Deadly to the Sight by Edward Sklepowich Page B

depths of a sofa.
    As new guests arrived, they obliged the others to move more deeply into the room. Conversation was sometimes carried on across a sofa or chair back, through the fringes of a lampshade, or above the petals and fronds of the flowers overwhelming their vases.
    Habib, to his distress, had become separated from Urbino almost as soon as they had arrived. He was pushed up in an opposite corner against a large armoire that Urbino recognized as having once graced the entrance hall of the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini. Beside him was the gnome-like Marino Polidoro, an art-gallery owner. Habib kept throwing pleading glances from his expressive dark eyes in Urbino’s direction. Urbino could see no way to liberate him, short of climbing over the furniture and squeezing around the other guests. At any rate, Polidoro was a good person for the young artist to be stranded with on their small island of worn carpet.
    â€œYes, I owe so much to our Barbara!” Frieda was saying yet again as she thrust the plate in front of Urbino. “I would never have known you, Urbino, and not your charming Palazzo Uccello. What happy hours there! So happy! I wished many, many times that you wouldn’t come back. Don’t misunderstand me, Barbara. I love your little green house. Now it is mine! Mein klein grünhaus ! It has made me a hausfrau for the first time. Every morning I scrub off my stoop, on my hands and knees, yes!”
    â€œYou must not overdo it, Frieda dear,” sang out Oriana. “The Buranelli are very sensitive. Your neighbors might think you’re making fun of them with all your Teutonic energy. They don’t care for outsiders. Isn’t that true, Regina?”
    â€œEveryone loves Frieda,” Regina Bella said.
    Her face was somewhat drawn tonight. The green shade of her well-cut dress made her look sallow even while it did the best for her full figure.
    â€œBut if anything is stolen, you can be sure she’ll be the first to be blamed,” Oriana said.
    She drank down the rest of her champagne as if it were water and dangled her hand over the back of the sofa.
    â€œWe have very little crime on Burano,” Bella said. She snuffed out her cigarette in the Murano ashtray with more force than was necessary. “Where would someone run away to?” She gave a nervous little laugh. “From time to time a rape, but they catch the person right away.”
    â€œI remember a murder and suicide some years ago,” Oriana prodded.
    Bella glared at her.
    â€œA sad affair. A woman killed her mother over some dispute about a granddaughter. Then she killed herself. But she was part Sardinian.”
    â€œYes!” Oriana exclaimed, pushing her oblong glasses further up her nose. “You see how Regina tells us that the murderer was not a Buranella! Probably the murderer’s great-great-greatgrandfather came from Sardinia back in the days of Garibaldi, and no one ever forgot it.”
    â€œExcuse me,” Bella said. “I’d like to speak with Marino Polidoro.”
    â€œHold your breath, my dear, and squeeze through,” Oriana said.
    Bella frowned as she moved away.
    â€œWas this local murder one of your detective affairs, Urbino?” Frieda asked. “Barbara told me about your brave adventures.”
    â€œBravery has very little to do with them.”
    â€œUrbino is driven by curiosity and goodwill,” the Contessa clarified.
    â€œBut many times it is brave to be curious, yes? And good will can be the exact opposite for the criminal. You had something to do with the Sardinian woman?”
    â€œNot at all. As Regina said, it was a sad affair that was only too obvious in its tragedy.”
    â€œYou are not interested in the obvious?”
    â€œWhat happened needed no further explanation, even if I had been so inclined.”
    â€œAnd of course you need to give your main efforts to your books. I understand that.”
    â€œYou are a