About Face

‘I wonder if I might stop by on my way to work and speak to you,’ Brunetti said.

‘Come along whenever you can, Guido,’ she said.

He turned to look at the bedside clock, amazed to see that it was after one. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour or so; if that’s convenient for you, that is.’

‘Of course, Guido, of course. I’ll expect you, then.’

When she was gone, Brunetti pushed back the covers and went down to shower and shave. Before he left the house, he opened the refrigerator and found the remains of the leftover lasagne. He set it on the counter, took a fork from the cabinet, and ate most of what remained, put the fork in the sink, pulled the plastic wrap back over the ravaged lasagne, and put it back in the refrigerator.

Ten minutes later, he rang the bell to the palazzo and was taken, by some dark- suited person he did not recognize, to the Contessa’s study.

She kissed him when he came in, asked if he wanted coffee, insisted until he agreed, and asked the man who had accompanied Brunetti to bring coffee and biscotti for them both. ‘You can’t go to work without coffee,’ she said. She took her usual place in the easy chair that allowed her to see out over the Grand Canal and leaned over to pat the seat of the chair beside her.

‘What is it?’ she asked when he sat down.

‘Franca Marinello.’

She did not seem surprised. ‘Someone called and told me,’ she said in a sober voice that grew softer as she added, ‘The poor girl, the poor girl.’

‘What did they say?’ he asked, wondering who had called but unwilling to ask.

‘That she was involved in something violent at the Casino last night and was taken to be questioned by the police.’ She waited for Brunetti to explain and when he did not, she asked, ‘You know about this?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened?’

‘She shot a man.’

‘And killed him?’

‘Yes.’

She closed her eyes, and Brunetti heard her whisper what might have been a prayer, or something else. He thought he heard the word ‘dentist’, but that made no sense. She opened her eyes and looked at him directly. In a voice that had regained its force, she said, ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘She was there in the Casino with a man. He threatened her, and she shot him.’

She considered this and asked, ‘Were you there?’

‘Yes. But for the man, not for her.’

Again, the Contessa paused a long time before asking, ‘Was it this Terrasini man?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re sure it was Franca who shot him?’

‘I saw her do it.’

The Contessa closed her eyes and shook her head.

There was a knock on the door, and this time it was a woman who came in. She wore sober and formal clothes, though there was no tiny white apron. She set two cups of coffee, a bowl of sugar cubes, two small glasses of water, and a plate of biscotti on the table in front of them, nodded to the Contessa, and left.

The Contessa handed Brunetti his coffee, waited while he dropped in two cubes of sugar, then picked up her own, which she drank without sugar. She set her cup back on the saucer and said, ‘I met her — oh, it was years ago — when she came here as a student. Ruggero, a cousin of mine, had a son who was Franca’s father’s best friend. They were related on the mother’s side, as well,’ she began, then made an exasperated noise and stopped.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it, if we’re related? When she came here to study, Ruggero’s son called and asked me if I’d keep an eye on her.’ She picked up a biscotto, but set it back on the plate untouched.

‘Orazio said you became friends.’

‘Yes, we did,’ the Contessa said promptly and tried to smile. ‘And we still are.’ Brunetti did not ask about this, and the Contessa went on. ‘Paola was gone,’ she said, then smiled. ‘Married to you. It had been years, but I suppose I still missed having a daughter in the house. She’s younger than Paola, of course, so perhaps I missed having a granddaughter. Well, a young person.’ She paused a moment and added, ‘She knew almost no one here and was so terribly shy then; one wanted so much to help her.’ She glanced at Brunetti and said, ‘Still is, don’t you think?’

‘Shy?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I think so, yes,’ Brunetti said, just as if he had not watched Franca Marinello shoot a man to death the previous evening. At a loss for what to say, the best Brunetti could think of was, ‘Thank you for seating me opposite her. I never have anyone to talk to about books. Other than you, I mean.’ Then, in justice to his wife, he added, ‘Well, the ones I like.’

The Contessa’s face brightened. ‘That’s what Orazio said. That’s why I put you with her.’

‘Thank you,’ he repeated.

‘But you’re here for work, aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘Not for books.’

‘No, not for books’ he said, though that was not the entire truth.

‘What do you need to know?’ she asked.

‘Anything you can tell me that might help,’ he said. ‘You knew this Terrasini?’

‘Yes. No. That is, I never met him, and Franca never talked about him. But other people did.’

‘Saying that they were lovers?’ Brunetti asked, fearing it was too soon to be so direct but wanting to know.

‘Yes, saying that.’

‘Did you believe it?’ Brunetti asked.

Her look was as cool as it was level. ‘I don’t want to answer that question, Guido,’ she said with surprising force. ‘She’s my friend.’

He thought of what she had whispered before and asked in honest confusion, ‘Did you say something about a dentist?’

Her surprise was real. ‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘No. I don’t know anything about her. Or about a dentist.’ The second part was true.

‘The dentist who did that to her face,’ she said, adding to his confusion. When his expression did not change, she continued heatedly, ‘I could understand if she had shot him. But it was too late. Someone already did.’ Saying that, she stopped speaking and looked across the canal.

Brunetti leaned back in his chair and put both hands flat on the arms. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’ When her face remained impassive, Brunetti said, ‘Please tell me.’

She pushed herself back in her chair, mimicking his posture. She studied his face for some time, as though trying to determine how and what and how much to tell him. ‘Soon after she married Maurizio, whom I’ve known for most of my life,’ she began, ‘they made plans to go on vacation — I suppose it was a kind of honeymoon. Somewhere in the tropics, I don’t remember now where it was. About a week before they were to leave, she started having trouble with her wisdom teeth. Her dentist was on holiday, so some friend from the university told her about one she went to in Dolo. No, not Dolo: somewhere out there. So she went to him and he said that both teeth had to come out. He took X-rays and told her it wouldn’t be difficult, that he could do it in his surgery.’

The Contessa looked at him, then closed her eyes for a moment. ‘So she went there one morning and he did it, extracted them both, gave her some painkillers and an antibiotic in case of infection and told her she could leave on vacation in three days. The next day she had some pain, but when she called him he told her that was normal and told her to take more of the painkillers he’d given her. The next day it was no better, so she went to see him, and he told her there was nothing wrong, gave her more painkillers, and off they went on vacation. To wherever it was, some island somewhere.’

She was silent for so long that Brunetti finally asked, ‘What happened?’

‘The infection continued, but she was young and she was in love — they were both in love, Guido. I know that to be true — and she didn’t want to ruin their vacation, so she kept taking the painkillers, and when the pain still