“He’s not interested in the case, he’s interested in me.” “I don’t understand.”
“Inspector, Emilio wants to know if I’ve already taken steps to replace Angelo, or if I’m intending to do so at any time soon.”
So that’s what this was all about! The old pig was apparently in crisis, with no more lewd stories being told to him by his wife. Montalbano decided to give her a little rope.
“Why haven’t you?”
He was expecting her to laugh again, but Elena turned serious.
“I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings, and I want to feel at peace. I’m waiting for the investigation to be over.” She smiled again. “So you should hurry up.”
And why would a new relationship with another man create misunderstandings? He got the answer to his question when his gaze met hers. That wasn’t a woman sitting in the armchair in front of him, but a cheetah at rest, still sated. The moment she began to feel the pangs of hunger, however, she would pounce on the prey she had already singled out long before. And that prey was him, Inspector Salvo Montalbano, a trembling, clumsy little domestic animal who would never manage to outrun those extremely long, springy legs that for the moment were deceptively crossed. And, most troubling of all, once those fangs sank into his flesh and that tongue began to savor him, he would quickly prove bland to the cheetah’s tastes and disappointing to the schoolteacher husband in the story the cheetah was certain to tell him. His only hope was to play the fool to avoid going to war, and pretend not to have understood. “I came today for two reasons.”
“You could have come anyway, for no reason at all.” The beast had her eye on him, and there was no distracting her.
“You told me that, aside from the car, Angelo had given you jewelry.”
“Yes. Would you like to see it?”
“No, I’m not interested in seeing it. I’m more interested in the boxes the jewels came in. Do you still have them?” “Yes, I’ll go get them.”
She stood, picked up the tray, and took it away. She returned at once and handed the inspector two black boxes, already open and empty. They were lined with white silk and each bore the same inscription: A . D IMORA J EWELRY-M ONTELUSA.
This was what he wanted to know and what his dream had suggested to him. He gave the boxes back to Elena, who set them down on the coffee table.
“And what was the other reason?” the woman asked.
“That’s harder to say. The autopsy revealed an important detail. Two threads of fabric were found stuck between the victim’s teeth. The crime lab informed me that it is a special fabric used almost exclusively in the manufacture of women’s panties.”
“What does it mean?” asked Elena.
“It means that someone, before shooting him, stuck a pair of panties in his mouth to keep him from screaming. Add to this the fact that the victim was found in a state suggesting he’d been about to engage in a sexual act. It being rather inconceivable that a man would go around with a pair of women’s panties in his pocket, that must mean the person who killed him was not a man but a woman.”
“I see,” said Elena. “A crime of passion, apparently.”
“Exactly. At this point in the investigation, however, it’s my duty to report all my findings to the prosecutor.”
“And so you’ll have to mention me.”
“Of course. And Prosecutor Tommaseo will immediately call you in for questioning. The death threats you made to Angelo in your letters will be seen as evidence against you.”
“What should I do?”
Montalbano’s admiration for the girl increased a few notches. She hadn’t become afraid or agitated. She asked for information, nothing more.
“Find a good lawyer.”
“Can I tell him that it was Angelo who made me write those letters?”
“Certainly. And when you do, tell him he should ask Paola Torrisi a few questions.” Elena wrinkled her brow.
“Angelo’s ex? Why?”
Montalbano threw his hands up. He couldn’t tell her. That would be saying too much. But the mechanism in Elena’s head worked better than a Swiss watch.
“Did he also have her write letters like mine?”
Montalbano threw his hands up again.
“The problem is that you, Elena, haven’t got an alibi for the night of the crime. You told me you drove around for a few hours and therefore didn’t meet with anyone. However… “
“However?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Do you think I killed Angelo?”
“I don’t believe that you didn’t meet with anyone that evening. I’m convinced you could produce an alibi if you wanted, but you don’t want to.”
