By My Hand by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Read Free Book Online Page B

all?”
    Ricciardi shrugged his shoulders, thinking of the courteous welcome that the woman’s corpse, its throat cut, went on offering:
Hat and gloves?
    â€œMaybe it’s the truth, how can we know? Was there anyone who went to see them?”
    â€œNot many. Her sister, a few of his colleagues, dressed in those odd new uniforms with the tassel on the hat, suppliers of various kinds. They entertained little if at all, according to what the neighbors had to say.”
    â€œWhat about the woman? What was she like, what kind of personality?”
    Maione waved his hand vaguely.
    â€œAh, they had even less to say about her. A fine woman, serene, always smiling, unfailingly polite. She went out only with her husband, she was very attached to her daughter, a good housewife. No one ever heard a raised voice or even a loud conversation coming from that apartment.”
    â€œSo, no news,” Ricciardi snapped. “Everything was perfect, all peace and quiet, no trouble in this family’s life. Until one fine morning just before Christmas someone walks in, stabs them both to death and floods the house with blood, breaks the Saint Joseph in the manger, and leaves. A slight flaw, a wrinkle in an otherwise orderly day.”
    â€œIsn’t that the way it always is, Commissa’?” Maione remarked bitterly. “Everything’s fine, until something goes wrong. And the one who’s left in the lurch is this poor child, who has no one on earth but an aunt who’s a nun. She’ll have to live in the convent, and maybe she’ll become a nun herself.”
    â€œOr maybe not, Maione. What can you tell me about the aunt?”
    â€œNothing, Commissa’. She seems to be a fairly unusual sort, to judge from what I could gather from the half-statements of Ferro and the neighbors. A petite but energetic woman, always on the move, with a strange voice, like a trumpet. She’s Garofalo’s wife’s older sister: no other siblings, and he had no siblings either. In other words, this aunt is the only family that little girl has left.”
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    The convent entrance was a small doorway set in a very tall gray wall, in an narrow lane running toward the Villa Nazionale. The incessant sound of waves crashing against the breakwaters could be heard from down by the beach.
    After showing their badges through a peephole, Ricciardi and Maione were welcomed at the entrance by a novice who led them to a freezing waiting room, bare of all furnishings save for a prie-dieu in front of a painting of the Madonna. A window looked out onto a large garden, with tall trees tossed by the wind. A faint gray light filtered in.
    After a few minutes, during which Ricciardi looked out the window and Maione inspected his fingernails, the door opened and a nun entered the room. The woman said nothing; she walked to the middle of the room, appraised Maione dismissively with a quick glance, and rested her gaze on Ricciardi. After a long silence, Maione coughed awkwardly and ventured:
    â€œGood morning, Sister. I’m Maione, Brigadier Maione, and the commissario here is Commissario Ricciardi, from the Naples police mobile squad. We’re here to see Sister Veronica, the sister of Signora Garofalo, Costanza Garofalo. There is supposed to be a little girl, as well, and . . .”
    Keeping her gaze fixed on Ricciardi, the nun spoke. And she spoke in a shrill, piercing voice, very much like fingernails dragging across a blackboard.
    â€œThe little girl is named Benedetta, and she’s my niece. I’m Sister Veronica, of the Reparatrix Sisters of the Sorrow of the Blessed Virgin.”
    The woman looked nothing like her sister, who had been slender and of average height, with features that even in the rigor of death could be seen to be delicate and refined. The nun, in contrast, was short and stout, red-faced with a snub nose. Her voice and her posture—her body wobbled slightly back and