“What did he tell you?”
“Well, something strange. He said they’d received a tip that turned out to be a red herring.”
“Meaning?”
“About two months ago, they received an anonymous letter.”
“For a change!”
“But this one seemed different, like it might contain a grain of truth.”
“What did it say?”
“That Don Balduccio Sinagra had somebody killed.”
“Don Balduccio? The guy’s over ninety years old! Hasn’t he retired from the family business?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Chief. That’s what the letter said. It explained that Don Balduccio intervened in that particular instance because he had felt personally offended.”
“I see. And who was it that offended him and got liquidated?”
“The letter didn’t give his name. But it did say the guy was a courier who instead of delivering some merchandise had sold it himself.”
“And then?”
“The Antimafia people got moving right away. If they could get their hands on even a little proof, it would be a major coup. And they didn’t ask for any help from Narcotics—you know how these things are. But if they had, they would have saved themselves some time.”
“Why?”
“After four frantic days of investigation, Inspector Musante happened to run into Inspector Ballerini from Narcotics, who, in the course of the conversation, told him that Don Balduccio Sinagra was in a coma in a Palermo hospital. And so they decided that Balduccio couldn’t have given the order to have anyone killed. And, at any rate, they hadn’t found anything, not even the courier’s dead body.”
“And what was their conclusion?”
“That someone had taken them for a ride, Chief.”
“Or someone wanted to make trouble for Don Balduccio, not knowing he was in a coma.”
“. . . and so, to conclude, your husband never boarded the
Dolores Alfano froze like a statue.
She was standing in front of Montalbano and Fazio, who were sitting in two armchairs in her living room, and about to serve them coffee. Her left arm remained raised in midair, perhaps to brush her hair back, while her right arm reached downwards.
For a split second, the inspector felt as if he were looking at a sugar doll of a dancing girl, which were almost always Spanish dancers. Even the scent of cinnamon, which immediately grew stronger, added to this impression. He felt a terrible desire to stick out his tongue and lick her neck, so he could taste her skin, which must surely be sweet.
The lady then came back to life. Saying nothing, she completed the movements she had begun. She brushed the hair away from her eyes, bent forward to pour the coffee into the two cups with a steady hand, asked them how much sugar they took, put this in the cups, which she then handed them, and sat down on the sofa.
Montalbano was watching her. She hadn’t lost color, and showed no surprise or agitation at the news. The only outward sign was a deep, straight furrow cutting horizontally across her brow. She waited until the two men had finished their coffee before she spoke.
“You’re not joking, are you?”
No drama in her tone, no cracking in her voice from pent-up tears. A simple, flat question.
“No, unfortunately,” said Montalbano.
“What do you think could have happened to him?” she asked in the same tone, as if she were talking about someone without the slightest connection to her.
Sugar doll? She was a woman of marble and steel, was Signora Dolores! A contradictory woman, though: able to control herself, as she was at this moment, but also liable to abandon herself to acts of passion, as when she scratched his arm.
“Well, the most likely scenario is a voluntary disappearance.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Mr. Camera told me that a few days after not showing up for boarding, your husband sent him a note saying he’d found a better offer.”
“But that could be a forgery, like the postcard I received the other day,” Dolores replied readily.
Intelligent woman, no doubt about it, whose brain still functioned in spite of the blow she’d just received.
“That’s precisely why I would like to get my hands on that note, provided Camera still has it.”
“Why don’t you try?”
“Before I can make any moves, I need a formal missing persons declaration from you.”
“All right, then, I’ll do that. Should I come with you?”
