‘No, Switzerland,’ she said. ‘To the University. Of … it begins with “L”, but it’s not Lugano.’ She stared down at the counter, as if trying to visualize the envelope. A smile blossomed. ‘Lausanne.’
Her colleague, Maria, broke in, as though she could no longer contain herself, and said, ‘It’s terrible, what happened to him.’ Then, pitching her voice in the range proper for discussing victims of fatal diseases or souls lost at sea, she said, ‘May he rest in peace.’
Brunetti lowered his eyes to the floor and, along with Vianello, observed the seconds that propriety gave to the recently deceased.
While they were still silent, two people came in, about his age, obviously a couple. They paid three bills and left, saying very little, perhaps uncomfortable at the sight of the two strange men.
Vianello then asked, ‘Did the University ever send him anything?’
Dorotea was quick to answer. ‘No, not to him.’
Vianello smiled at the evasion and asked, ‘Then to whom did they send it?’
Dorotea turned to her colleague, and they exchanged the glance that two people suddenly realizing they’d stepped into quicksand would give one another. ‘Well,’ Dorotea began. ‘That is …’ She looked to her older colleague, perhaps to ask for help in pulling her feet out of this.
‘Some letters – return receipt requested – have come from the same university to … a person Signor Casati knows,’ she said. Then, quickly, ‘Knew.’ Brunetti decided to let her tell him at her own speed, as though the letters were a minor detail in which he had little interest. He let the time pass.
‘Patrizia Minati,’ she finally said, but before she could continue, Maria interrupted to add an important element. ‘She’s a divorced woman.’
Brunetti gave her what he tried to make a knowing look, somewhere between disapproval and prurient curiosity, but when he saw Vianello’s face he realized how poor his own effort was and returned his attention to Dorotea.
‘She lives here?’ Vianello asked, managing to sound as though he were just managing to stop himself from asking how she dared do so.
‘Over by the church,’ Maria added, as if this geographic liberty somehow compounded the offence of being divorced.
When it was apparent that she would say no more, Brunetti asked, ‘Can’t people get mail delivered on Sant’Erasmo?’
Again, it was Maria who answered. ‘Of course they can. But these letters were addressed to her, not to him.’ Then, just in case he might not have understood, she added, ‘Since they came from the same university, they must have been for him,’ she said and left it there.
‘I’d certainly say so,’ Vianello broke in to comment, his respect for her acuity audible in his voice.
Brunetti sensed that the women were growing restless, and so he said, ‘Thank you both. You’ve been very helpful.’ That brought satisfied looks to their faces, and Brunetti and Vianello used the opportunity to leave.
Outside, Brunetti saw that Vianello was busy on his iPhone. ‘You trying to get her address?’ he asked. Vianello nodded and pushed more numbers. Brunetti’s lack of faith in technology in general and Telecom in particular led him to telephone Signorina Elettra.
‘Good morning, Commissario,’ she answered. ‘How very nice to be in touch with you again. How may I help you?’
‘Could you find an address for Patrizia Minati, on Burano?’
‘Certainly,’ she answered pleasantly. ‘Would you like to wait?’
‘Yes,’ he said, looking over at Vianello, who was still pecking at the keys of his phone.
Brunetti looked around at the houses. The colours were cheap and garish and battered his eyes, flailing at one another in competition for his attention. No one would think of wearing any of those colours as clothing. Children, perhaps. Or lunatics. Red that made him think of the poisoned candies that were sold to children in Victorian London, green like Irish fields, blue the sky would never dare to wear. But as he considered it, he realized that fishermen who spent the entire day looking at the sea, either blue or grey or somewhere in between, and at the sky, either with or without clouds, would be glad to come home to colour, even this mad excess.
‘Are you still there, Commissario?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Calle del Turco, down at the end, last house on the right. I checked it in Calli, Campielli e Canali.’
‘And could you have a look if there’s anything we should know about her?’
‘I’ve already started, Dottore.’
‘Then take a look at Davide Casati while you’re looking, please.’
‘The man who died out there?’
‘Yes: anything you can find. Any trouble with us’ – though Brunetti very much doubted this – ‘work history, health problems. You know what I mean.’
‘Of course, Signore. And for Signora Minati, as well?’
‘Please.’
‘I’ll get to it,’ she said and broke the connection. At that instant, Vianello looked across at him and shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘We’ll have to go over to the church and ask people there.’
‘Calle del Turco,’ Brunetti could not prevent himself from saying. ‘Last house on the right.’ Vianello’s expression made him laugh.
It took the Inspector a moment to recover, but when he did, he said, ‘She should be mayor.’ He considered this and corrected himself. ‘She’d be wasted. A chimpanzee could be mayor.’
Brunetti’s mind turned to local politics and he said, ‘Indeed,’ then passed to more serious things.
19
Nothing is very far from anything else on Burano, so they were quickly on the other side of the island, approaching the church of San Martino. Following the map provided by Vianello’s telefonino, they cut through Campiello San Vito and over the bridge. Right, then left, then down a narrow calle, and they were in front of the door of the last house, the name Minati on the bell for the first floor. The house, a shocking yellow, seemed tri-polar: the windows on the ground floor were shuttered tight, with no sign that anyone had opened those shutters for years. The first floor had flower boxes on every windowsill, behind which crisp linen curtains rustled in the slight breeze; the floor above had the withered look of a house that was no longer occupied; the shutters were sun-cracked and dry as driftwood; weeds grew from the metal gutters.
They rang the bell, waited and rang it again. After a long time, they heard the slithering sound of curtains being pushed back. A woman a few years younger than Brunetti, with dark copper hair, leaned out of a window and asked, ‘Yes?’ She stood with her hands braced on the windowsill, arms stiff, looking down at them.
‘I’m Commissario Brunetti, Signora,’ he said, and gestured towards Vianello, saying, ‘This is Ispettore Vianello, my assistant.’
‘Brunetti?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, stepping back so that looking up at her would be easier on his neck. ‘Are you Signora Minati?’
She confirmed this and asked, ‘Police?’ sounding uncomfortable. Brunetti nodded, although he thought she might not have seen the gesture from above.