Good Blood

Caravale paid for them all—and took it to a shaded picnic table beside a tiny corral in which a pot-bellied, sad-eyed donkey stood in a corner and quietly snuffled its dinner from a nose bag.

It was the limp that had been the final clue, Caravale explained. That, and the age of sixty or more, and the “small, gracile” description, and the ten-year length of time it had lain in the gravel. Put together, it all pointed to Domenico.

Phil was shaking his head. “I don’t get it. This is nuts. Sure, Zio Domenico had a limp and all that, but he drowned in a boating accident on the lake. I came for the memorial service. Are you saying he didn’t drown?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Caravale said gently. “I was with the force then, but I was only a lieutenant. I wasn’t the investigating officer, but I remember the case. Your uncle liked sailing. We used to see his boat on the lake sometimes, but he was never out for very long. The day he disappeared he’d left early, and when he didn’t come back by late afternoon, everybody began to worry. It wasn’t a good day for sailing; the wind was rough, the water had a chop to it. So they started a search for him. The boat was found the next day, overturned in shallow water, across the lake, off Porto Valtravaglia. The conclusion seemed reasonable enough: an unfortunate accident. But Domenico, he was never found. So it was never completely settled.”

Phil’s eyes were on the paper cup that he was turning round and round in his fingers. “So if this is true, somebody actually killed him. I’m sorry, but this is really hard to believe.” He looked up, almost challengingly. “Everybody loved the guy. Everybody.”

“That’s what I would have said,” Caravale agreed.

“Not quite everybody, I guess,” Julie said.

Gideon was beginning to wonder what Caravale was doing there. This was an unexpected development, yes, but there was no reason for him to have jumped in his car and driven right out to tell them about it. It could have waited until morning. It could have waited longer than that.

“Uh, Tullio, is there something I can do for you?” he asked.

“Well, yes, maybe, now that you ask. Naturally, I told Vincenzo about it,” Caravale said. “He asked me to come out to the island again to talk with the family—another goddamned council, I’m afraid. The boat will take me up at three.”

“And?”

“And I was hoping you might come along with me.”

“Me? Why?”

“They’ll ask questions about the remains. I don’t know how to answer them.”

“But what can I tell them? Wait till I’ve had a serious look at them and know something—tomorrow, the next

day.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d come with me today.”

“Well... sure, if you like, but I don’t know what I can tell them.”

“A lot more than I can,” Caravale said. “Can you meet me at the police dock in Stresa at three, then? An hour from now?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Damn,” Phil said, “I’d really like to be there too. I still can’t believe it. And I’d like to see Achille, see how he’s doing.”

“Come, then,” said Caravale. “I’m sure they’d be glad to have you.”

“Can’t.” Phil shoved away his untouched coffee. “I have to get the group up to the oratorio in an hour. It’s on the schedule. And then there are things to see to—getting the bikes ready—”

“Oh, go ahead,” Julie said, “you belong with your family at a time like this. I can see to things here. Heaven knows we’ve been over everything enough times.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Go ahead, let me earn my pay.”

He gave in with a reluctant but appreciative sigh. “Thanks a million, Julie.”

“You’re not getting any pay,” Gideon observed.

She laughed. “Let me earn my keep then.”

Caravale looked at his watch and stood up. He seemed relieved. “Good. I’ll see you both at three, then.”

THE drive to Stresa would take no more than ten minutes, which gave Phil and Gideon three-quarters of an hour before they had to leave. Phil immediately began to go over logistics with Julie. Lax and slipshod in his personal affairs at home—he could be counted on to be at least twenty minutes late for any appointment—he ran his tours with a near-fanatical attention to detail, and Julie lasted about five minutes before exploding.

“I am a park ranger, you know? I deal with bears, and cougars, and drunks, and hostile bikers. I think I can probably handle anything that comes up here. So get lost, I’ll take care of things.”

Gideon smiled. She was cute when she was angry, and even cuter when she was making believe she was angry.

Phil jumped up immediately. “Sorry, I get a little carried away.”

“I’ll say,” Julie muttered.

“Just let me change,” he told Gideon, and ran off to the platform tent he was sharing with three of the other men.