As Enzo was working for him, he drank a third glass of liqueur at his leisure. The restaurateur returned and handed him the number.
“People around town have been talking about the doctor,” he said.
“And what are they saying?”
“That this morning he went to the notary’s to do the pa-perwork for donating the villa he lives in. He’s going to move in with his brother, the geologist, now that his wife has passed away.” “Who’s he donating the villa to?”
“Oh, apparently some orphanage in Montelusa.” From the restaurant phone, Montalbano called first Dr.
Mistretta’s office, then his home. There was no answer. No doubt the doctor was at his brother’s villa for the wake. And no doubt only the family was there, unbothered by policemen or journalists. He dialed the number. The telephone rang a long time before somebody picked up.
“The Mistretta home.”
“Montalbano here. Is that you, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Look, we can do it tomorrow after—”
“No.”
The doctor’s voice cracked.
“You want to see me now?”
“Yes.”
The doctor let a little time elapse before speaking again.
“All right, though I find your insistence quite inappropriate. You’re aware that the funeral is tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Will it take very long?”
“I can’t say.”
“Where do you want to meet?”
“I’ll be over in twenty minutes, maximum.” Exiting the trattoria, he noticed that the weather had changed. Heavy rain clouds were approaching from the sea.
2 2 4
17
Seen from the outside, the villa was in total darkness, a black bulk against a sky black with night and clouds. Dr. Mistretta had opened the gate and stood there waiting for the inspector’s car to appear. Montalbano drove in, parked, and got out, but waited in the garden for the doctor to close the gate. A faint light shone from a lone window with its shutter ajar; it came from the dead woman’s room, where her husband and daughter were keeping watch. One of the two French doors in the salon was closed, the other ajar, but it cast only a dim light into the garden, because the overhead chandelier was not lit.
“Come inside.”
“I prefer to stay outside. We can go in if it starts raining,” said the inspector.
They walked in silence to the wooden benches and sat down like the time before. Montalbano pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“Want one?”
“No, thank you. I’ve decided to quit smoking.” Apparently the kidnapping had led both uncle and niece to make vows.
“What was it you so urgently needed to tell me?”
“Where are your brother and Susanna?”
“In my sister-in-law’s room.”
Who knows whether they’d opened the window to let a little air into the room? Who knows whether there was still that ghastly, unbearable stench of medication and illness?
“Do they know I’m here?”
“I told Susanna, but not my brother.”
How many things had been kept, and were still being kept, from the poor geologist?
“So, what did you want to tell me?”
“Let me preface it by saying that I’m not here in an official capacity. But I can be if I want.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. It depends on your answers.”
“Then get on with your questions.”
