He consulted his town map before starting to work his way through various streets until he turned onto the wide Via Gramsci. Every town in Italy had a street named for one of the founders of the Italian Communist Party, and Volterra was not going to be an exception. The party was now virtually defunct, or more accurately it had morphed into a new political entity with many of the same characters but a different name. Change to insure survival had been both an individual and institutional tradition in Italy for thousands of years. As Rick knew from the book, the Etruscans had managed to survive by being drawn into the growing Roman empire. The more things change…
“Signor Montoya.”
The woman came out of a store and was walking toward him. He didn’t recognize the voice, but when he saw the red glasses he knew immediately who it was. She was not behind a desk this time, so he could tell her shape below her waist. The legs, anyway, and the ankle-high leather boots for Volterra’s stone streets. Still no view of the skirt; a long purple coat nicely covered it. That’s assuming she’s wearing one, he thought naughtily. They shook hands.
“On your way to your next appointment, Signor Montoya?”
“You have an advantage on me that you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
The smile was not forced this time, she seemed a different person out of the office. “Claretta. Claretta Angelini.”
He offered a slight bow. “Un piacere, Signora Angelini. Yes, I am off to another appointment.” That was enough information for her.
“I hope that you will have time to see some of Volterra. There is not another city like it in Tuscany. Or Italy, for that matter.” She had been moving her hands in a circle to make her point, and now, as if noticing the temperature, she put them into the pockets of her coat. Rick wondered how long she would be able to keep them there. “The civic museum, is just around the corner over there.” Out came one of the hands to indicate direction. “It has some wonderful works of art.”
“I have been told that, and plan on seeing it.”
She was still intently studying his face when she pulled up her sleeve and checked her watch, its large face almost covering her wrist. It was edged with red enamel to match her glasses. “You must be going to your appointment, Signor Montoya. I have not yet tracked down Signor Polpetto, he is off on one of his trips, but I am very sure that the appointment tomorrow will be agreeable.” It sounded like it was her decision. She looked up at him with a questioning face. “Are you in contact with other exporters, Signor Montoya? I imagine that we are not the only ones you will be seeing in the city.”
Rick found it curious that she said “we” rather than “Signor Polpetto,” as if she considered herself an equal partner. “There are various businesses on my list, yes.”
“Volterra is a small city, but it offers many possibilities.” She was back to studying him, and her eyes had a certain probing quality that had been absent in the office. He recalled the story in the paper and pictured her unfolding it from that corner on the desk after he left the office, re-reading the account of Canopo’s death. Then carefully refolding it and putting it back in its place on the desk. And now she wanted to bring up the murder, if she could get up the courage. He waited and smiled.
“Bene, Signor Montoya, it was a pleasure to see you.” She held out her hand for Rick to take. “A domani.”
She either didn’t have the courage, or something caused her to avoid the topic. Or perhaps he imagined the whole scenario. “A domani, Signora Angelini.”
Rick watched her return to the store and noticed it was either an art gallery, an antiques shop, or a combination of the two. The window was crammed with dusty figurines, marble busts and small paintings, its clutter the opposite of Polpetto’s outer office. Was this a branch of the man’s business or was the secretary just out for a walk?
He continued up the street past a small park before coming to the stone façade of the Museo Etrusco Guarnacci. As he did, a man walking his bicycle behind him stopped to lean it against a light pole, taking a cigarette from a pack in his pocket and lighting it. Rick’s city guide book said the museum was named for its founder and benefactor Mario Guarnacci, a local intellectual and early student of the Etruscans. Guarnacci donated his collection of artifacts and books to the city in 1761, forming the core holdings of the institution. To that core collection were added items owned by another prominent Etruscanologist, Pietro Franceschini, thereby making it one of the finest Etruscan museums in the country. Better to know the basics before meeting with the museum’s curator, Rick thought, you don’t want to look bad in front of Beppo’s college friend. And you never know, there could be a quiz. He walked up the steps and through the doors.
For such an old institution, the museum’s entrance facilities were surprisingly modern. A glass-enclosed ticket booth covered much of the right wall, with two women sitting inside at small computer screens. Ahead, past the turnstiles, he could see all the way down the hall, past rooms which opened on either side, to the windows far in the back. In the middle of the hall a harried teacher was doing her best to herd a group of grade school students into one of the side rooms, without much success. The children were more interested in talking to each other than following her directions, and in a building with little to muffle
