Esterina Trippodo brought her index finger to her lips, then applied her kiss to the photograph.
“Come in, come in, please make yourself at home.”
The kitchen–living room was ever so slightly bigger than the Alfanos’.
“Can I make you some coffee?” asked Esterina.
“Yes, thank you.”
As the lady was fumbling with the
“Do you know the Alfanos?”
“Of course.”
“Did you see them the last time they were here, on the third and the fourth of September?”
Esterina launched into a monologue.
“No. But they were here, in fact. He’s a gentleman. He called me to ask me to buy a bouquet of roses and to have them left in front of the door to their apartment, and said they would be arriving in the early afternoon. He’d asked me to do this before. But that evening, the roses were still in front of the door. The next day I dropped by a little before noon to pick up the money for the roses. The flowers were gone, but nobody answered the door. They’d already left. So I opened their gate—I’m the only one’s got a key—to empty the garbage—it’s my job—but all I found inside the bin was a syringe full of blood. They didn’t even put it in a bag or a piece of paper! Nothing! Just thrown there! Disgusting! Good thing I had gloves on! Who knows what the hell the goddamn slut was up to!”
“Did you mention these things to Inspector Macannuco?”
“No, why? He’s not one of us!”
“What about the roses, were you paid for them?”
“Good things come to those who wait!”
“If I may presume . . . ,” said Montalbano, reaching into his wallet.
Signora Trippodo magnanimously allowed him to presume.
“I noticed an electric bill under the little table in the entrance,” said the inspector.
“When the bills come, I slip them under the door. Apparently she didn’t take that one away with her and pay it.”
And in the name of their common faith in the monarchy, she answered all his other questions in generous detail.
About half an hour later, Montalbano got back in his car, and after barely five minutes on the road, he saw the sign indicating the way to Palmi. It was logical, therefore, that Dolores had taken this road instead of the autostrada. At once the sign for the bypass to Lido di Palmi appeared before him.
Jesus! It was barely two and a half miles from the apartment on Via Gerace! You could even walk there! Taking the bypass, he spotted a motel barely a hundred yards farther on. If Dolores had her accident right at the bypass, there was a very good chance this was the motel she went to.
He parked the car, got out, and went into the bar, which was also the motel’s front desk. It was empty. The coffee machine was even turned off.
“Anybody here?”
Behind a bead curtain that concealed a door on the left, a voice called out.
“I’ll be right there!”
A man without a hint of hair on his head appeared: short, fat, ruddy, and likeable.
“Can I help you?”
“Hello, the name’s Lojacano, I’m with the insurance company, and I need a little information from you, if you’d be so kind. And who are you, if I may ask?”
“I’m Rocco Sudano, I own this place. But at the moment, since it’s the low season, I take care of almost everything myself.”
“Listen, was your motel open on this past September the fourth?”
“Of course. That’s still high season.”
“Were you here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember whether that morning, a dark, very attractive women came in after having a minor accident at the bypass?”
Rocco Sudano’s eyes started glistening, and his billiardball head even started glowing as if there were a lamp inside it. His mouth broadened into a smile of contentment.
“I certainly do remember! How could I forget? Signora Dolores!” Then, suddenly worried: “Has something happened to her?”
“No, nothing. As I said, I’m with the insurance company. It’s about the car accident she had, remember?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you remember by any chance what the lady did for the rest of that day?”
“Well, yes. You don’t see a whole lot of women like that, not even in high season! First she went to her room
