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

slowed down, he was talking too fast. He also took his foot off the gas pedal and wondered if using a cell phone while driving was illegal in Italy. If so, the police could make a fortune giving out tickets.

“So you and this policeman are old friends by now.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. He’s not happy about my presence in Volterra, and my connection with the murder is not helping things. Fortunately he found out about Uncle Piero, and that seems to have softened him a bit.”

“The uncle helping the nephew. That has a long tradition here in Italy.”

“True. But Uncle Piero isn’t the pope.”

“Also true. Ricky, class is about to start, I’ll talk with you tomorrow. Be safe, caro; ciao, ciao.” The phone clicked and he wondered if there might have been an edge in her voice. Was it his involvement in a murder investigation or the meeting with Donatella?

***

He was still thinking about the conversation with Erica when he drove through the city gate and turned into the hotel parking garage. The dashboard clock showed that it was late afternoon, which in Italy meant that much of the day still lay ahead. Many offices worked until six or seven, shops were still open, and most Italians wouldn’t even start boiling their pasta water until eight. Best to plug in the lap top and get some translation work finished before dinner. After pulling his coat and Donatella’s folder from the back seat, he locked the car door and walked out of the garage to the street, dodging a blue sedan that had just come through the gate. It was getting colder, but he didn’t bother putting on the coat since he was steps from the hotel. He felt the warm air welcome him when he pushed open the glass door to the lobby. The woman behind the desk was talking loudly on the phone, as if it were long distance.

“…yes, you should be able to reach him at that cell number, he—” she looked up and saw Rick, waving her hand at him with the clawing motion that Italians use.

“Just a moment, please, he just walked in,” she said into the receiver before looking back at Rick. “A call for you, Signor Montoya, you can take it on the house phone.” She pointed to a telephone in a small niche on the side wall.

Laying the coat and folder over a chair, Rick walked to the phone.

“This is Riccardo Montoya.”

“Ah, yes, Signor Montoya, I was fortunate that you appeared as I was calling. My name is Santo.”

The voice was low and smooth, and had a guttural quality that would indicate a person raised somewhere north of the Po River, though Rick was not yet good enough with accents to be more precise than that.

“How can I be of service, Signor Santo?”

“I hope that it is I who can be of service. It is my understanding that you may be in the market for some works of art.”

Rick held the phone away from his mouth while he took in a quick breath. This is it, Beppo’s scheme has worked. But who is this guy, and is he for real?

“Possibly, Signor Santo, but tell me, how did you learn of my presence in Volterra?”

“Besides from the newspapers?” The voice switched to a laugh, which stopped abruptly. “You’ll forgive me for making light of a tragedy. Your question is a valid one, but what is more important is that we have made contact.”

Rick decided not to push it. Certainly the source of the referral would come out eventually, so at this point the man was just trying to be cautious. Rick couldn’t help trying another line of questioning. “Do you do a lot of business with that person?”

“I would rather discuss doing business with you, Signor Montoya, but it would be better if we spoke in person. Would that be possible?”

The guy was good, Rick thought. “Of course,” he answered, glancing up at the clock above the hotel reception desk, “when would be convenient for you?”

“I could see you in about forty-five minutes.”

“Where are you?”

The man hesitated before answering, and Rick wondered if he was trying to get too much information from the man. But asking him where he was didn’t seem that unreasonable.

“I’m not in Volterra, and it will take me some time to get there.”

That could mean either that he did not live or work in town, or was outside town at the moment. Rick opted not to ask for a clarification. “I can meet you in the bar of the hotel in an hour, we can talk there.”

“If you don’t mind, I would prefer somewhere else. Do you know the cathedral?”

“I know where it is, but I haven’t seen it yet.”

“Ah, it is a jewel of a church, very much underrated. And a perfect place for us to talk without being bothered by anyone. Only old women and tourists are found in our churches at this time of day, even the cathedral, and none of them will be interested in our conversation. I will see you there in one hour.” He hung up.

Rick looked at the phone while he gathered his thoughts, his first one being a question if Santo was really the person Beppo was trying to catch. “Works of art” the man had said. It would be just Rick’s luck that there was a misunderstanding, and the man was only an art dealer, like Donatella. Santo could have read about him in the paper and tracked him down at the hotel, a logical place for an American art dealer to stay in Volterra. But then why the cloak and dagger meeting in the church instead of a place like the hotel where business would normally be done? No, this looked like the real thing; the question would be whether he had the real thing to sell. Rick picked up his coat and papers and started toward the elevator, catching the eye of the receptionist. For the first time