Death at La Fenice

‘Yes.’

Michele gave a long, appreciative whistle. ‘Is it yours?’

‘Yes.’

Again, the whistle. ‘I don’t envy you that, Guido. The press will eat you alive if you don’t find out who did it. Scandal to the Republic. Crime against Art. All that stuff.’

Brunetti, who had already had three days of this, said a simple ‘I know.’

Michele’s response was immediate. ‘Sorry, Guido, sorry. What do you want me to ask Papa?’

‘If there was ever any talk about Wellauer and the sisters.’

‘The usual kind of talk?’

‘Yes, or any other kind of talk. He was married at the time. I don’t know if that’s important.’

‘Is that the one who committed suicide?’ So Michele had read the papers too.

‘No; that was the second one. He was still married to number one. And I wouldn’t mind if your father could remember anything about that, as well. But this was right before the war—’38, ‘39.’

‘Wasn’t there some sort of political trouble she got herself into? Insulted Hitler or something?’

‘Mussolini. She spent the war under house arrest. If she had insulted Hitler, she would have been killed. I want to know what her connection to Wellauer was. And, if possible, the sister’s.’

‘How urgent is this, Guido?’

‘Very.’

‘All right. I saw Papa this morning, but I can go over this evening. He’ll be delighted. It’ll make him feel important, being asked to remember. You know how he likes to talk about the past.’

‘Yes, I do. He was the only person I could think of, Michele.’

His friend laughed at this. Flattery was still flattery, no matter how true it happened to be. ‘I’ll tell him you said that, Guido.’ Then, laughter gone, he asked, ‘What about Wellauer?’ This was as close as Michele would permit himself to come to asking a direct question, but that is what it was.

‘Nothing yet. There were more than a thousand people in the theater the night it happened.’

‘Is there a connection with the Santina woman?’

‘I don’t know, Michele. I can’t know until I hear what your father remembers.’

‘All right. I’ll call you tonight after I talk to him. It’ll probably be late. Should I still call?’

‘Yes, I’ll be there. Or Paola will. And thanks, Michele.’

‘It’s nothing, Guido. Besides, Papa will be proud you thought of him.’

‘He’s the only one.’

‘I’ll be sure to tell him.’

Neither of them bothered to say they had to get together soon; neither had the time to travel half the country to see an old friend. Instead they said goodbye and wished each other well.

When he had finished speaking to Michele, he realized it was time to go back to the Wellauer apartment for his second talk with the widow. He left a message for Miotti, saying he wouldn’t be back in the office that afternoon, and scribbled a short note, asking one of the secretaries to place it on Patta’s desk at eight the next morning.

He was a few minutes late getting to the Maestro’s apartment. This time it was the maid who let him in, the woman who had been sitting in the second row of pews at the funeral mass. He introduced himself, gave her his coat, and asked if he might trouble her for a few words after he had spoken to the signora. She nodded and said no more than ‘Si,’ then led him to the room where he had spoken with the widow two days before.

She rose and came across the room to shake his hand. The intervening time had not been gentle to her, Brunetti thought, seeing the dark circles under her eyes, the skin that had become drier, rougher in texture. She went back to where she had been sitting, and Brunetti saw that there was nothing near her— no book, no magazine, no sewing. Apparently she had been sitting and waiting for him, or for the future. She sat down and lit a cigarette. She held the package toward him, offering him one. ‘Sorry; I forgot you don’t smoke,’ she said in English.

He took the same seat as before, but this time he didn’t bother with the business of the notebook. ‘Signora, there are some questions I have to ask you,’ he said. She made no acknowledgment of this, so he continued. ‘They are delicate questions, and I would prefer not to have to ask them, especially at this time.’

‘But you want the answers to them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to ask them, Dottor Brunetti.’ She was, he realized, merely being literal, not severe, and so he said nothing. ‘Why do you have to ask these questions?’

‘Because they might help me find the person responsible for your husband’s death.’

‘Does it matter?’ she asked.

‘Does what matter, Signora?’

‘Who killed him.’