Griffoni poured tea for the Contessa and herself, looked at Brunetti and, in response to his nod, for him as well. Something hot, something hot.
Brunetti turned to the Contessa and noticed how much shorter she seemed, sitting there next to him. Although little more than a month had passed, and her face looked the same, she had grown shorter, and smaller.
‘What may I give you, Contessa?’ he asked, indicating the food that lay before them.
Before she answered, the old woman looked to her left, where she saw Griffoni speaking to an unresponsive Manuela. ‘The truth,’ she said softly.
‘Let’s have something to eat and drink first,’ he said.
She reached for the bottle and removed the tax stamp and top.
They ate in relative silence, Griffoni making occasional remarks to the Contessa about the food, then encouraging Manuela to try the cream cake. When they were finished, Griffoni stood and reached to take Manuela’s hand. ‘Come on, Stella, let’s go and tell Gala how good everything was. It will make her happy.’ This idea seemed to please Manuela, and she got to her feet, leaving her Coca-Cola and part of her cake unfinished.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Brunetti said, ‘On the way here, Manuela met a man on the street and lost control of herself. She was terrified of him.’
‘What?’ the Contessa asked, voice sharp.
‘She screamed at him not to hurt her and backed away from him.’ Before the Contessa could question him, Brunetti said, ‘You know the man.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Alessandro Vittori-Ricciardi.’
She set her teacup back in the saucer with such force that a wave of tea spilled over the side and flooded the saucer. ‘That’s impossible. Manuela’s never met him.’
‘She was terrified of him,’ Brunetti repeated, ignoring her last remark, and then asked, ‘How did he come to work for you?’
‘A mutual friend recommended him.’
‘Who?’
‘Roberto Severino.’
Brunetti knew him. An architect. An honest man.
‘Alessandro has done very good work for us,’ she said. ‘He’s got style and imagination.’
And something to worry about, Brunetti thought.
The Contessa waited to see if he would continue. When he did not, she demanded, ‘How could she be terrified of someone she doesn’t know?’
‘Did Vittori submit a curriculum vitae when he applied for work with you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did it say anything about riding?’
‘Riding?’
‘Horse riding.’
‘I don’t think so. I would have remembered.’
‘Do you still have the curriculum ?’
‘We must have. In the foundation’s office,’ she said. Then she asked, ‘Why do you ask such a thing?’
‘A man looking very much like him appears in a photo at the stable where Manuela’s horse was kept.’
‘And who saw this photo?’ she asked, making no attempt to disguise her scepticism.
‘I did. When I went to the stable with Claudia.’
‘Are you sure it was he?’
‘I haven’t had time to speak to the woman who runs the stables.’
The Contessa said nothing.
‘Could you tell me how well you know him?’ Brunetti asked. When she failed to answer, he rephrased the question. ‘How often have you seen him?’ He thought of how familiar Vittori-Ricciardi had seemed with the Contessa.
‘I see him three or four times a year.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Why should I see more of him?’ she asked.
‘The way he spoke at dinner made it seem as though you did.’
‘That was flattery. I hear it all the time,’ she said, as though speaking of the weather report. ‘We’re in the process of deciding who should get the contract to restore eight new apartments.’ She broke off as Claudia and Manuela came back into the room.
‘Nonna,’ Manuela said, ‘Gala told me you gave her the recipe for the cake with strawberries.’ All her anxiety had been smoothed away, or forgotten, while they were in the kitchen.
The Contessa smiled and held out her hand to Manuela, who came dutifully to her and took it. ‘That’s an exaggeration, cara. A friend served it for dessert, and so I asked her to write down the recipe because I thought you’d like it. I’m happy you do.’ When Manuela said nothing, the Contessa tried a direct question. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Yes, it was very good, Nonna. Claudia thinks so, too,’ she added, glancing across at her friend, ‘don’t you, Claudia?’
‘Yes, it’s wonderful.’
‘But you didn’t want a second piece,’ Manuela said, sounding confused by this.