He chose to take the vaporetto to San Marco, then cut back towards the
apartment. He rang the bell, waited, and rang again. Then he rang the
bell to the left of hers, waited, then rang the others in succession,
working his way across and down, like a climber rappelling down the
face of a cliff. The
first response came from an apartment on the first floor, the bell of
which bore the name Delia Vedova. A woman's voice answered, and when
he explained that he was from the police and needed to speak to Signora
Moro, the door clicked open. As he entered, the light in the dim hall
flashed on, and a few moments later a woman's voice called from above,
'Up here, Signore.'
He ascended the steps, and noted that attached to one side of them was
a system which would allow a wheelchair to move up and down. The
explanation waited just inside the door at the top of the steps: a
young woman in a wheelchair, an enormous grey cat resting on her lap.
As he reached the landing, she smiled at him and, shifting the cat to
one side, reached up with her right hand. 'Beatrice Delia Vedova/ she
said, 'My pleasure to meet you.'
He gave his name and rank, then she put both hands on the wheels of her
chair, whipped it around in a neat half-circle and propelled herself
back into the apartment. Brunetti followed her inside, closing the
door behind him.
She led him into a living room in the centre of which stood an
architect's drawing board that had been lowered almost a metre to a
height that would allow her wheelchair to slip comfortably under it.
Its surface was covered with water colour sketches of bridges and
canals, painted in the Day-Glo colours tourists seemed to favour. By
contrast, the three views of the facades of churches San Zaccaria, San
Martino and San Giovanni in Bragora that hung on the rear wall all
showed a close attention to architectural detail that was absent from
the paintings on the drawing board. Their muted colours captured the
glowing warmth of stone and the play of light on the canal in front of
San Martino and on the facades of the other churches.
She spun around and saw him studying the drawings on the wall. That's
what I really do,' she said. Then, with a vague swipe at the paintings
on the board, she added, 'And
that's what I get paid to do.' She bent down to the cat and whispered
in its ear, 'We've got to keep you in Whiskas, don't we, fatty?'
The cat rose slowly from her lap and jumped, with a thump that surely
could be heard in the entrance hall below, to the floor. Tail raised,
it walked from the room. The woman smiled up at Brunetti. 'I never
know if he's offended at my comments about his weight or if he just
doesn't like being made to feel responsible for those paintings.' She
let this lie in the air between them, then with a smile added, 'Either
position seems justified, wouldn't you say?'
Brunetti smiled in return, and she asked him to take a seat. As he
did, she wheeled her chair around until it was facing him. She might
have been in her late twenties, though the flecking of grey in her hair
made her seem older, as did the vertical lines between her eyebrows.
Her eyes were a light amber, her nose a bit too large for the rest of
her face, her mouth so soft and relaxed that it seemed out of place on
a face so marked with what Brunetti thought was a history of pain.
'You said you were interested in Signora Moro?' she prompted.
'Yes, I'd like to speak to her. I've been phoning but she's never
home. The last time I spoke to her, she ...'
The woman cut him off. 'When was that?'
'Some days ago. She didn't say anything about leaving the city.'
'No, she wouldn't. Say anything, I mean.'
Brunetti registered the remark and said, The didn't get the feeling
that .. .' He paused, not certain how to express it. 'I didn't have
the feeling that she had anywhere to go.'
Signora or Signorina Delia Vedova looked at him with fresh interest.
'Why do you say that?'
'I don't know. I just had a very strong feeling that the city was
where she belonged and that she had no interest in going anywhere. Or
desire.'
When it seemed that Brunetti had no more to say, she replied, 'She
didn't. Have anywhere to go, that is.'
'Do you know her well?'
'No, not really. She's been here for less than two years.'
'Since the accident?' Brunetti asked.
She looked at Brunetti, and all pleasantness disappeared from her face.
This,' she said, flipping the fingers of her right hand across her lap
to indicate the legs that rested uselessly below it, 'was an accident.
What happened to Federica was not.'
Brunetti stifled any response he might have made to this and asked,
calmly, 'Are you so sure of that?'
