Good Blood

“Because whenever you quit on the breakfast croissants and the cold cuts and go back to eating cereal, I know that means you’re ready to go home. Your mental gears have shifted.” He himself was working on his second brioche, split and filled with sliced ham and cheese.

She continued to look at him for a few moments, then shook her head. “We’ve been married too long,” she said, returning to her cereal.

“Actually, not having a schedule suits me too. I’d like to go have another look at Domenico’s bones.”

“Domenico’s bones? Why?”

“I’m starting to wonder if I might have made a mistake with them.”

“A mistake? You mean they’re not Domenico’s? Caravale’s going to love that.”

“Oh, no, they’re Domenico’s, all right. No question there.”

“What then? The cause of death?”

“No, I don’t have any doubts about that either. He was stabbed to death. But I think I might have misinterpreted something.”

She waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. “And you’re not going to tell me what it is, right?”

“Well, let me look at them first.”

“Is it something important?”

“Could be, if it’s true. Which it almost certainly isn’t. But it might be.”

She watched him finish his sandwich and dab pensively at his lips without saying anything more. “Thank you so much,” she said, “for that lucid and comprehensive explanation.”

“More later,” he told her, smiling. “Heck, I’m probably all wet anyway.” He finished the last of his coffee and kissed the back of her hand with a smack. “See you in a couple of hours.”

AH, no, he was informed by a sympathetic corporal at carabinieri headquarters, unfortunately it would not be possible for him to look at the bones because they’d been sent to the Rome laboratory for further forensic analysis.

But a thorough set of photographs had been taken. Would the dottore care to see those? Copies could be made for him if he wished.

That might be even better, Gideon said, and a few minutes later he was sitting in an interrogation room with five dozen large, sharp, well-lit color photographs of Domenico de Grazia’s remains. He spent half an hour over them, talking to himself all the way, at the end of which time he carried them back to the clerk who’d given them to him.

“I’ll take this one, and this one, and this one,” he said. “This one too.”

They were quickly reproduced and brought back. The carabinieri had good equipment; the copies were as crisp as the originals. He slipped them into the manila envelope provided.

“Thanks very much. Oh, and is the colonel here?”

“Ah, but he’s not in the office this morning, Signor Oliver,” she said regretfully. “He can possibly be reached, however, if it’s a matter of importance. Would you care to speak with him?”

“No, that’s all right,” he said and was almost out the door with his photographs when he turned around and came back. “Well, yes, on second thought, I guess I would.”

HE found Julie back at the Primavera. She had started her to-do list and had pulled the armchair and the ottoman up to the wide-open French windows to work on it, but her eyes were closed and her hands lay comfortably folded over the note pad. The list had gotten as far as a double-underlined “To Do” at the top of the page, but no further. Soothing sounds of quiet conversations in Italian and German drifted up from the open-air cafes in the street below, and the breezes off the lake were stirring a few unruly strands of black hair at her temples. All told, she looked about as stressed out as a house cat dozing on a sunny rug in front of the living room window.

He smoothed the hair back, then bent to breathe in its clean, familiar fragrance and to kiss her gently on the temple, her hair springy and supple against his mouth. “What’s this?” he murmured in her ear. “I thought you had all kinds of things to do.”

“I’m planning,” she replied without opening her eyes. “That’s the key to my efficiency. I thought you knew that.”

He tapped the note pad. “Is that so? You don’t seem to have gotten—”

“Shuddup and gimme a real kiss.” She lifted her arms, opened her eyes wide, and puckered up extravagantly.

“I bet this is what it’s like to kiss a guppy,” he said, laughing, but of course he complied.

“That’s more like it.” She stretched and yawned. “So did you find what you were looking for?”

“I’m not sure.” He slid her feet over so that he could sit on the ottoman beside her.

“Still playing your cards close to the vest, eh? Oh, by the way, Vincenzo de Grazia called. The padrone himself.”

“Here? What did he want?”

“Achille’s going off to school in Switzerland, and there’s a party for him at the villa tonight. We’re invited. Very informal, so you don’t have to worry about fancy clothes.”

“Why are we invited?”

“Because of your kind assistance to the family in the matter of his father’s remains, is what he said. Because Phil probably asked him to invite us, is what I think. Want to go?”