Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions by Mario Giordano Page B

sat down on the sofa beside Montana. She had to restrain herself from crowding him.
    â€œIn a manner of speaking. He was born in Munich and only spoke Bavarian and Sicilian. We often spent the summer here with his sisters, and I sometimes came to Italy on business.”
    Montana was smoking his cigarette like calm personified. Poldi half welcomed and half resented this, because she would have preferred him to be a trifle nervous in her presence. She was accustomed to a different reaction.
    â€œYou’ve created a fine old mess, signora, do you know that? You called the Carabinieri and the state police, and the result has been a squabble over spheres of responsibility.”
    â€œI thought you were heading the investigation?”
    â€œYes, but I have to keep those idiots permanently in the loop. Still, that’s not your problem.”
    Montana stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and sank his teeth into a dark-red marzipan cherry as plump and authentic-looking as the real thing.
    â€œMm. This pasta reale is really fresh.”
    â€œGlad you’re enjoying it. There’s no one I like better than an appreciative guest.”
    My Auntie Poldi was adept at subtle eroticism. She also liked to get straight to the point.
    â€œNow then, commissario, have you found out anything new?”
    Montana took his time. He ate the rest of the cherry and sugared his coffee.
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me you’d made inquiries about Valentino?”
    â€œOh, because I failed to discover anything. Certainly no more than you have since yesterday.”
    â€œHow would you know?”
    â€œTake it as a compliment. I’m sure you’ve interviewed Valentino’s parents and Russo, haven’t you? Do you know where Valentino was killed? Were there any clues on his body?”
    Montana briefly swirled his coffee cup and downed its contents in one. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, and Poldi glimpsed a well-tanned chest. Hirsute but not too hirsute and sprinkled with a few white hairs, it seemed to whisper sweet nothings to her. She imagined herself unbuttoning his shirt and conducting some gentle preliminary research at first hand, then pulled herself together.
    â€œWhat about the red sand in Valentino’s trouser pocket? It came from Russo’s nursery, didn’t it?”
    â€œSo you did rummage in his pockets.”
    â€œI only looked while I was holding his hand. Well?”
    Montana shook his head and eyed her suspiciously.
    â€œRusso’s hiding something, don’t you think?” Poldi persisted. “Does he have an alibi for the time in question?”
    â€œI think you’re hiding something from me, Signora Oberreiter.”
    â€œPoldi. Just Poldi.” She was now sitting so close to Montana, she could have grasped that strong, shapely hand of his. She was on the point of owning up about the two pieces of mosaic, but she felt it would only have got her into more trouble. It wasn’t that my Auntie Poldi ever ran away from trouble, but something else held her back: an instinctive restlessness that had dominated the Oberreiter family for generations, taking hold of the entire body and arising whenever the wind changed – whenever the world went awry and called for adjustment and correction. That was when my Auntie Poldi experienced a kind of tug in the guts, an unpleasant tightening of the skin like sunburn, a change in her general well-being – a kind of atavistic wanderlust that could be cured only by setting off at once into the unknown, and it grew worse the longer departure was postponed.
    It was the hunter’s instinct.
    Perhaps Montana had noticed that fever in my aunt’s eyes, that particular form of hunger he recognized from his own experience and that of some of his colleagues.
    â€œSo you’ve nothing more to tell me?” he persisted.
    Poldi leant forwards, cursing the fact that she was still wearing her high-necked churchgoing