“I see what you’re getting at. Emilio Sclafani is not just my colleague; we’re actually friends, in a way. One evening I invited Emilio and his young wife to dinner. Angelo was there, too, and that’s when it all started between them.”
“Listen, Elena told me her husband knew all about her affair with Angelo. Can you by any chance confirm that?”
“It’s true. In fact, the strangest thing happened.”
“Namely?”
“It was Emilio himself who told me that Angelo and his wife had become lovers. She’d told him just a few hours before. I didn’t want to believe it. I thought Emilio was pulling my leg. The next day Angelo phoned me to say he wouldn’t be able to see me for a while. So I blew up and told him what Emilio had told me. He stammered a bit and then owned up to it. But he pleaded with me to be patient, said it was just a little fling …But I was adamant, and our relationship ended there.”
“You never saw each other again?”
“No. We never spoke again either.”
“And did you maintain friendly relations with Mr. Sclafani?”
“Yes. But I never invited him to dinner again.” “Have you seen him since Angelo died?” “Yes. Just this morning.” “How did he seem?” “Upset.”
Montalbano hadn’t expected such a prompt reply. “In what way?”
“Don’t get the wrong idea, Inspector. Emilio’s upset because his wife lost her lover, that’s all. Elena probably confessed to him how attached she was to him, how jealous—”
“Who told you she was jealous? Emilio?”
“Emilio has never said anything to me about Elena’s feelings towards Angelo.”
“It was me,” Michela cut in.
“She also gave me a sort of summary of Elena’s letters.” “Speaking of which, have you found them?” asked Michela.
“No,” said Montalbano, lying.
On this matter he sensed intuitively, in his gut, that the more he muddied the waters, the better.
“She obviously got rid of them,” Michela said, convinced.
“What for?” the inspector asked.
“What do you mean, ‘what for’?” Michela reacted. “Those letters could be used as evidence against her!”
“But, you know,” Montalbano said with an innocent, angelic look on his face, “Elena has already admitted writing them. Jealousy and death threats included. If she admits this, what reason would she have to get rid of them?”
“Well, then, what are you waiting for?” said Michela, summoning her special sandpaper voice.
“To do what?”
“Arrest her!”
“There’s a problem. Elena says those letters were practically dictated to her.” “By whom?” “Angelo.”
The two women had entirely different reactions.
“Slut! Bitch! Liar!” Michela screamed, springing to her feet.
Paola instead sank further into her armchair.
“What could have possessed Angelo to have her write him jealous letters?” she asked, more curious than confused.
“Even Elena couldn’t tell me,” said Montalbano, lying again.
“She couldn’t tell you because it’s totally untrue!” Michela said, practically screaming.
Her voice was turning dangerously from sandpaper into grindstones again. Having no desire whatsoever to witness another scene from a Greek tragedy, Montalbano thought he could be satisfied with the evening’s proceedings.
“Did you write down those addresses for me?” he asked Michela.
The woman gave him a puzzled look. “Remember? The two women, one of whom, I think, was named Stella …”
“Oh, right. Just a minute.” She left the room.
Then Paola, leaning slightly forward, said to him softly:
“I need to talk to you. Could you call me tomorrow morning? There’s no school. I’m in the phone book.”
Michela returned with a sheet of paper, which she handed to the inspector.
“The list of Angelo’s past loves.”
“Is there anyone I don’t know?” asked Paola.
“I don’t think Angelo hid any of his amorous history from you.”
Montalbano stood up, and it was time for fond good-byes.
