Quietly in Their Sleep by Donna Leon

Author:Donna Leon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 1997-09-15T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

He cut his way back toward the apartment, stopped and got some mineral water, and was home by seven-thirty. When he opened the door, he knew immediately that everyone else was at home: Chiara and Raffi were in the living room, laughing at something on television, and Paola was in her study, singing along with Rossini.

He took the bottles to the kitchen, said hello to the children, and went down the hall to Paola’s study. A small CD player stood on the bookshelf; Paola sat with the small, square libretto in her hand, sat and sang.

‘Cecilia Bartoli?’ he asked as he went in.

She looked up, astonished that he had recognized the voice of the singer she was helping with the aria, not suspecting that he had seen the singer’s name on the new CD of Barbiere she had bought a week ago.

‘How’d you know that?’ she asked, forgetting for a moment about singing along with ‘Una voce poco fa’.

‘We keep an eye on everything,’ he said, then corrected himself. ‘An ear, that is.’

‘Oh, don’t be a fool, Guido,’ she said but laughed in the saying. She closed the libretto and tossed it on the desk beside her, leaned over, and switched off the music.

‘You think the kids would like to go out to dinner?’ he asked.

‘No, they’re watching some stupid movie that won’t be over until eight, and I’ve already got something cooking.’

‘What?’ he asked, realizing that he was very hungry.

‘Gianni had some beautiful pork today.’

‘Good. How are you cooking it?’

‘With porcini.’

‘And polenta?’

She smiled at him. ‘Of course. No wonder you’re getting that stomach.’

‘What stomach?’ Brunetti asked, pulling in the one he had. When she didn’t answer, Brunetti said, ‘It’s the end of the winter.’ To divert her, perhaps to divert himself from discussion of his stomach, he explained the events of the day, since he had received the phone call from Vittorio Sassi that morning.

‘Have you called him back?’ Paola asked.

‘No, I’ve been too busy.’

‘Why don’t you do it now?’ she asked. She left him there to do it from the phone in her study and went down to the kitchen to put on water for the polenta.

He came out about ten minutes later.

‘Well?’ she asked when he came in, handing him a glass of Dolcetto.

‘Thanks,’ he murmured and took a small sip. ‘I told him how she was and where she was.’

‘What kind of man does he sound like?’

‘Decent enough to help her find a job and a place to live. And worried enough to call me when this happened.’

‘What do you think it was?’

‘It could have been an accident, or it could have been something worse,’ Brunetti said, sipping at his wine.

‘You mean somebody trying to kill her?’

He nodded.

‘Why?’

‘That would depend on whom she’s been to see since she spoke to me. And what she told them.’

‘Would she be that rash?’ Paola asked. The only things she knew about Maria Testa had come from what Brunetti had said about Suor’Immacolata over the years, and they had

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