Antonio knocked on the front door of Francesca’s home a few minutes after eight. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman who greeted him with a warm smile.
“I’m Elena Farinelli, Francesca’s mother. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Signor Rossetti. Please come in.” She led her guest through to the drawing room, where her husband was opening a bottle of wine. There was no sign of Francesca. “She’ll be down in a moment,” said Elena, almost as if she’d read his mind.
Mario Farinelli handed Antonio a glass, and asked, “How many people have you arrested today?”
“It’s been a little disappointing,” said Antonio. “No one has admitted to killing Lombardi today,” he added as Francesca entered the room.
Antonio immediately realized it was the first time he’d seen her not wearing a long white coat. She was dressed in a red silk blouse, a black skirt, and a pair of high-heeled shoes that certainly hadn’t been bought in Cortoglia. He tried not to stare at her. What else was different? Of course, she’d let her hair down. He hadn’t thought it possible that she could be even more beautiful.
“As you’re a highly trained detective,” she said, “I assume you already know my name is Francesca, but I don’t know if you’re Antonio or Tony?”
“My mother calls me Antonio, but my friends call me Tony.”
“I know you work in Naples,” said Elena Farinelli, “but do your family also come from there?”
“Yes,” said Antonio, “my parents are both schoolteachers, and I have two brothers. One’s a printer and the other a lawyer.”
“Did you always want to be a policeman?” asked Francesca, as her father handed her a glass of wine.
“Yes I did. But then in Naples you have to work for one side of the law or the other.”
Everyone dutifully laughed, and Antonio was remind
ed how stilted conversations could be when you didn’t know each other, but wanted to.
Francesca’s mother turned out to be a traditional Italian housewife, whose cooking was so superb she could have opened her own restaurant. During dinner, her husband kept them all entertained with stories he’d overheard in the pharmacy. The biggest gossip shop in town, he admitted, and everyone had an opinion on who killed Lombardi.
“I have a feeling that by the time I get back to Naples, I’ll be the only person who hasn’t confessed to murdering the mayor.”
The Farinellis made it easy for Antonio to relax and feel at home, and he couldn’t remember how many bottles of wine Mario had opened during the evening. But he was glad when the time came for him to leave that he could walk back to the mayor’s house. If he’d driven, he would have had to arrest himself.
“See you tomorrow,” said Francesca, smiling, as she accompanied him to the front door. He looked puzzled. “By then, it will surely be time for you to get another bar of soap. By the way, most of our customers buy them in boxes of three, even six.”
“Can I take you to dinner?” he asked.
“That would be nice.”
* * *
The day started badly for Antonio, when the postman felt it was his turn to confess to murdering the mayor.
“And how did you kill him, signor?” he asked, not even picking up his pen.
“I drowned him,” said the postman.
“In the sea?” suggested Antonio, raising an eyebrow.
“No, in his bath. I took him by surprise.”
“You must have done,” said Antonio. “But before I write down the details of your confession, may I ask, how tall are you?”
“I am five foot three and a half.”
“And you weigh?”
“Around one hundred forty, one hundred fifty pounds.”
“And you want me to believe you drowned a man of six foot four who weighed over three hundred pounds, and who some suggested never took a bath. Tell me, signor, was he asleep at the time?”