Suddenly reluctant, she said, ‘I think it would be better if the owner showed you.' Without bothering to see if he agreed, she walked over to a red-haired woman who was standing behind the cash register and said a few words to her. The other woman glanced suspiciously in their direction, back at the counterwoman, then back at them. Then she said something to the first woman, who took her place behind the cash register.
The woman with red hair approached them and asked, 'What has she done?'
Brunetti smiled, he hoped disarmingly, and lied. 'Nothing that I know of, Signora. But as I'm sure you know, her aunt was the victim of a crime, and we hope that Signorina Simionato can give us some information that might help us with our investigation.'
'I thought you knew who did it,' she said, her voice just short of an accusation. 'That Albanian woman.' As she talked to them, her eyes kept moving back to the woman at the cash register each time a client approached to pay.
'So it would seem,' Brunetti said, 'but we need some more information about her aunt.'
'Do you have to do it here?' she asked truculently.
'No, Signora. Not here. I thought we could talk to her back there, in the kitchen,' he said.
'I mean here, while she's at work. I'm paying her to work, not stand around talking about her aunt.' Every so often, and always to his surprise, life brought Brunetti further evidence of the legendary venality of the Venetians. It was not the greed that surprised him so much as the lack of embarrassment in showing it.
He smiled. 'I can certainly understand that, Signora. So perhaps it would be better if I were to return later and place uniformed officers at the door while I talk to her. Or perhaps I could have a word with the people at the Department of Health and ask them how it is you know about next week's inspection.' Before she could say a word, he concluded, 'Or perhaps we could just go into the kitchen and have a word with Signorina Simionato.'
Her face reddened with anger she knew she could not display, while Brunetti entirely failed to reproach himself for this flagrant abuse of power. 'She's in the back’ the woman said and turned away from them to return to the cash register.
Vianello led the way into the kitchen, which was lit by a bank of windows set into the far wall. Empty metal racks stood against three walls, and the windowed doors of the vast ovens gleamed. A man and a woman, both wearing immaculate white coats and hats, stood in front of a deep sink from which rose the steam of soapy water. Emerging from the suds were the handles of implements and the tops of the broad wooden boards on which the dough was set to rise before baking.
Running water drowned all other sound, so Brunetti and Vianello were within a metre of the two before the man became aware of their presence and turned. When he saw them standing there, he turned back and shut off the water and, into the silence, said, 'Yes?' He was shorter than average, stocky, but had a handsome face in which only inquisitiveness was evident.
Apparently the woman had not noticed them until her companion spoke, and she turned only then. Shorter than he, she wore glasses with heavy rectangular frames and lenses so thick that they distorted her eyes, turning them into giant marbles. As she looked from Brunetti to Vianello, the focus in the lenses changed with the motion of her head, giving the sense that the marbles were rolling about under the glass.
While the man's face had displayed curiosity at the sight of strangers in his kitchen, hers remained strangely impassive, the only sign of activity those rolling eyes.
'Signorina Simionato?' Brunetti asked.
Owl-like, her head turned towards the sound, and she considered the question before answering, 'Yes.'
'I'd like to speak to you, please.'
The man's glance shot from Brunetti to the woman, to Vianello, and back to Signorina Simionato, searching for the meaning of the arrival of these two strangers, but she kept her eyes on Brunetti's face and said nothing.
It was Vianello who addressed himself to the man, 'Perhaps there's a place where we might talk to Signorina Simionato in private?'
The man shook his head. 'There's nothing like that here,' he said. 'But I can go outside and have a cigarette while you talk.' When Brunetti nodded, the man removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his face with the inside of his elbow. Hitching up his jacket, he pulled a blue packet of Nazionali from the pocket of his trousers and walked away. Brunetti noticed that there was a back door into the
'Signorina Simionato,' Brunetti began, 'I'm Commissario Brunetti, from the police.'
If it were possible for an immobile face to freeze, hers did. Even the eyes halted their busy traffic between Brunetti and Vianello and turned their attention to the windows at the back. But she said nothing. Brunetti studied her face, saw the flat nose and the frizzy orange hair that fought to escape from the white hat. Her skin was shiny, either with sweat or natural oiliness. The sight of her general blankness was enough to convince him that this woman was not capable of using a computer to make bank transfers to unnamed accounts in the Channel Islands.
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.'
She gave no sign that she heard him and did not remove her gaze from the back wall.
'You are Graziella Simionato, aren't you?' he asked.
The sound of her name appeared to make some impression, for she nodded in assent.
'The niece of Maria Grazia Battestini?' he asked.
That summoned both her attention and her eyes back to him. 'Yes,' she muttered. When she opened her mouth to speak, he saw that her two front teeth were outsized and jutted forward over the lower teeth.
'It is my understanding that you are her heir, Signorina.'
'Her heir. Yes,' she affirmed. 'I was supposed to get everything.'
Sounding concerned and puzzled, Brunetti asked, 'Didn't you, Signorina?'
As he watched her, he was struck by the way she kept reminding him of different animals. An owl. Then a caged rodent. And at this question something feral and secretive entered her expression.
She turned those magnified eyes towards him and asked, 'What do you want?'
‘I'd like to talk about your aunt's estate, Signorina.'
'What do you want to know?'
'I'd like to know if you have any idea where her money came from.'
The instinct to hide all evidence of wealth overcame her. 'She didn't have much money,' she insisted.
'But she had bank accounts,' Brunetti said.
‘I don't know about that.'
'At the Uni Credit and at four other banks.'
‘I don't know.' Her voice was as stolid as her expression.
Brunetti shot a glance at Vianello, who raised his brows to show that he too recognized the mule-like obstinacy with which peasants have always resisted danger. Brunetti had quickly seen that sweet reason would do no more than shatter itself against the armour of her stupidity, and so he said, injecting an unpleasant severity into his voice, 'Signorina, you have two choices.'
Her eyes floated up towards his face, her attention caught by his tone.
'We can talk about the source of your aunt's wealth or we can talk about dogs.'
Her lips pulled back over her outsized teeth, and she started to speak, but Brunetti interrupted her. ‘I don't think anyone who runs a business where there is food would want to continue to employ a person accused of using poison, do you, Signorina?' He watched this register and asked, his voice entirely conversational, 'And your employer doesn't seem like the kind of person who would be very patient with an employee who had to take time off to stand trial, does she? That is,' he asked, having given her a moment to reflect upon these two questions, 'if that employee still had a lawyer to help with the trial.'
Signorina Simionato took her left hand in the fingers of her right and began to rub it, as if trying to bring it back to life. Her lenses moved to Vianello's face, then back to Brunetti's. Still caressing her hand, she started to say, ‘I don't…' but Brunetti interrupted her in a loud voice and said, 'Vianello, tell the owner we're taking her with us. And tell her why.'
Acting as if this were a command he was really expected to carry out, Vianello said, 'Yes, Commissario,' and turned towards the door that led to the shop.
He had not taken a step before she said, her voice high-pitched with terror, 'No, wait, don't do that. I'll tell you, I'll tell you.' Her speech was sloppy, as though the consonants could be produced only with the aid of large
