The Girl Of His Dreams Part 11

'Humidity and millions of feet are just as sure to do the job for them, I think' Brunetti said, knowing as he spoke that, however true, this explanation in no way excluded the other.

Talking idly, they crossed in front of the people seated at Paolin, eating the first gelati gelati of springtime, turned left and wove their way back towards the ca.n.a.l. At the end of a narrow of springtime, turned left and wove their way back towards the ca.n.a.l. At the end of a narrow calk calk that led down to the Grand Ca.n.a.l, they rang the bell marked Fornari. that led down to the Grand Ca.n.a.l, they rang the bell marked Fornari.

'Si?' a woman's voice enquired. a woman's voice enquired.

'Is this the home of Giorgio Fornari?' Brunetti asked in Italian, rather than Veneziano.

'Yes, it is. What do you want?'

"This is Commissario Guido Brunetti, of the police, Signora. I'd like to speak to Signor Fornari.'

'What's wrong?' she asked with that involuntary intake of breath he had heard many times.

'Nothing, Signora. I'd like to speak to Signor Fornari.'

'He's not here.'

'May I ask who you are, Signora?' 'His wife'

'Then perhaps I could speak to you?' 'What is this about?' she asked with mounting impatience.

'Some missing property' he said. After a moment's silence, she said, 'I don't understand.'

'Perhaps I could come up and explain it to you, Signora' Brunetti suggested.

'All right' she said. A moment later the latch on the front door snapped open.

'Take the lift' the woman's voice came from the speaker beside them. 'Top floor.'

The lift was a tiny wooden box which held them with room to spare for a third person, a very thin third person. In mid-pa.s.sage, the box gave a sudden small jerk, and Brunetti turned aside in surprise. He saw two grim-faced men looking as startled as he felt, then recognized himself and Vianello, who met his eyes in the mirror on the side wall.

The box shuddered to a stop and continued to vibrate for a few seconds, before Brunetti pushed back the swinging doors. At a doorway on the right stood a woman of medium height, medium build, with medium-length hair of an indeterminate colour somewhere between red and brown.

'I'm Orsola Vivarini' she said without extending her hand or smiling.

Brunetti stepped from the box, followed by Vianello. 'Guido Brunetti' he repeated, then turned to Vianello and gave his name.

'Come into the study' she said and led them down a bright corridor at the end of which light flooded in from a tall window that looked across at the buildings and rooftops on the other side of the Grand Ca.n.a.l. She stopped halfway down and opened a door on the right that led into a long narrow room two walls of which were covered almost to the ceiling with bookcases. There were three windows, but the building opposite was so close that less light penetrated than from the single window in the hall.

She led them towards a pair of comfortable-looking sofas that faced one another across a low walnut table covered with the scars of decades of feet and spills. A book lay face down on the sofa the woman chose; before sitting on the other, Brunetti closed a magazine and placed it on the table. Vianello sat beside him.

She regarded them levelly, without smiling 'I'm afraid I don't understand why you've come, Commissario,' she said.

Her voice flowed in the Veneto cadence: in other circ.u.mstances, Brunetti would have slipped into Veneziano, but she was speaking in Italian, and so he did his part to retain the formality of their exchange. 'It's about two objects belonging to your husband which have been found.'

'And they thought it necessary to send a commissario to give them back?' she asked in a tone in which scepticism took the place of surprise.

'No, Signora,' Brunetti answered. 'There's a possibility that this is part of a wider investigation.' The remark, though it often served as a multi-purpose lie, this time was true.

She raised both hands from her lap and opened the palms in a gesture of confusion. 'I'm afraid I'm completely at a loss here, then' She tried unsuccessfully to smile. 'Perhaps you'd tell me what this is all about?'

Instead of answering, Brunetti took the manila envelope from his pocket and pa.s.sed it across to her. 'Could you tell me if these belong to your husband, Signora?'

She unlooped the red string which held the flap and poured the objects out into the palm of her left hand. She gasped and involuntarily sought to cover her mouth with her other hand, though all she succeeded in doing was crus.h.i.+ng the envelope against her lip. 'Where did you get these?' she demanded, looking up at him.

'Then you recognize them?' Brunetti asked.

'Of course I recognize them,' she said sharply. 'It's my husband's wedding ring and his watch' As if uncertain, she prised open the back and, after reading the inscription, held it towards Brunetti. 'Look. Our names are there' She set the watch on the table and held the ring up to the light, then pa.s.sed it to Brunetti. 'And our initials.' When he said nothing, she demanded 'Where did you get these?'

'Could you tell me the last time you saw these objects, Signora?' Brunetti asked, ignoring her question.

For a moment, he thought she would object to his question, but then she said, 'I don't know. I saw the ring last week, when Giorgio came home from the doctor.'

Brunetti saw no relation between the two parts of her answer, but he said nothing.

'The dermatologist,' she explained. 'Giorgio's developed a rash on his left hand, and the dermatologist said it might be an allergy to copper.' She pointed to the ring, still in Brunetti's hand, and said, 'See how red it is. That's the copper alloy. At least that's what the doctor thinks. At any rate, he told Giorgio to try not wearing the ring for a week or so to see if the rash disappeared' 'And has it?' Brunetti asked.

'Yes. I think so. I don't know if it's disappeared completely, but it wasn't so bad before he left.'

'Left?'

She seemed surprised at his question, almost as if he should have known her husband was away. 'Yes. He's in Russia.' Before either man could ask, she said, 'On business. His company sells ready-made kitchen units, and he's there negotiating a contract.'

'How long has he been gone, Signora?' Brunetti asked.

'A week.'

'And when do you expect him back?'

'Towards the middle of next week,' she said, then added, unable to disguise her impatience and disgust, 'Unless he has to stay on longer to bribe some other people.'

Brunetti let that pa.s.s, saying only, 'Yes, I've been told it's difficult.' Then he asked, 'Did he remove the watch at the same time, do you know?'

'I think so. The clasp on the chain broke, weeks ago, so it really wasn't safe for him to carry it, and he said he was afraid someone would steal it. Before he left, he tried to find someone to fix it, but the jeweller who made the chain is gone, and Giorgio didn't have time to look any further. I said I'd try to get it done while he was away, but I suppose I forgot about it.'

'Do you have any idea when you saw it last?' Brunetti asked.

She glanced back and forth between the faces of the two men, as if hoping to read there some explanation of their curiosity about these objects. Then she closed her eyes for a moment, opened them and said, 'No, I'm sorry, I don't. I don't even remember watching Giorgio put it on the dresser. Maybe he told me he did, but I have no conscious memory of seeing it there.'

'And the wedding ring? When did you last see that?'

Again, the quick glance to see if they'd reveal the reasons for these questions; again, the failure. 'He carried it home in his watch pocket and said he wasn't going to wear it for a while. There's no other place he'd put it, but I can't remember seeing it on the dresser.' She tried to smile, good manners rising above irritation. I'm afraid I have to ask you what this is all about, Commissario.'

Brunetti saw no reason not to answer her, at least in the most general of terms. 'These objects were found in the possession of a person we believe to be involved in a series of other crimes. Now that you have identified these objects as belonging to your husband, we need to find out how they came into the possession of the person who had them.'

'What person?' she demanded.

Brunetti felt Vianello s.h.i.+ft his weight on the sofa beside him. 'That's not something I'm at liberty to tell you, Signora. It's too early in our investigation.'

'But not too early for you to come here,' she shot back. When Brunetti made no rejoinder, she asked, 'Have you arrested anyone?'

Brunetti answered neutrally, 'I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss that, either, Signora.'

Her voice took on a harder edge and she asked, 'And if you do, will my husband and I be told?'

'Of course,' he answered and asked her for the address of her husband's hotel, which she gave him. A silent Vianello wrote down the name. Brunetti did not want to irritate her further and so did not ask for the phone number.

'Could you tell me who lives here with you, Signora?' Brunetti asked, quite as if he had never heard the names of her children. This was the point, Brunetti thought as he waited for her to answer, when people usually began to protest or to refuse to answer further questions.

With no hesitation, she said, 'Only my two children: they're eighteen and sixteen.'

Glancing around the room with what he thought was an appreciative look, Brunetti asked, 'Is there anyone who helps you care for the apartment, Signora?'

'Margherita' she answered.

'And her surname?'

'Carputti,' she answered and immediately went on, 'But she's worked for us for ten, no, for thirteen years. She'd no sooner steal anything than I would.' Before Brunetti could comment, she added, 'Besides, she's from Naples: if she did decide to steal from us, she'd be much more clever about it than to waste her time taking those things.' Brunetti hoped he would remember this explanation if it ever fell to him to defend the probity of his Southern friends.

'Do your children bring friends home, Signora?'

She looked as if it had never occurred to her that children might have friends. 'Yes, I suppose they do. They come and do homework together, or whatever it is young people do.'

As a parent, Brunetti had a set of ideas regarding what young people did in one another's homes; as a policeman, he had an entirely different set.

'Indeed' he said, getting to his feet, followed by Vianello. Signora Vivarini got quickly to her feet.

'Would you be kind enough to show us where you last saw these objects, Signora?' Brunetti asked.

'But that's our bedroom,' she protested, and Brunetti found himself liking her for it. He flicked his eyes in Vianello's direction, and the Inspector sat back down on the sofa.

For some reason, this seemed to satisfy Signora Vivarini, and she led Brunetti back into the corridor and across to the room opposite. She left the door open and preceded him.

It had the same comfortable feeling as did the study. An old Tabriz lay at the foot of the large double bed, faded from too many years beneath west-facing windows and worn ragged at one corner. Grey linen curtains were drawn back from the windows on the far wall, beyond which Brunetti saw the windows of the building on the opposite side of the ca.n.a.l. Between the windows were bookcases, with books stuffed in horizontally on top of every row.

The last window on the right led to a low-walled terrace, just big enough to hold the two chairs Brunetti saw on it. 'That must be a wonderful place to sit and read in the evening,' Brunetti said, waving towards the gla.s.s door.

She smiled for the first time and her face suddenly ceased to be ordinary. 'Yes. Giorgio and I spend a lot of time there.' Then she asked, 'Are you a reader?'

'When I have time, yes, I try to be,' Brunetti answered. It was no longer possible to ask another person how they voted, and in a Catholic country it was hardly necessary to ask about a person's religion. Questions about s.e.xual behaviour were impolite, and food was usually discussed during meals: so perhaps the only personally revealing question left was whether a person read or not, and if so, what. Tempting as it would be to follow this reflection, Brunetti asked, 'Would you show me where these objects were, Signora?'

She pointed to a low walnut bureau with four wide drawers that looked as if they would be hard to open. As Brunetti approached, the first thing he saw was a framed wedding photograph. Even more than twenty years younger and in her wedding dress, she had still been a completely ordinary-looking woman, but the man beside her, happiness radiant in his face, was more than handsome. To the right of the photo was a porcelain tray with an image of two brightly coloured dancing peasants in the centre. 'It was my mother's,' she said, as if to justify the workmans.h.i.+p and colours. The tray held two separate keys, a pair of nail scissors, a few seash.e.l.ls, and a book of vaporetto tickets.

She stood looking at the objects on the tray for some time. She glanced away from them and around the room, then out beyond the terrace, then back at the objects on the tray. Lightly, she placed a finger on the vaporetto tickets and slid them to one side, then turned over two of the seash.e.l.ls. She said, 'There was a small garnet ring here, too, and a pair of cuff links with small pieces of lapis; they're gone, as well.'

'Were they valuable?' Brunetti asked.

She shook her head. 'No. It wasn't even a real garnet: just a piece of gla.s.s. But I liked it.' She paused, then added, 'The cuff links were silver.'

Brunetti nodded. It would be impossible for him to tell what was or what was not lying, just now, on the top of the dresser in his and Paola's bedroom. The emerald ring Paola's father had given her when she finished university was often left there, as was her IWC watch, but Brunetti had no idea when he had last seen them.

Is anything else missing?' he asked.

'I don't think so' she said, running her eyes across the surface of the bureau.

Brunetti walked over to the door to the terrace and looked at the house opposite. To see the ca.n.a.l, he would have to lean out from the terrace. Instead, he thanked her and went out into the corridor. When she joined him, he asked, 'Signora, could you tell me where you were on Wednesday night?'

'Wednesday,' she repeated, but not as a question.

'Yes.'

'At the opera, with my son and my sister and her husband, then at dinner with them.' 'May I ask where?'

'At their home. They had invited me and my husband, but he was away on this trip, so Matteo took his place.' She added, making it sound as if she thought it best to ask pardon for it, 'My son likes the opera.' Brunetti nodded, knowing her story could be easily checked.

As if reading his mind, she said in a voice grown louder, 'Her husband's name is Arturo Benini. They live in Castello.'

Again she antic.i.p.ated his next question and said, 'We were there until at least one' Sounding as if she might soon run out of patience, she added, 'My daughter was asleep when I got in, so I'm afraid there's no one you can check with about when we got back.' Brunetti heard the difficulty with which she controlled the anger that was seeping into her voice.

'Thank you, Signora,' he said and started back towards the room where Vianello waited. But suddenly the door at the end of the corridor opened and Botticelli's Venus walked into the apartment.

17.

Married for more than twenty years to a woman he thought beautiful, with a daughter who was quickly becoming just that, Brunetti was accustomed to the sight of female beauty. He lived in a country that bombarded his eyes with lovely women: on posters, on the street, standing behind the counters in bars; even one of the new officers at the station in Cannaregio had caused his heart to stop the first time he saw her. Officer Dorigo, however, had turned out to be both a complainer and a troublemaker, so Brunetti's appreciation of her had turned into something that resembled window shopping: he was perfectly happy to observe her, just so long as he did not have to speak to or listen to her.

Nevertheless, he was still not prepared for the sight of the young girl who came in the door, turned to close it, and walked towards them smiling, saying, 'Ciao, Mamma, I'm 'Ciao, Mamma, I'm home.' home.'

She kissed her mother, put out her hand to Brunetti in what he thought a charming imitation of adult sophistication, and said, 'Good afternoon. I'm Ludovica Fornari'

Closer to, Brunetti saw that the resemblance to Botticelli's painting was superficial. The long blonde hair was the same, surely, but the face was more rectangular, the eyes, a translucent blue, more broadly s.p.a.ced. He took her hand and gave his name but not his rank.

She smiled again, and he saw that her left incisor was faintly chipped. He wondered why it had not been fixed: certainly a family with a house like this could afford it. Brunetti found himself feeling protective of this girl and wondered if something could be said to her mother. Good sense intervened here, and he turned to Signora Vivarini and said, 'I won't keep you, Signora. Thank you for your time. I'll just get Ispettore Vianello.'

The girl made a noise and put her hand to her mouth, then started to cough. When Brunetti turned to look, the girl was bent over with her hands braced on her knees while her mother patted her repeatedly on the back. Uncertain how to help, he watched as the girl brought the coughing under control. She nodded, said something to her mother, who took her hand away, and then the girl stood upright.

'Sorry,' she whispered to Brunetti, smiling, tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. 'Something stuck,' she said, pointing at her throat. Saying that launched her into another fit of coughing. After a time, she held up one hand and smiled. She took a few quick, shallow breaths, then said to her mother, her voice hoa.r.s.e, 'It's all right now, Mamma' Mamma'

Relieved, Brunetti crossed the corridor and opened the door to the other room. Vianello sat on the sofa, reading the magazine they had found there. The Inspector got to his feet, placed the magazine on the table, and joined Brunetti at the door. Emerging into the corridor, Vianello saw the girl, who smiled in his direction but did not extend her hand. The two men left the apartment, ignored the lift that still stood there with one door open, and took the stairs.

As soon as they were outside, Vianello asked, 'The daughter?' 'Yes.'