“By whom?”
“By Giovannini’s will, which stipulates that Maurilio can stay on the Vanna for as long as he feels like it.”
“And how does Maurilio explain this clause?”
“He doesn’t. He says he was very close to Giovannini.”
“But not so close that he didn’t let the lady take him to bed.”
Fazio threw his hands up.
“Wait. And who are the other three?” Montalbano continued.
Fazio had to look again at his piece of paper.
“Ahmed Shaikiri, a North African, twenty-eight years old; Stefano Ricca, from Viareggio, thirty-two years old; and Mario Digiulio, from Palermo…”
Digiulio! That was the same name Vanna had claimed was her own! Was it a coincidence? Better check.
“Stop!” said the inspector. “It’s too late now, but tomorrow morning I want you to go get this Digiulio and bring him here.”
Fazio gave him a confused look.
“Why, wha’d he do?”
“Nothing. I just want to get to know him better. Find whatever excuse you can think of, but I want him here at the station at nine o’clock tomorrow.”
He was about to get up and go home to Marinella when the telephone rang.
“Chief, ’at’d be a lady e’en tho’ she gotta man’s name, says she’s called Giovannino an’ she wantsa talk t’ yiz poissonally in poisson.”
“Let her in.”
It was Livia Giovannini, the owner of the yacht. She came in with a big smile on her face. She was in an evening dress and looked quite elegant.
“Inspector, forgive me for disturbing you.”
“Not at all, signora. Please sit down.”
“I was a little disoriented the other morning when we met, and there was something I forgot to ask you. May I do so now?”
She was being more polite than the Chinese. It was obviously an act.
“Of course.”
“How did you know I had a niece?”
She must have racked her brains trying to figure it out. She must have asked Sperlì for his advice and decided in the end to ask the inspector directly. Which meant that the whole business of the pseudoniece was important. But why?
“The other morning, as I left for work, it was raining cats and dogs and the seaside road into Vigàta collapsed,” Montalbano began.
And he told her the whole story.
“Did she say anything about me?”
“All she told me was your husband’s name, but not his last name. Oh, and, come to think of it, she also added that you’re very rich and like to travel the seas. And that’s about it.”
The lady seemed reassured.
“Well, that’s a relief!”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes the poor thing isn’t really all there, and so she talks and talks and makes up the most incredible stories… So I was a little worried she might have…”
“I understand. Don’t worry, she didn’t tell me anything out of the ordinary.”
“Thank you,” said the lady, standing up and flashing a radiant smile.
“You’re welcome,” said Montalbano, also standing up and smiling broadly.
5
As he was opening the door to his house he heard the phone ringing, but when he went to pick up it was too late. The person at the other end had hung up. He glanced at his watch: eight thirty-five.
He let off some steam by cursing the owner of the yacht a few times for having wasted his time.
He’d given Laura his home phone number and they had agreed that she would call at eight-thirty. Which was why she hadn’t bothered to give him her number. So what would he do now? Call the Harbor Office? Or wait a little while yet, hoping she would try to call again? He decided to wait.
He changed his clothes and then went into the kitchen and opened the oven. Adelina, his housekeeper, had made a casserole of pasta ’ncasciata that could have fed four. And in the refrigerator, in case he was still hungry, which was unlikely, there was a ready platter of nervetti [8] with vinegar.
The telephone rang again. It was Laura.
“I called a few minutes ago but-”
“Sorry, I was held up at the office and-”
“Where shall we meet?”
“Listen, there’s a bar in Marinella-”
“No, I don’t feel like it.”
“Like what?”
“Like meeting you there. I don’t like bars.”
“Then I guess we could-”
“Why don’t you tell me how to get to your house?” she cut him off.
In fact it was the easiest thing to do, and she seemed to be a practical girl. He explained to her how to get there.
“Then let’s do this. I’ll come to your place, and while we’re having an aperitif we can decide where to go out to dinner.
“Yes, sir.”
Laura showed up half an hour later. She’d changed out of her uniform and was wearing a skirt down to her knees, a white blouse, and a sort of heavy vest. She had let her hair down, and it fell onto her shoulders. She was beautiful, vivacious, and very likeable.
“It’s so nice here!”
Montalbano opened the French door onto the veranda, and she went outside, enchanted.
“What’ll you have?” he asked her.
“A little white wine, if you’ve got any.”
The inspector always kept a bottle in the fridge. He grabbed it and replaced it with another.
“Can we sit out here?”
“Absolutely.”
They drank their wine sitting beside each other on the bench. But it was chilly, and when they had finished their glasses they went back inside.
“Where are you going to take me?”
“There are two possibilities. We could go to a restaurant outside of Montereale, which means we’d need to take the car, or we could stay here.”
She looked hesitant, and Montalbano misread her.
“You don’t know me very well,” he said, “but I can assure you I-”
Laura burst into laughter that sounded like so many pearls falling to the ground.
“Oh, I certainly wasn’t thinking you wanted to…”
He felt a twinge of melancholy. Did she think him so old that he no longer had any desire? Luckily, however, she continued:
“… but I must confess I’m really hungry, because I skipped lunch today.”
“Come with me.”
He led her into the kitchen, opened the oven, and took out the casserole. She smelled it and sighed, closing her eyes for a second.
“What do you say?” asked Montalbano. “Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”
“Let’s stay here.”
They got to know each other a little better. She told him she’d chosen a military career because her father was an admiral, now on the verge of retirement. She’d studied at the Accademia di Livorno, had sailed on the Vespucci, and had a boyfriend named Gianni who was also a naval officer and was serving on a battle cruiser. She was thirty-three years old, had been in Vigàta for barely three months, and hadn’t had time yet to make any friends. This was the first time since moving to Vigàta that she was eating with a man.
Montalbano, for his part, talked at length about Livia. Laura even managed to eat the nervetti. She had a discerning palate.
“Would you like some coffee, or a whisky?” he asked when they were done.
“Actually, do you have any more of this wine?”
“Have you managed to identify the dead body?” Laura asked at a certain point.
“No, not yet. I think it’s going to take a while, and it won’t be easy.”
“I heard he died from getting his face smashed in.”
“No, they did that to him afterwards. He was poisoned.”
“So…” she began.
Then she stopped.
“No, never mind,” she continued. “I had this idea, but it’s too silly to mention it to you… I’ve heard about you, you know. They say you’re not only good, but exceptional in your field.”