Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

After some clicks and pauses, Paola’s voice came across the line to him. ’Ciao, Guido, come stai? I tried to get you at home Monday night. Why haven’t you called?’

‘I’ve been busy, Paola. Have you been reading the papers?’

‘Guido, you know I’m on vacation. I’ve been reading The Master. The Sacred Fount is wonderful. Nothing happens, absolutely nothing.’

‘Paola, I don’t want to talk about Henry James.’

She had heard the words before, but never with that tone. ‘What’s wrong, Guido?’

Immediately, he regretted not having made more of an effort to call her sooner. ‘There’s been some trouble here,’ he said, trying to make little of it.

Instantly alert, she asked, ‘What sort of trouble?’

‘An accident.’

Voice softer, she said, ‘Tell me about it, Guido.’

‘I was coming back from Mestre, and someone tried to run us off the bridge.’

‘Us?’

‘I was with Vianello,’ he said, then added, ‘and Maria Nardi.’

‘The girl from Canareggio? The new one?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened?’

How was it that no one had called her? Why hadn’t he? ‘Our car was hit and we crashed into the guard rail. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and she was tossed against the door. It broke her neck.’

‘Ah, the poor girl,’ Paola whispered. ‘Are you all right, Guido?’

‘I was shaken up, and so was Vianello, but we’re all right.’ He tried for a lighter tone, ‘No broken bones.’

‘I’m not talking about broken bones,’ she said, voice still very soft, but quick, either with impatience or concern. ‘I’m asking if you’re all right.’

‘Yes, I think I am. But Vianello blames himself. He was driving.’

‘Yes, Vianello would blame himself. Try to talk to him, Guido. Keep him busy.’ She paused and then asked, ‘Do you want me to come back?’

‘No, Paola, you barely got there. I just wanted you to know I was all right. In case you read it in the papers. Or in case anyone asked you about it’ He heard himself talking, heard himself trying to blame her for not having called, for not having read the papers.

‘Do you want me to tell the children?’

‘I guess you better, in case they hear about it or read something. But play it down, if you can.’

‘I will, I will, Guido. When’s the funeral?’

For a moment, he didn’t know which one she meant: Mascari’s, Crespo’s, or Maria Nardi’s? No, it could only be Maria’s. ‘I think it’s Friday morning.’

‘Will you all go?’

‘As many of us as can. She’d only been on the force a short time, but she had a lot of friends.’

‘Who was it?’ she asked, no need to explain the question.

‘I don’t know. The car was gone before we realized what happened. But I’d just been in Mestre to meet someone, one of the transvestites, so whoever it was knew where I was. It would have been easy to follow us. There’s only the one road back.’

‘And the transvestite?’ she asked. ‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘Too late. He’s been killed.’

‘Same person?’ she asked in that telegraphic style they’d had two decades to develop.

‘Yes. Has to be.’

‘And the first one? The one in the field?’

‘It’s all the same thing.’

He heard her say something to someone else, then her voice came back, and she said, ‘Guido, Chiara’s here and wants to say hello.’

‘Ciao, Papa, how have you been? Do you miss me?’

‘I’ve been fine, angel, and I miss you terribly. I miss you all.’

‘But do you miss me most?’

‘I miss you all the same.’

‘That’s impossible. You can’t miss Raffi because he’s never home anyway. And Mamma just sits and reads that book all day, so who’d miss her? That means you’ve got to miss me most, doesn’t it?’

‘I guess that’s right, angel.’

‘See, I knew it. You just had to think about it a little bit, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. I’m glad you reminded me.’

He heard noises on Chiara’s end of the phone, then she said, ‘Papa, I’ve got to give you back to Mamma. You tell her, will you, to come for a walk with me? She just sits here on the terrace all day and reads. What sort of vacation is that?’ With that complaint, she was gone, replaced by Paola.

‘Guido, if you’d like me to come back, I can.’

He heard Chiara’s howl of protest at the suggestion and answered, ‘No, Paola, it’s not necessary. Really. I’ll try to get up there this weekend.’

She had heard similar promises many times before, so she didn’t ask him to swear to it. ‘Can you tell me more about it, Guido?’

‘No, Paola, I’ll tell you when I see you.’

‘Here?’

‘I hope so. If not, then I’ll call you. Look, I’ll call you either way, whether I’m coming or not. All right?’

‘All right, Guido. For God’s sake, please be careful.’

‘I will, Paola. I will. You be careful, too?’

‘Careful? Careful of what, up here in the middle of paradise?’

‘Careful you don’t finish your book, the way you did in Cortina that time.’ Both laughed at the memory. She had taken The Golden Bowl with her but finished it in the first week, leaving her with nothing to read and, consequently, nothing to do for the second week except walk in the mountains, swim, loaf in the sun, and chat with her husband. She had loathed every minute of it.

‘Oh, that’s all right. I’m already eager to finish it so that I can begin it all over again immediately.’ For a moment, Brunetti pondered the possibility that his failure to be promoted to vice-questore might be accountable to the fact that it was common knowledge he was married to a madwoman. No, probably not.

With mutual abjurations towards caution, they took their leave of one another.

Chapter Twenty-Two

He called down to Signorina Elettra, but she was not at her desk, and her phone rang unanswered. He dialled Vianello’s extension and asked him to come up to his office. After a few minutes, the sergeant came in, looking much as he had two mornings ago, when he walked away from Brunetti in front of the Questura.

‘Buon di, Dottore,’ he said as he took his usual place in the chair facing Brunetti’s desk.

‘Good morning, Vianello.’ To avoid a return to their discussion of the other morning, Brunetti asked, ‘How many men have we got free today?’

Vianello gave this a moment’s thought, then answered, ‘Four, if we count Riverre and Alvise.’

Nor did Brunetti want to discuss them, so he said, passing Vianello the first list from the file on the Lega, ‘This is a list of names of people who rent apartments from the Lega della Moralita. I’d like you to select the addresses here in Venice and divide it up among the four of them.’

Vianello, glancing down the names and addresses on the list, asked, ‘What for, sir?’

‘I want to find out who they pay their rent to, and how.’ Vianello gave him a glance replete with curiosity, and Brunetti explained what Canale had told him about paying the rent in cash and about his friends who did the same.