One good turn deserved another. After her father-in-law’s death, Ingrid and her husband had moved into a new house. He looked for the number and dialed it. It was dinnertime, and the Swedish woman, when possible, liked to eat at home.
“You token I lissin,” said the female voice that answered the phone.
Ingrid may have changed houses, but she hadn’t changed her habit of hiring housekeepers that she went looking for in Tierra del Fuego, on Mount Kilimanjaro, or inside the Arctic Circle.
“This is Montalbano.”
“Watt say you?”
She must have been an Australian Aborigine. A conversation between her and Catarella would have been memorable.
“Montalbano. Is Signora Ingrid there?”
“She mangia mangia.”
“Could I speak to her?”
Many minutes passed. If not for the voices in the background, the inspector would have thought he’d been cut off.
“Hey, who is this?” Ingrid finally asked, suspicious.
“Montalbano.”
“Oh, it’s you, Salvo! The maid said there was some ‘Contrabando’ on the phone. How nice to hear your voice!”
“I feel like a heel, Ingrid, but I need your help.”
“So you only remember me when you need me for something?”
“Come on, Ingrid. It’s a serious matter.”
“Okay. What do you want me to do?”
“Could we have dinner together tomorrow night?”
“Sure. I’ll drop everything. Where shall we meet?”
“At the Marinella Bar, as usual. At eight, if that’s not too early for you.”
He hung up, feeling unhappy and embarrassed. Mimi had put him in an awkward position. What kind of expression, what words, would he use to ask the Swedish woman if she had a girlfriend with no body hair? He could already see himself, red-faced and sweaty, muttering incomprehensible questions to an increasingly amused Ingrid ... He suddenly froze. Maybe there was a way out. Since Nene Sanfilippo had recorded his erotic correspondence on the computer, wasn’t it possible that ... ?
He grabbed the keys to the Via Cavour apartment and dashed out.
10
As fast as he was racing out of the office, Fazio was rushing in. And inevitably, as in the finest slapstick movies, they collided. Since they were the same height and were walking with heads down, they nearly locked horns like stags in love.
“Where you going? I need to talk to you,” said Fazio.
“So let’s talk,” said Montalbano.
Fazio locked the office door and sat down, smiling with satisfaction.
“It’s done, Chief.”
“Done?” asked an astonished Montalbano. “In one go?”
“Yessirree, in one go. Father Crucilla’s a clever man. He’s the kind of priest that’s likely to have a rearview mirror to look in when he’s saying Mass, so he can spy on his flock. Anyway, to make a long story short, when I got to Montereale I went straight to the church and sat down in the first row of pews. There wasn’t a soul around. After a little bit, Father Crucilla comes out of the sacristy dressed up in his vestments, followed by an altar boy. I think he was taking the holy oil to somebody’s deathbed. When he passed in front of me, seeing a new face, he looked at me. And I looked back at him. I stayed glued to that pew for practically two hours, and then he finally came back. We looked at each other again. He went into the sacristy for about ten minutes, then came back out with the altar boy still behind him. When he was right in front of me, he waved at me, spreading all five fingers, nice and clear. What do you think he meant?”
“He wanted you to come back to the church at five.”
“That’s what I thought, too. See how clever he is? If I was any old churchgoer, I‘d’ve thought he was just waving, but if I was the man sent by you, then he wasn’t just waving, he was giving me a five o’clock appointment.”
“What did you do?”
“I went and had lunch.”
“In Montereale?”
“No, Chief, I’m not as dumb as you think. There’s two trattorias in Montereale and I know a lot of people there. I didn’t want to be seen about town. And since I had time, I went over Bibera way.”
“So far?”
