Cold Tuscan Stone by David Wagner (ebook reader for pc and android TXT) 📗

finished his sentence the door was pulled back and a short woman dressed in black took the hand of the child and motioned him inside.

“Of course, Commissario. Please come in.”

The widow, in her early thirties, appeared to have aged several years since the night before. No doubt a lack of sleep made her voice low and scratchy, and she seemed to be slightly bent. She led the policeman down a long hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house, its windows looking out on the scrub of the hill. The room was clean and neat; she was either a meticulous housekeeper or cleaning was her way of dealing with the crisis. A small double-chambered espresso pot was on the stove. After sending her daughter into the other room she sat down and motioned him to another chair at the table. “Can I offer you a coffee, Commissario?”

“Thank you, that is very kind, but I just had some back at the office.” Was she relieved? He had the sense she wanted to get the interview over with as quickly as possible. “Let me again extend my deepest condolences. Do you have other family here in Volterra?”

She sat stiffly, her hands clasped in the folds of the black dress. “I am from Lardarello, but my brother lives here in Volterra with his wife. She spent the night with us and will be back this afternoon. They have offered to take me in, since I can’t afford the rent of this house now that…” She took a short breath and pressed on. “Now that Orlando is gone.” Conti was about to speak when she said, “Commissario, my husband would never have taken his own life.”

He had expected her to say it, but was surprised by the steel in her voice. It made it easier to reply. “You seem sure.”

She straightened her shoulders. “I am very sure. He lived for Angela, and we were planning to have more children. We were putting away money for a house, a larger one for the expanded family. We looked at the newspaper every day to see if anything new had come on the market. He had so much to look forward to, it just doesn’t make sense that he would give it all up.” She looked down at the table and added, “And Orlando was very religious. He knew the church’s position on suicide.” She fell back in her chair, breathing heavily, finishing a speech which she had probably been practicing during the night.

“I must tell, you, Signora, that the police on the scene came to the conclusion that your husband’s death was by suicide.” Noticing the drained look on her face, he quickly added, “But as the officer in charge of the case, and after learning about your husband, I found it doubtful. I am proceeding under the assumption that there was foul play.” Her expression immediately changed. “May I ask you some questions, Signora?”

“Of course, of course.” The hands rose from the lap and were placed in front of her on the table, clasped tightly as if to keep them from trembling.

“Had you noticed any change in your husband in the weeks before his death? Had there been anything different in his routine?”

She stiffened, perhaps expecting the question but hoping it would not come. “He had seemed preoccupied recently. I thought it was simply worry about getting a down payment for our house. There had been one for sale about a month ago that we could not bid on because we didn’t have enough saved, and I think he didn’t want another to slip away. He had been working late at the shop almost every evening, to earn more money for that first payment, and he would come home very tired. The long days were certainly wearing on him. He could not spend as much time as he wanted with Angela, and that was hard for him. It was also hard for her.” Her eyes glanced toward the other room where her daughter was playing.

“Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to harm your husband? Were there any old enemies?”

“Commissario, I thought about that most of the night, and I could not come up with a single name. He was not the kind of man to make enemies. Or close friends, for that matter, but of course here in Tuscany, Sicilians are looked on as foreigners.” She looked at Conti, perhaps trying to place his accent. “Orlando’s life was his family and his work. He was a very skillful artisan, and he hoped to move up in the business, but you have learned that already from his boss, I suppose.”

“Not yet. My contact with Signor Landi yesterday was short, but I will be talking with him again. I called on you first.” They looked up to see the little girl standing in the doorway, staring at the policeman in silence. Conti stood up. “I should be on my way, Signora Canopo. If you don’t mind I will call you if I think of any other questions.”

“Of course, Commissario, anything that I can do to help.”

She walked him back down the hall to the front door under the gaze of Angela and opened it, shaking his hand weakly.

“Please find out the truth, Commissario.”

He murmured that he would try, and walked out to his car. As he pulled out into the street he saw that she was still at the door watching him, her daughter’s small hand holding tightly to her skirt. He decided that instead of driving back to the office he would return to the crime scene, now convinced, at least in his gut, that a murder had indeed been committed.

The dark blue police car wound along the streets north of the city and parked next to the archeological area below the tall north wall of Volterra’s center. He stepped out from the driver’s seat and was recognized immediately by the security guard who waved him past the gate. He walked