Cold Tuscan Stone (25 page)

Chapter Eleven

Erica was right. The huge painting was as spectacular as she said it would be, almost enough for him to drop his distaste for her beloved Mannerists. The scene had been painted hundreds of times, but Rosso Fiorentino's take on Christ's descent from the cross was so striking that Rick understood why it was considered his finest work. Though Erica spoke in hushed tones in keeping with the darkened ambiance of the museum, he could hear the passion in her voice. He'd heard it before, less than a week earlier, when she had urged him to take on this assignment. Help save the country's artistic patrimony, she had said. Now he heard it again.

The visit to the museum was doing more than give Rick another opportunity to hear Erica's passion for art. They needed to take their minds off what they'd seen among the cold stones of the amphitheater. Unspoken, but understood. They would have to talk about the ugliness eventually—they both knew that—but at this moment they worked to keep their minds and eyes focused on beauty.

He and Beppo listened while she talked about Rosso. The artist had been a bit of a kook, even more than other Mannerist painters, and Rick could see that there was an element of the bizarre in this canvas. But despite the quirkiness of his style, Rosso had created a masterpiece in his version of the deposition. The only face in the painting not contorted in sadness or pain was that of crucified Christ himself, as the other men struggled to bring his body down from the cross. That one face showed only dreamlike tranquility. His peace contrasted with the turmoil of the others, especially the grief of his mother, barely visible in the shadows while comforted by three women in bright robes. Erica sat between Rick and Beppo on the wooden bench, silent after going through her long explanation of the work.

“Your minicourse on Rosso was excellent,” Rick said, “but I'm not sure one needs it to appreciate this work.”

Beppo reached behind Erica and rapped Rick lightly on the back of the head, something they used to do to each other in school. “What Rick means, Erica, is that he loved your explanation. I know I did. I must have missed the Mannerism seminar at the university. Perhaps I could audit your course in Rome.”

“That's sweet of you, Beppo, but I understand what Ricky is saying. The best paintings, after all, are those that pull you in even if you know nothing about the subject or the artist. Not that I'm trying to talk myself out of a job.”

“You can always get work with the police,” said Beppo, “after your experience on this case today.” They continued to study the large work of art on the wall in front of them. Unseen by Beppo, Rick squeezed Erica's hand, as if to say that it was time to return to reality.

“I don't think I'm cut out for police work, Beppo.” She managed a tight smile. “And remember, it was Ricky who uncovered your gang of relic thieves.”

“But,” added Rick, “Beppo was the one who dreamed up and designed the whole scheme. I trust he will be advancing at the ministry.” He leaned forward on the bench and looked past Erica at his friend. “Is there a better office in that building?”

“Only the minister's.”

Rick returned his gaze to Rosso's painting. “I don't suppose he'll want to give it to you, Beppo.” More staring, more silence. “The museum can't top this one. Let's go to lunch.”

“I am taking you both to a late lunch,” said Beppo, jumping to his feet.

“You mean the ministry is inviting us?” Rick grinned at Erica.

“No, no. Beppo Rinaldi himself. I will do it with great pleasure, after all that the two of you went through this morning. I have already made a reservation at a place which comes highly recommended on the
Via dei Prigioni
. It seemed appropriate considering the various people who will end up in prison after today.” They walked out of the darkened room toward the entrance. The weather had cleared, allowing some sun to push through patchy clouds as the trio stepped onto the street's stones.

Rustic was again how the restaurant décor would be characterized in most circles, though given the age of the town, almost every building in the center fell into that category. The room's white walls changed to brick and joined above the diners' heads in rounded vaults, giving the impression that they were eating in what had been a storage room. That is exactly what the space had been, centuries earlier, but those same centuries had obscured the exact details as to what had been stored and sold here. It was probably just as well they didn't know. And the three Roman diners weren't curious; after the usual quick arrival of bread, wine and mineral water to the table, their attention was now on the menu. It was Tuscan fare, as would be expected.

“Shall we split a
fiorentina
?” asked Beppo, “I haven't had a good steak since my last visit to Florence.”

“I could go for that,” said Rick, “the steak I had last night only whetted my appetite for red meat.”

Erica quickly agreed, so the second course was set; now for the all-important pasta decision. Erica opted for soup, a simple tomato, but the two men needed something more substantial. For Rick it was
pici
, a freshly rolled and cut Tuscan pasta, but with a meat sauce instead of the traditional garlic and bread crumbs. Beppo opted for
paglia e fieno
, cream sauce tossed with a mix of spinach and semolina
fettuccini
which really looked like hay and straw. Decisions made and wineglasses clinked, conversation turned back to what could not be avoided. Rick began.

“Erica, you have to tell us, was your stumble an accident, or did you fall on purpose so you could trip Dario?” He wondered if he'd made a mistake to bring it up, but he needn't have worried.

She smiled and sipped from her wine, a smooth white. “How could you think it was anything but an accidental fall, Ricky?” The normal Erica, full of mystery, had returned.

“That answers my question.
Sei brava
.” He tapped her wine glass with his. “But let the record show that I was about to fall upon Dario and wrestle his gun away. I can never hold myself back when there is a damsel in distress, especially one—”

“Ricky, we shouldn't be joking about it,” interrupted Erica. “I will never forget the look on poor Donatella's face.”

“She was just as guilty of Canopo's murder as Dario,” said Beppo softly. “It was she who ordered him to do something to the man.”

“But I can't believe she really thought Dario would kill him. Scare him, yes, murder him no.” She took another drink of wine, more than a sip.

“That may be her defense,” said Beppo, “but with the murder and her whole operation of fake antiquities, she should be spending quite of bit of time behind bars.”

Rick thought it was time to shift the talk away from Erica's friend. Or more accurately, former friend. “I have to say that I'm relieved that Polpetto is free of illegal activity. I kind of liked the guy.”

“You just feel bad that he was being betrayed by his secretary,” said Erica. “That's just the reaction I would expect from a man.” She shook her head slowly with dramatic disgust.

At least she didn't say “a man like you,” thought Rick. It was something.

“By betrayal are you two referring to Claretta trying to send business to her boyfriend?” asked Beppo. “Or just that she had a boyfriend?”

“I meant both, I guess,” answered Rick as he pulled a bread stick from the basket.

“You two seem to have overlooked,” added Erica, “that Polpetto was cheating on his wife himself.”

“Significant,” Beppo said, “that the woman in our midst brings up that minor detail.”

“So,” said Rick, “if we hang poor Polpetto with that peccadillo, the only one of our original group of suspects without sin is apparently Signor Landi. And he was the one I always suspected to be the main culprit. I will not quit my day job to become a detective.”

“Good,” said Erica and Beppo simultaneously, followed by general laughter.

“But one thing about Landi,” said Beppo, once they all had regained their composure. “He has to work on his hiring skills. Two of his employees, Canopo and Malandro, were secretly working for Zerbino.”

“Good point,” said Rick. “That couldn't have helped productivity.” He refreshed all their wine glasses and held up the empty bottle to the waiter who was passing their table at that moment. “
Subito
,” was the man's reply as he whisked the bottle from the raised hand. Rick approved the service. “Give this guy a good tip, Beppo. But something else has been nagging me since we left the amphitheater. What about the interplay between Dario and the detective? At first I thought that Dario's reaction to LoGuercio was because of his revulsion to arrest, and being taken in by a rookie cop would be especially grating.”

“LoGuercio is relatively new,” said Beppo as he pulled another piece of crusty bread from the basket, “but the way you described it to me, Dario was reacting to the person who was going to arrest his boss. He couldn't have been pleased by that possibility.”

“That was my sense,” said Erica. “I don't know much about criminals, but his loyalty to Donatella seemed far beyond the usual relationship of someone to his boss. I felt it from the moment they picked me up in the car.”

“I got that feeling too when I visited her villa, but the interplay this morning still seemed a bit strange. It was as if Dario knew LoGuercio.”

“And the cop shot him to keep him quiet?”

“I didn't want to say that, Beppo, but now that you bring it up, it did cross my mind. Conti had a funny look on his face when LoGuercio shot the man.”

“We all did, Ricky” said Erica. “Did you see that other cop with Conti? I thought he was going to faint.”

“Yes, I guess you're right, it's just that—”

He was interrupted by the arrival of the first courses. Starting with Erica's soup, they were placed in front of the three diners, and after the traditional wishes of
buon appetito
, cheese was sprinkled on the pasta and utensils were lifted. Following the initial tastes Beppo continued the conversation.

“I can assure you, Rick, that LoGuercio did not know Dario. He only arrived here a few weeks ago from Sicily. I find it surprising that someone who is the nephew of a prominent policeman would conclude that a professional was involved in crime himself.”

Both Rick and Erica glanced at Beppo, but were reassured by the look on his face.

“You're right, Beppo,” Rick answered, “I've been reading too many seedy crime novels. These
pici
are excellent, would anyone want a taste?” The wine and food were having a relaxing effect on the trio, especially with Rick and Erica. “But, Beppo, how do you know so much about detective LoGuercio?” The answer was not what Rick expected.

“He works for me.” Beppo grinned as he twirled some
paglia e fieno
on his fork and took in Rick's stunned face. “This should not go beyond this room, since Conti doesn't know, but we arranged to have LoGuercio work on the case when he was transferred up here.”

“And to keep an eye on dear Ricky?” Erica patted Rick's hand, just as his mother used to do when he was a kid.

“Well, let's say, Erica, that we felt better with someone from outside the city working on the inside, and it turned out to be a good decision. LoGuercio kept me informed of what Rick was up to. Conti's decision to put him in charge of tailing our friend here was coincidental, of course, but very helpful.”

Rick shook his head and frowned. “No wonder you didn't seem that concerned when I was checking in with you. You knew everything already. But in this town Conti is going to find out, and he won't be happy. He's pretty grouchy normally, and this won't make his day.”

“He may not ever find out, Rick, he's retiring at the end of the week and moving to the Abruzzi.”

“Good news for the police force here,” said Erica. “But possibly not for his wife.”

At that moment all eyes turned to the wheeled cart that had been pushed to the side of the table by their waiter. The platter on it held their
fiorentina
, grilled to perfection and oozing juices. The waiter paused for effect and then picked up a carving knife and fork to begin his work. It was the biggest piece of steak they had ever seen, but they would do their best.

Chapter Twelve

Before taking another drink, Commissario Piero Fontana held up the glass and studied his nephew through the almost clear liquid. The wine was a Greco di Tufo, a smooth white which had been the perfect foil to the grilled fish they just enjoyed. The waiters had cleared the dishes, brushed away any stray crumbs, and now patiently hovered offstage. Rushing the clientele was never allowed, and certainly not with these two regulars.

As always, Rick had the impression that Uncle Piero had been sewn into his tailored suit that morning. The jacket was unbuttoned now as the policeman leaned back with the satisfaction that comes from a good meal. A light blue shirt—embroidered with
pf
initials in the place of a pocket—framed a print tie that Rick did not remember seeing before. Perhaps, he thought, the reason Piero had never married was he didn't want to split his wardrobe money with anyone.

“This experience in Volterra has changed you, Riccardo. I can see it in your face.” He took only a small taste of the wine, knowing it was the end of the bottle.

Rick nodded. “I suppose it did,
Zio
. But I don't know which part of it changed me the most.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the whole undercover operation, if that's the word for it, was fascinating, exhilarating, even fun.”

Piero smiled proudly. He had never made a secret of his disappointment that his nephew did not go into police work.

“Witnessing a man shot like that,” Rick said, “even though he deserved it, probably aged me a few years. I would imagine that you had that reaction the first time.”

The policeman nodded while rubbing a beard that was somewhere between a five o'clock shadow and a nearly full growth. “Yes, yes I did. What else about the experience has changed you?”

“This may sound strange, but I think I've become more Italian.”

“And this may sound equally strange, Riccardo, but I'm not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing. Tell me what you mean.”

Rick twisted the stem of his wine glass while forming his reply. “The way I find myself thinking about people, for example. Not as trusting? More cynical? Canopo risking his future for some extra money and paying with his life. Zerbino going against everything his profession stood for. And Donatella. She appeared to be just a good businesswoman, and look what she was up to. And…”

Piero tilted his head as he looked at his nephew. “And Erica?”

Somehow he wasn't surprised that his uncle had brought up Erica. “Not in the same category as those others, of course, but something is stuck in the back of my mind.” Piero waited for him to continue. “Maybe it's silly, but she's never said if she'd called Donatella before arriving in Volterra.”

“You didn't ask her?”

Rick drained his wineglass. “No.”

“Why not?”

Once again, Rick hesitated before replying. “I've asked myself that a few times and concluded that I'm afraid of what she would answer.”

Piero leaned forward and put his palms on the table. “You're more cynical, less trusting of people, and you want to avoid confrontations with women. No doubt about it, you are Italian.” He raised his glass and tapped its rim with Rick's. “
Benvenuto paisano
.” Rick forced a smile. “But let's go back to the first part,” his uncle continued, “about the thrill of doing police work.”

“I thought you might focus on that,
Zio
.”

“The news of your exploits in Volterra has reached even the offices of the
polizia
here in Rome.”

“You of course have had nothing to do with spreading the news.”

Piero put his hand over a wounded heart. “I am forbidden to be proud of my nephew?” Rick grinned, but did not answer. His uncle continued. “Your skills were just what were needed in this case, and—you never know—they could be of value to the authorities again.”

Rick was about to take a sip of his wine but stopped and put the glass down. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, someone in the office was of the opinion that a person with your multicultural background could be helpful in certain cases. I naturally assured them that you would consider it your civic duty to assist the police when asked.”

“
Zio
, don't tell me that—”

Piero held up his hands and stared down at the table, as if his nephew was focused on trifles and it was time to discuss serious issues. “
Bene
,” he said, “we have established that you went to Volterra more American than Italian and perhaps returned the opposite. But,
caro
Riccardo, I would urge that you hold tight to your American passport to keep you from sliding completely into the cynicism you see around you. It's your American side that endears you to me, and, I'm sure, to everyone you've met in Rome.” He put the spread fingers of his hands together over his chest in a gesture that was second nature for Romans. “But for the moment let's both be very Italian and return to the important business at hand. How shall we finish this meal in true style?”

Once again, Rick thought, I must
finire con bellezza
. But this time it would be easier. “How about the cheese board,
Signor Commissario
? We haven't had it in a while.”

“A splendid idea. But that will mean red wine. A nice Dolcetto d'Alba, perhaps. We are celebrating, after all.” He called over the waiter and gave him the order before settling back into the chair. “And what are your plans now, Riccardo?”

“My interpreting schedule is full through the holidays. I may try to do some skiing in January; a friend from college wants me to join him in the Dolomites. I'll need a break from my work by then.”

Piero smiled. “Like the break you took in Tuscany.”

The waiter returned with a bottle of red wine, and Piero began to study its label as if it contained the missing clue to an unsolved murder.