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

trick is to buy when the market is down and sell when it is up again. Right now it’s flat.” She took one of the canapés and gave Rick a half smile. “A good time for you to buy.” She put it in her mouth and chewed slowly before softly running a paper napkin around her lips.

“And a good time for you to sell, Donatella?”

“Perhaps, but—” She was interrupted by the faint sound of her mobile phone, which she fished out of her coat pocket. After glancing at the number she held up an index finger, the silent message that she needed to take the call. Rick took another drink of his cognac and studied the canapé dish.

She watched Rick with a blank expression while she listened, but only spoke a few words. “Si…si…capisco…certo…subito.” She closed the phone and her face returned to its previous smile. “Ricky, I’m sorry, I have to go. Something’s come up.”

They rose from their seats, and he helped her with her coat. “Nothing wrong, I hope.”

“No, no.” She took his arm as they walked into the lobby, holding more tightly than when she’d showed him out of the villa. “I hope this won’t be the last time I see you.”

“I should be able to tell you soon if the gallery is interested, Donatella.”

“I wasn’t talking about business, Ricky.”

He smiled and opened the door to let her step out to the street. The cool air felt fresh and brisk on his face, and thanks to just those few sips of cognac he didn’t need a coat. Donatella added to the warmth with a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Ciao, Ricky, a presto.”

As she spoke, he noticed a long black car parked a few meters from the hotel entrance. A large figure emerged from the driver’s seat and opened the back door. Dario, it appeared, did not worry about illegal parking zones.

Chapter Seven

His mother always said food tastes better when someone else cooks it. That is certainly the case with breakfast, thought Rick, as he pressed the button on the hotel elevator. He could make coffee as well as the next guy, but having it placed in front of him, ready to enjoy, was considerably better than lurching about the kitchen in the morning. And a very small kitchen at that. Find the coffee, find the espresso pot, add the water, add the coffee, light the stove. And then the same routine to heat up the milk. Very complicated. It was probably why Rick usually had his morning cappuccino and cornetto at a bar on Piazza Navona. But at a hotel, with all the choices, breakfast was even better. What would be on the groaning board this morning? The elevator door opened and he stepped into the lobby.

“Signor Montoya, you have a phone message.” Rick detoured to the desk as the woman reached into his key box and took out a piece of paper. “The man just called, I put it through to your room but you must have been in the elevator.”

The call was from Dr. Zerbino of the Etruscan museum, the note said, and he was inviting Rick to coffee later that morning. To offer me some stolen funerary urns, he guessed with amusement. He used the house phone to call the museum and recognized the voice of the secretary who had rescued the curator from Rick’s clutches the previous day. She knew about Zerbino’s message. Yes, could Signor Montoya possibly meet Dr. Zerbino for coffee later that morning? Excellent. Time and place were confirmed. All very efficient, but with no mention of hot Etruscan artifacts. Rick chose a newspaper from the stack on the desk and resumed his path to the hotel dining room where thick black coffee and a pitcher of hot milk arrived a moment after he was seated, without his asking. Good memory—she would get an extra tip today.

He skimmed the paper while waiting for his caffè latte to cool. The death of Canopo had moved from the first page to the cronica section where such stories are normally found. There did not appear to be anything new, which didn’t keep the reporter from speculating, using the contorted “could have” and “would have” verb tenses that were so popular in Italian journalism. Fortunately there was no mention this day of the unnamed American art dealer.

Rick stirred his coffee and looked at the newspaper without seeing the words. One side of him wanted to push Canopo’s death from his mind, but the genes he shared with his uncle would not allow it. Conti had told him little about the case other than the forensic report and being convinced that it was murder. Nothing about suspects, other than the mysterious man on the street to whom Rick unfortunately had paid little attention. Perhaps Conti would share more about the murder when he next saw him, but until then, Rick decided, he should be keeping his focus on Etruscan loot. He took the spoon from the cup and placed it in the saucer.

Waiting for the next call from Santo would not be easy. It was just as well that Rick had this invitation from Zerbino to help pass the time, and of course before it there was his call on Polpetto, the exporter. Unless he was greatly mistaken, Polpetto was now out of the running, but Rick had to continue going through the motions until there was closure to the whole caper. At least it would be fun to see Signora Angelini again, if nothing else to find what personality she would display this time. And what would the exporter himself be like? If the bare outer office was any indication, there could be trouble staying awake. Rick closed the newspaper and paid attention to spreading butter and jam on a crisp breakfast roll. His cell phone, which had been fully charged during the night, lay waiting next to the plate.

***

The last of the workers pushed open the tall wooden door, stepped onto the stone