He’d failed to show up for embarkation, sent Camera a note with the bogus story that he’d found a better deal somewhere else, given his cell phone to a friend, saying that if his wife called he should pretend he’s him, and asked him to send Dolores a phony postcard two months down the line. And so he’d gained a good leg up before his wife even realized he’d fled the coop and started her futile search.
What to do now?
Go at once to Via Guttuso 12, knock on the door, and inform the leopardess that she’s become a widow, if only by forfeit?
How do leopardesses react when they learn their leopard has left them? Do they scratch? Do they bite? And what if, by chance, she started crying, threw herself into his arms, and wanted to be comforted?
No, it was a rather dangerous idea.
Perhaps it was best to phone her.
But aren’t there certain things you just can’t say over the telephone? Montalbano was certain that, once he got to the heart of the matter, he would get tongue-tied. No, it was safer to write her a note. And advise her, before filing a missing persons report, to talk to the people at
But wasn’t it perhaps better to put it all off till tomorrow?
One day more or less wasn’t going to make any difference. On the contrary. This way, Signora Dolores would actually gain an extra night of peace.
Till tomorrow, he concluded, till tomorrow.
He was about to leave his office and head home when Fazio came in. From the face he was wearing it was clear he had something big up his sleeve. He was about to open his mouth when he noticed the scratches on the inspector’s forearms and changed expression.
“Wha’?? How’d you scratch yourself like that? Have you disinfected them?”
“I didn’t scratch myself,” said Montalbano, annoyed, rolling down his shirtsleeves. “And there’s no need to disinfect them.”
“So how’d you get them, then?”
“Geez, what a pain! I’ll tell you later. Talk to me.”
“So. First of all, Pecorini didn’t use any agency to rent out his house. I called them all. However, a certain Mr. Maiorca, owner of one of the agencies, when he heard me mention Pecorini over the telephone, said, ‘Who, the butcher?’ ‘Do you know him?’ I asked. And he said, ‘Yes.’ So I went and talked to him in person.”
He pulled out a little piece of paper from which he was about to read something, but a homicidal glance from Montalbano stopped him dead.
“Okay, okay, Chief, no vital statistics. Just the bare essentials. The Pecorini of interest to us is a fifty-year-old from Vigata, first name Arturo, who lived in Vigata until two years ago and worked as a butcher. Then he moved to Catania, where he opened an enormous butcher shop at the port, near the customs house. Fits the bill, no?”
“Seems to. Is the summer house the only thing he kept in Vigata?”
“No. He’s got another house, in town, that had always been his main residence, in Via Pippo Rizzo.”
“Do you know where that street is?”
“Yeah, in that same rich neighborhood I said I didn’t like. It runs parallel to Via Guttuso.”
“I see. And he only comes back here in the summer?”
“Who ever said that? He kept his butcher shop here and got his brother, named Ignazio, to look after it. And he comes here every Saturday to see how the business is going.”
Maybe—thought Montalbano—Mimi got to know the butcher from buying meat at his shop and found out, or already knew, that Pecorini had an empty house to rent. That might explain it.
“Did you also talk with your friend at the Antimafia Commission, Morici?”
“I did. We’re meeting tomorrow morning at nine in a bar in Montelusa. Now will you tell me how you got those scratches?”
“Dolores Alfano did it.”
Fazio was taken aback.
“Is she as beautiful as they say?”
“Very beautiful.”
“She came here?”
“Yes.”
“Did she come to report the person who tried to run over her?”
“The subject never even came up.”
“Then what did she want?”
Montalbano had to explain the whole matter to him, including the disappearance of Giovanni Alfano.
“And how did she scratch you?”
A little embarrassed, Montalbano explained.
“Be careful, Chief. That lady bites.”
