He turned to Petrelli. ‘Was your rapport with the Maestro different from your friend’s?’
She closed the score and set it carefully at her feet before she answered. ‘Yes, it was. Helmut and I always worked well together. We had a great deal of professional respect for one another.’
‘And personal?’
‘That too, of course,’ she answered quickly. ‘But our relationship was primarily professional.’
‘What, if I might ask, were your personal feelings toward him?’ If she was prepared for the question, she nevertheless seemed not to like it. She shifted in her seat, and he was struck by how obvious she was making her discomfort at the question. He had read about her for years and knew her to be a better actress than this. If she had something to hide in her relationship with Wellauer, she knew how to hide it; she would not sit there like a schoolgirl squirming around when asked about her first boyfriend.
He allowed the silence to grow, intentionally not repeating his question.
Finally, she said, with some reluctance, ‘I didn’t like him.’
When she added nothing to this, Brunetti said, ‘If I might repeat my question to Miss Lynch, was there a particular reason for that?’ How polite we’re being, he thought. The old man is lying, cold and eviscerated, across the
Signora Petrelli cut in on his reverie by saying, ‘There was no real reason. He was simply
‘Was it mutual?’ he asked, unperturbed. ‘Did the Maestro find something in you to dislike?’
She glanced across at Brett Lynch, who was again sipping at her coffee. If something passed between them, Brunetti didn’t see it.
Finally, as though displeased with the character she was playing, Petrelli raised one hand in an open-fingered gesture, one he recognized from the publicity still of her as Norma that had appeared in the papers that morning. Dramatically, she thrust the hand away from her and said,
She turned to face him. ‘You’re bound to hear all of this sooner or later, so it’s better that I tell you.’ He heard the slight tap of porcelain as the other woman set her saucer down on the table, but he kept his eyes on the singer. ‘He accused me of being a lesbian, and he accused Brett of being my lover.’ She paused, waiting to see what his response would be. When he made none, she continued. ‘It started the third day of rehearsal. Nothing direct or clear; just the way he spoke to me, the way he referred to Brett.’ Again she paused, waiting for his response, and again there was none. ‘By the end of the first week, I said something to him, and that developed into an argument, and at the end of that he said he wanted to write to my husband.’ She paused to correct herself. ‘My ex-husband.’ She waited for the impact of that to register on Brunetti.
Curious, he asked, ‘Why would he do that?’
‘My husband is Spanish. But my divorce is Italian. So is the decree that gives me custody of our children. If my husband were to bring an accusation like that against me in this country . . .’ She allowed her voice to trail off, making it clear what she thought the chances would be of her keeping her children.
‘And the children?’ he asked.
She shook her head in confusion, not understanding the question.
‘The children. Where are they?’
‘In school, where they should be. We live in Milan, and they go to school there. I don’t think it’s right to drag them along to wherever I happen to be singing.’ She came closer to him, then sat at the end of the sofa. When he glanced at her friend, he saw that she sat with her face turned away, looking off at the bell tower, almost as if this conversation in no way involved her.
For a long time, no one said anything. Brunetti considered what he had just been told and wondered whether it was the cause of his instinctive backing away from the American. He and Paola had enough friends of variegated sexuality for him to believe that, even if the accusation was true, this would not be the reason.
‘Well?’ the singer finally said.
‘Well what?’ he asked.
Aren’t you going to ask if it’s true?’
He dismissed the question with a shake of his head. ‘Whether it’s true or not is irrelevant. All that’s important is whether he would have gone through with his threat to tell your husband.’ Brett Lynch had turned back to face him with speculative eyes.
When she spoke, her voice was level. ‘He would have done it. Anyone who knew him well would have known that. And Flavia’s husband would move mountains to get custody of the children.’ When she said her friend’s name, she glanced over at her, and their eyes locked for a moment. She moved down in her seat, shoved her hands into her pockets, and stretched her feet out in front of her.
Brunetti studied her. Was it those gleaming boots, the careless display of wealth in this apartment, that caused him to feel such resentment toward her? He tried to clear his mind, to see her for the first time, a woman in her early thirties who had offered him her hospitality and, now, appeared to be offering him her trust. Unlike her employer—if that’s what Petrelli was—she didn’t bother with dramatic gestures or try in any way to highlight the sharp Anglo-Saxon beauty of her face.
He noticed that the strands of her beautifully cut hair were damp at the neck, as though she had not long ago stepped from either a bath or a shower. Turning his attention to Flavia Petrelli, he thought that she had about her, too, the fresh smell of a woman who had just finished bathing. He suddenly found himself embroiled in an erotic fantasy of the two women entwined, naked, in the shower, breasts pushed up against breasts, and he was amazed