“Did your mother say anything or call out before she fell?”
Nina thought for a moment.
“I don’t remember anything,” she said. “It happened so fast.”
“When did Cassie leave you at dinner?”
“She got up from the table as soon as we were finished and said that she was going to have a shower and continue with her packing.”
Falcone nodded, frustrated that the story was dovetailing perfectly with what Cassie Vale had told her, and that Nina’s composure seemed to be impenetrable.
“Was your mother kind to you?” she asked.
“She was a very kind and good person,” Nina replied smoothly and gave another sniff. “I will miss her terribly.”
“And why was Cassie Vale with you for so short a time?” Falcone tried.
“She was going to leave tomorrow. I don’t know why.”
Falcone remembered Cassie’s version and wondered, suddenly, how a woman with dementia could possibly care for two children. She would not be capable, and Ms. Rossi must have known this. Had there been more to the story? She suddenly wondered if Cassie Vale had been told to care for the old woman as part of her duties, and had refused, and then grown angry when Ms. Rossi insisted on it.
“Was there ever any fighting between your mama and your au pair, Cassie Vale?” she asked.
Nina thought for a minute.
“I did not ever see Mama and Cassie fighting, or hear any angry words,” she said clearly.
It suddenly hit Falcone, like a thunderbolt, sharp and shocking and unfortunately far too late. Nina’s odd clarity of speech, the projection of her voice—this was not being done for her own benefit. It was being done so that her sister could hear what she said, and could offer the same version.
Falcone was certain, in fact she would have bet a million Euros, that if she strode silently to the closed bedroom door and flung it open, she would find Venetia standing outside with her ear pressed to the keyhole. And she was already convinced that when she went next door and asked Venetia these same questions, she would receive identical, word-perfect replies.
She didn’t do it. Partly because it had been her own fault. She should have anticipated that the children might collude. And partly because, whatever the real circumstances were, they’d had a hellish evening. Although the two girls were incredibly self-possessed, they had been crying in private and had suffered trauma and loss that no young child should have to endure. She was not willing to compound it by exposing something that the two girls had successfully planned, even though it was embarrassing for a seasoned detective to have been outwitted by two children under the age of ten.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “I will go and ask Venetia a few questions now.”
Falcone was sure she heard the fast scamper of feet away from the door.
Venetia was sitting innocently on her bed when Falcone walked in. This room was a mirror image of her sister’s. The same showpiece furniture, and the same high shelf with untouched toys.
“I am so sorry this happened,” Falcone said sympathetically.
She put a comforting hand on the young girl’s back as she perched on the bed beside her.
To her surprise, Venetia flinched away and Falcone saw a spasm of pain cross her features.
“Are you all right? Is your back sore?” she asked in concern. This was the first honest, knee-jerk response she’d had from the children. She hadn’t expected it at all. Had they been beaten or abused in some way?
“I fell from my horse,” Venetia replied. “It will be better soon.”
“I see. I hope that wasn’t scary. And I hope you’re not too upset after what happened tonight.”
“It was a great shock. We are very upset,” Venetia replied. “Mama was a kind and good person and we will miss her terribly.”
Just about word perfect, as Falcone had suspected.
She found herself thinking back over her case history, identifying the odd behavior of these girls and comparing it with other, older cases that she had handled, and also with the training she herself had received.
This steely composure that had to be maintained at all costs, the way the girls seemed older than their years, and that flinch of pain when she’d touched Venetia’s back. After that, the girl had shut down again and the fall from the horse sounded like a rehearsed excuse.
Falcone was beginning to wonder if these girls were victims of abuse.
After concluding the interview with Venetia, her final stop was the room that had been pointed out to her—the one where Nonna, newly arrived, had been installed.
Falcone tapped on the door gently, realizing that the old lady did not know, as yet, that anything had happened to her daughter. It would be a difficult task to tell her. If she became too upset, Falcone might need to summon a police constable to stay with her for the night, to reassure her and check she didn’t harm herself in her distress.
There was no answer, so she opened the door and stepped quietly inside.
The room was dark and she could hear rough, shallow breathing from the bed.
She flicked the light switch on and saw that Nonna was on her back, her mouth open, deeply asleep. Falcone was struck by how pale and frail the elderly lady looked. She was certainly not well.
“Ms. Rossi?” she asked softly.
Crossing the room, she gently squeezed the woman’s thin, bony hand.
“Are you able to speak?”
The grandmother muttered something incoherent, and slipped into a deep slumber again.
Falcone returned to the door. She would have to leave this interview for another time. With the move, the elderly lady had endured a tiring day. Tomorrow, she would be rested, and might be able to remember and share what she saw.
*
Cassie waited in the dining room, feeling more and more nervous with every second that passed. She wished she knew what the detective was asking, and whether her kind and perceptive manner had broken through the
