Angelica's Smile Read Free Page A

so, you should have heard . . .”
    “Well, we were . . .”
    The woman blushed.
    “You were?”
    “Let’s say we were a bit tipsy. We were celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary.”
    “I see.”
    “I don’t think we would even have heard a cannon shot.”
    “Go on.”
    “The burglars apparently found my husband’s wallet in his jacket, along with his ID card and our address—this one, I mean—as well as the keys to this place and to the car. So they quietly got into our car, came here, opened the door, stole what they wanted to steal, and went on their way.”
    “What did they take?”
    “Well, aside from the car, they didn’t take very much from the seaside house, relatively speaking. Our wedding rings, my husband’s Rolex, my diamond-studded watch, a rather expensive necklace of mine, two thousand euros in cash, both of our computers, cell phones, and our credit cards, which we immediately had canceled.”
    Not very much? If you say so.
    “And a seascape by Carrà,” the lady concluded, cool as a cucumber.
    Montalbano gave a start.
    “A seascape by Carrà? And you had it out there, just like that?”
    “Well, we were hoping no one would know how much it was worth.”
    Whereas those guys certainly did know how much it was worth.
    “And what about here?”
    “Here they made off with a lot more. For starters, my jewel box with everything inside.”
    “Valuable stuff?”
    “About a million and a half euros.”
    “What else?”
    “My husband’s four other Rolexes. He collects them.”
    “And that’s it?”
    “Fifty thousand euros in cash. And . . .”
    “And?”
    “A Guttuso, a Morandi, a Donghi, a Mafai, and a Pirandello that my husband’s father left to him in his will,” the woman said in a single breath.
    In short, a whole gallery of art worth a fortune.
    “One question,” said the inspector. “Who knew that you were going to your house at Punta Piccola to celebrate your wedding anniversary?”
    Husband and wife looked at each other for a moment.
    “Well, our friends did,” the woman replied.
    “How many friends do you mean?”
    “About fifteen.”
    “Do you have a housekeeper?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did she know too?”
    “No.”
    “Are you insured against burglary?”
    “No.”
    “Listen,” said Montalbano, standing up. “You have to come to the station immediately and file an official report. I would like a detailed description of the jewelry, the Rolexes, and the paintings.”
    “All right.”
    “I would also like a complete list of those friends of yours who were informed of your movements, with their addresses and telephone numbers.”
    The woman gave a little laugh.
    “You don’t suspect them, I hope?”
    Montalbano looked at her.
    “Do you think they’ll be offended?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Then don’t tell them anything. I’ll be the first. See you later, at the station.”

2
    The moment he walked into the station he noticed that Catarella’s face looked pained and distressed.
    “What’s going on?”
    “Nuttin’, Chief.”
    “You know you’re supposed to tell me everything! Out with it! What happened?”
    Catarella blew up.
    “Chief, iss not my fault if Isspector Augello ghess let go! Iss not my fault if Fazio goes tada market! ’Oo’s I asposta ax? ’Oo’s I got left? Jess youse, Chief! An’ ya treated me real bad!”
    He was crying, and to keep Montalbano from seeing, he was turned three-quarters away as he spoke.
    “I’m sorry, Cat, but this morning I was upset about something personal. You had nothing to do with it. I’m really sorry.”
    The inspector had barely sat down at his desk when Fazio came in.
    “Chief, sorry I wasn’t available this morning, but there was a big row at the market . . .”
    “Apparently this is the morning for excuses. Never mind, just sit down and let me tell you about this burglary.”
    When Montalbano had finished, Fazio nodded several times.
    “Strange,” he said.
    “Well, it was certainly a