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

a wool turtleneck sweater, causing Rick to remember poor Canopo, who hated the cold. He glanced down at Santo’s wool slacks and dark boots, noticing a few specks of mud on the toes. An art dealer who lived on a farm? Unlikely.

“No, not at all, I just arrived and sat down.” Rick now studied the man. There was no facial hair, a few wrinkles on pale skin, and a slightly receding hairline. Probably not a farmer, or he would have had some kind of sun exposure, even at this time of year. Rick guessed an age of around forty, but in good shape.

“The most famous piece of art here is probably the pulpit.” Santo nodded toward the group of tourists. Then he turned back toward the altar. “But my favorite is the wood carving there to the right of the high altar. Thirteenth century, unknown artist, a powerful yet crude deposition.” Was this an art history class? The dealer seemed to sense Rick’s thoughts. “But we are here to discuss Etruscan art, are we not? Let me get right to the heart of it, Signor Montoya. I am not yet convinced that you are a serious buyer.” Santo kept his eyes on the wood carving.

The comment surprised Rick, but he couldn’t hold back a slight smile. “Is there something I’ve said or done that would justify a lack of confidence?” Perhaps the answer would reveal Santo’s contact.

Santo chuckled. “I suppose not. We have done a check on the gallery you represent, and it exists. The web site shows the styles of art sold there, which is impressive, though not anything that would appeal to me.” Rick almost told him that Texans visiting Santa Fe have unique tastes in art, but he kept silent. “I think I just wanted to meet face to face before deciding whether you would be the kind of buyer who…” he searched for the words and found them, “who we normally deal with.”

“If I may be frank, Signor Santo, you can be assured that I have the same concerns about the possibility of doing business with you.”

“Very true, very true.” He nodded his head slowly and stared ahead at the cross before turning to Rick. They might as well have been talking on the phone with the lack of eye contact. “But you should know that I have not been even distantly involved in any suicides or murders.” His mouth turned up in an unbecoming grin.

If this little joke was intended to lighten the atmosphere, it didn’t work. Rick was annoyed by Santo’s piccolo scherzo, but let it pass in the interest of moving the process along. “So what’s next, Signor Santo?” He put a sharpness into his voice. “I will have to see the works you have for sale, so when will that be? I can’t stay in Volterra indefinitely.”

Santo shifted his frame on the wooden pew. “Of course, I understand. We will not keep you waiting. I have your phone number and will be in contact.”

With that Santo reached over and shook Rick’s hand before getting quickly to his feet. He glanced toward the entrance to the church and then walked in the opposite direction, toward the altar. He hesitated for a few seconds in front of his favorite wood carving before crossing to the far left side of the nave and disappearing around a corner. His exit took no more than a minute.

Rick remained in the pew and gathered his thoughts while recorded classical music seeped into the church through hidden speakers. If throwing those last words at Santo hadn’t jinxed the transaction, it was mission accomplished. Or at least a good start on accomplishing it. Unfortunately he still didn’t know who had put Santo in contact with him, but that would have to come out eventually, the police would see to it. And speaking of the authorities, he’d better let them know right away what just happened. Now, at least, he had something to tell them, and he hadn’t been attacked while getting it. But before that, he decided he had to check out the man’s favorite work of art in the cathedral. Rick rose from the pew and, like Santo, walked to the front.

The deposition was in the uncomplicated style of the pre-Renaissance, its thin figures carved in a loving but unsophisticated hand, but with colors surprisingly vibrant for art almost eight hundred years old. After reflecting on the work Rick surveyed the corner where Santo had gone and headed for it. As he crossed in front of the altar he checked the two women, still there and still deep in prayer. The tourists had left, but a lone man in the back of the church was getting to his feet while gazing at the cross behind the altar. Rick came to the small side chapel, and next to it a narrow corridor which led to a door. Of course, he thought, when the church was built in the 1200s, the fire marshal would have insisted on another exit. He pushed open the door and found himself in Volterra’s vast main square directly across from the police station. How convenient. As he walked across the piazza he dialed Beppo.

***

Conti looked up when Rick tapped on his open door. The commissario was in shirt sleeves, the first time Rick had seen him without a suit jacket, studying overlapping papers covering the top of the desk. The points of his collar were showing wear, the downside of being carefully ironed over the years. It seemed to Rick that Conti, or his wife, wanted the man to be presentable, but without the sartorial pretention of the newer generation of policemen. The knot of his tie, slightly larger than was fashionable at the moment in Italy, confirmed the impression. He motioned Rick to the usual seat. After Rick recounted his meeting with Santo, Conti was kind enough not to ask him immediately why he had gone to the cathedral without alerting him beforehand. Instead, Rick