Excursion to Tindari

“Hello, Mr. Cusumano. This is Inspector Montalbano.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Wasn’t it you who called the television station when you saw the photo of Mr. and Mrs. Griffo?”

“Yessir, that was me. But what’s that got to do with you?”

“We’re handling the case.”

“Nobody ever told me that! I’m only talking to their son Davide. Good-bye.”

A joyous start is the best ofguides, as Matteo Maria Boiardo once said.

The second name on the list was Gaspare Belluzzo.

“Hello, Mr. Belluzzo? This is Inspector Montalbano, Vigata Police. You called the Free Channel about Mr. and Mrs. Griffo.”

“Right. Last Sunday, the wife and I saw them, they were on the bus with us.”

“Where were you going?”

“To the Sanctuary of the Madonna of Tindari.”

Tindari, gentle as I know you—the line by Quasimodo echoed in his head.

“And what were you going there for?”

“It was an excursion organized by Malaspina Tours in Vigata. The wife and I went on one last year, too, to San Calogero di Fiacca.”

“Tell me something. Do you remember the names of the other passengers?”

“Sure, there was Mr. and Mrs. Bufalotta, the Continos, the Domenidos, the Raccuglias ... There were about forty of us in all.”

Messrs. Bufalotta and Contino were on the list of those who’d called.

“A final question, Mr. Belluzzo. When you got back to Vigata, did you see the Griffos with everyone else?”

“To be honest, I can’t really say. You know, Inspector, it was late, eleven o‘clock at night, it was dark, we were all tired ...”

There was no point wasting more time with other phone calls. He summoned Fazio.

“Listen, all these people went on an excursion to Tindari last Sunday. The Griffos were there too. The trip was organized by Malaspina Tours.”

“I know them.”

“Good. Go there and get the whole list.Then call everyone who went on the tour. I want them all at the station at nine o‘clock tomorrow morning.”

“And where are we going to put them?”

“I don’t give a damn where we put them. Set up a field hospital or something. ‘Cause the youngest of the lot’s probably sixty-five. Another thing: find out from Malaspina who was driving the bus that Sunday If he’s in Vigata and he’s not working, I want him here within the hour.”

Catarella—eyes even redder than before, hair standing on end, making him look like a textbook maniac—came in with a fat stack of pages under his arm.

“Here’s all of it, Chief, all printed up and all.”

“Good. Leave it here and go get some sleep. I’ll see you late this afternoon.”

“Whatever you say, Chief.”

Jesus! Now he had a ream of at least six hundred pages on his desk!

Mimi came in looking splendid, and a twinge of envy came over Montalbano, who immediately remembered the spat he’d had over the phone with Livia. He darkened.

“Listen, Mimi, about that Rebecca ...”

“What Rebecca?”

“Your fiancee, no? The girl you want to marry, not take as wife, as you said ...”

“It means the same thing.”

“No, it doesn‘t, believe me. Anyway, about this Rebecca—”

“Her name is Rachele.”

“Fine, whatever. I think I remember you saying she’s a policewoman in Pavia, right?”

“Right.”

“Has she requested a transfer?”

“Why would she do that?”