Two chairs were pushed against the wall opposite the desk, a small table between them. The only decoration on the walls, if it could be called that, was a digital clock above the table. A lone window across from the chairs gave the room its light, since a fixture in the ceiling was not turned on. He could not be sure if his appearance was a welcome break to a boring morning or an annoying interruption to the woman’s normal routine. Her tone of voice didn’t help him decide.
“May I help you?”
“My name is Montoya. I would like to see Dr. Polpetto.” As he spoke he noticed that the only item on her desk, except for the telephone and a thin lap top computer, was the morning newspaper, neatly folded and placed at an angle.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Polpetto is not in this morning. Was he expecting you?” She said it as if she knew the answer.
“No, I arrived in Volterra only yesterday. Perhaps I could make an appointment to see him? I’m interested in buying some local art work to send to America, and have been told that he could possibly be of assistance.”
She adjusted the glasses, which did not appear to need adjustment, and her face changed slightly. Not quite a smile, but close. Was it because he was now a business opportunity, not a distraction, or did she connect him with the newspaper story of Canopo’s death? Perhaps a bit of both.
“I’m sure Dr. Polpetto would be pleased to see you. But may I inquire as to what kind of art are you interested in purchasing, Signor Montoya? I would not want to waste your time, or that of Dr. Polpetto, if it is not something he could help you with.” This time, yes, the mouth did form a smile, though a bit forced.
“Etruscan pieces, primarily. In various price ranges.” He stayed purposely vague.
Her expression did not change, but she nodded. “Yes, he has done considerable business in Etruscan art. Tomorrow morning, at about this time?” Since everything about her said precision, her use of the word “about” surprised him. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a large leather book, opening it to a page marked with a red ribbon. Rick could see that the calendar did not have any entries for the week. He nodded and passed over a card from the Santa Fe gallery on which he had written his name and cell phone number.
“I’m staying at the San Lino, but probably the cell phone is the best way to reach me if there is a problem with the time.”
She stared at the card for a moment, then opened another drawer to take out a pen, which she used to write his name in the book. When she finished, she closed the book and returned the pen to the drawer. The card remained centered on the desk surface. Everything had its place.
“Until tomorrow,” she said, finally with a real smile, though not a very convincing one. When Rick closed the door behind him and started carefully down the dark stairway, the secretary began dialing the phone while looking at the card in front of her.
***
Commissario Conti drove up to the small house on a two lane road about a kilometer outside the walls of Volterra, his second visit in less than twelve hours. Canopo’s residence was about what he had expected, given the location in an area that was not quite rural but offered more space than the cramped neighborhoods in town. The square two-story building stood by itself, a low wall separating its small yard from a bus stop almost directly in front of the wall’s gate. A scrawny tree, doing its best to survive the car and bus fumes, was the yard’s only adornment. A hill started immediately behind the house, its incline covered with bushes and a few small trees. Conti pulled the key out of the ignition and reluctantly unwound his frame from the seat. He never got used to talking with the relatives of crime victims. Perhaps that was why he chose to come without a driver this time, so that he could be alone on the way back and let himself mentally unwind. He put this task on the growing list of those he would not miss in retirement.
Last night the widow had accepted the news with a calm that Conti had seen few times in the past. The tears had followed later, no doubt, after his departure. He tried to compare it to similar heartbreaking occasions over the years. In Calabria the reaction was always the same, a total breakdown, making any questioning impossible, at least until a few days passed. Here in Tuscany the women were stronger, if that could be a fair description. Certainly less emotive.
He was about to ring the bell a second time when a girl about six years old opened the door and peered out. A voice came from the rear of the house.
“Ask who it is, Angela.”
When the girl continued to stare silently up at Conti, he called out himself. “Commissario Conti, Signora Canopo. I called earlier.” As he
