely middle class Roman citizen. Only the last five letters of his name—ULIUS—are found on this fragment, which doesn't narrow it down very much. To think that I can hold in my hands a bit of the life, or rather the death, of someone who lived so long ago is fascinating, is it not?” Polpetto didn't wait for an answer. “All we can do is conjecture about who he was, what he did in his life. Was he a good man? Was he loved, or hated? Did his family have this memorial made to him out of obligation or true affection and grief? We will never know, but the lack of information does not alter the beauty of this stone and its untold story.” He carefully returned the slab to the shelf and gave Rick a playfully reproachful look. “But you have not noticed the pieces which may be the most familiar to you.” Polpetto pointed over Rick's shoulder with his chin, still beaming. Beaming, Rick decided, was a large part of Polpetto's persona.

Now what? The only collection Rick had as a kid was Matchbox toy cars. Could this guy have a first edition Topolino? But the shelf held a bigger surprise: handwoven baskets of various sizes, which Rick knew had come from the American Southwest. He nodded in appreciation, and his host grinned.

“I saw from your card that you live in Santa Fe, and I have noticed your boots. You must know where these are from.” He took one of the baskets from the shelf and passed it to Rick. The weaving was tight, with a faint brown W-shaped design wrapped around it, the only decoration on the otherwise light brown surface.

“I lived in Albuquerque, not Santa Fe.”

“Oh, but I thought…Well, this basket is from Zuni Pueblo.”

“Of course, I should have recognized it. The design is clearly Zuni, very different from, say, Sandia or Santa Ana.” Rick didn't know one basket from another, but he had spent time playing the tables at the Sandia and Santa Ana tribal casinos north of Albuquerque. Polpetto was impressed: first the cowboy boots, and now expertise in indigenous basketry.

“But we are not here to discus basket weaving, are we, Signor Montoya?” The fun was over for poor Polpetto, and his smile drooped with disappointment. “Let me ask Claretta to join us.” He opened the door and nodded toward his secretary. Or was she his assistant? Or was she…? The rolling desk chair appeared in the doorway followed by Signorina Angelini, who pushed with one hand and held a pad in the other. She had to provide her own seating. Polpetto returned to the desk and settled into the chair which groaned weakly in protest. He blinked at Rick in anticipation.

“Allow me to explain what interests my gallery.” Rick hoped this would be the last time he had to present the speech.

As he listened, Polpetto offered the appropriately serious facial expression and nodded occasionally, while his secretary took careful notes. At one point he rooted through the piles on his desk to unearth a pen and paper himself, scribbled something, and returned the paper to the pile. Would the man ever find it again? That was Polpetto's and Claretta's problem. Rick ended his presentation and relaxed into the sofa, feeling a small object under his right hip. He reached down without being seen and felt what he knew was a round piece of hard candy, fortunately still in its paper wrapper, which he left where it was.

“Perhaps we can be of some help, Signor Montoya,” Polpetto was saying. “I do have my contacts in the business, and our company would be able to facilitate the exportation better than anyone in Volterra. I hope that doesn't sound presumptuous, but it is my specialty to get things through customs, in both directions.” He beamed at Claretta, who returned his smile.

“I'm sure it is,” Rick said.

“If you would give me some time to pull together products that could be of interest, I will get back to you with a proposal.”

His manner was very professional, not that Rick had much customs experience by which to judge. It was time to drop the other proposal on Polpetto. Should he raise it with Claretta present? If Santo really was a dud, as Conti hoped, and Landi was not the culprit either, Polpetto and his secretary could be his last chance. But the man didn't come across as one mixed up in illicit artifacts. Claretta, maybe, but not her boss. Still, Rick had to be thorough.

“In addition to those items I mentioned, Signor Polpetto, if you know of any unique piece of art, and I mean ancient art, we have wealthy clients who could be interested. Price is less of a consideration in these transactions, as you can understand.” His heart wasn't in it this time, and it probably showed.

Claretta turned the page of her pad and scribbled something. Polpetto stared blankly at Rick for a few seconds and then his face relit.

“Yes, of course. I think I do understand. Let me consider that.”

He picked up the pen and started to put it in his shirt pocket, then placed it back on the desk, and finally opened the drawer and found a spot for it there. Rick decided it was time to take his leave, and he was about to get up from the sofa when Polpetto spoke.

“Do you mind if I ask you something, Signor Montoya?” He looked at his secretary and then back at Rick.

“What is it?”

“Well, I suppose everyone in town is wondering about the death of that man, Canopo. And I read in the paper about an American being the last one he spoke to. Was that you?”

So that was it. Polpetto's expression combined curiosity and shame, and curiosity was winning. Claretta's head tipped in Rick's direction, waiting for his reply. She hadn't gotten much out of him in the outer office.

“Yes it was.”

“Did the, uh, police question you?”

“Of course, but I couldn't give them anything that was of any help.”

“I suppose not.” His face again darted to his secretary and then back to Rick. “That afternoon, you didn't see anyone else?” Polpetto didn't say it as if he was expecting an answer, and Rick volunteered none. “A terrible business, and on your first day in Volterra. It doesn't speak well of our city, does it, Signor Montoya?”

“Such things can happen in any city.”

“Yes, I suppose no place is immune to murder.”

Rick frowned. “Murder? I assumed it was suicide.”

“I am no detective, Signor Montoya, but from what I read in the newspapers it made no sense for the man to take his own life. Family, job, and all. Perhaps we all watch too many crime shows on TV, but there must have been something else. My wife agrees,” he added, which settled the issue. Rick noticed that Claretta was scowling. “My wife watches a lot of crime shows on TV,” Polpetto emphasized. His face returned to its usual brightness. The discussion of Canopo was over. “But I am keeping you too long, you have other appointments. I will be in contact regarding your proposal. Proposals, I should say. Let me see you out.”

Polpetto believed that Canopo was murdered. Why would that make sense? It was curious that the man mentioned his wife's opinion. Rick pictured them at breakfast, he preparing to meet with the American art dealer, and she, remembering the news stories, insisting that he ask about the murder. Polpetto would be too embarrassed to bring up such things on his own. Someone must have pushed him to it. And what about Claretta's reaction at the mention of Signora Polpetto?

The three got to their feet, and Rick shook hands with Claretta.

“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.”