The Bastards of Pizzofalcone by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Page A

caught up with Aragona in the kitchen, after telling the forensic squad that under the leather armchair was a glass snow globe that had enjoyed a brilliant career, becoming the murder weapon.
    The corporal was on his feet with a notepad in his hand; facing him, slumped on a chair with a handkerchief jammed against her mouth, was a lovely blonde, her eyes red from crying. Aragona reported that this was the Bulgarian housekeeper, Mayya Ivanova Nikolaeva, and that she was upset.
    The lieutenant joined in the questioning, and discovered that the young woman had been very fond of the late Cecilia De Santis, who was practically a saint, good, kind, generous, etc, etc, that the signora had never found fault with her, that they’d respected and admired each other, etc, etc, that the deceased had been completely satisfied with the work she’d done for her, etc, etc. No, there was no one else working in the apartment: no one lived there but the late signora and her husband, the absent notary. And that said husband frequently didn’t even come home at night, he was an important professional and he often had to go out, etc, etc. That the signora on the other hand for the most part stayed at home all day, passionately obsessed as she was with her collection of snow globes, did you happen to notice the snow globes? Which she cleaned and dusted on her own, which she kept neat all by herself. That that day, like every day, she had come in early and fixed breakfast for the signora. That . . .
    â€œ
Mamma mia
, I drop tray in signora’s living room! I must clean, now all dirty!”
    Mayya started to stand up, but Lojacono stopped her with a hand on her shoulder:
    â€œI wouldn’t worry about the living room, Signorina. My colleagues are in there investigating the crime scene. But tell me: did you ever hear anything about any threats made against the signora? Or about anyone who, for whatever reason, had it in for her?”
    The Bulgarian opened her eyes wide: “No, signora kind, signora good to everyone. Everyone love signora, no one have it in for her!”
    Certainly, thought Lojacono. Of course. No one have it in for signora.
    â€œWe need the husband’s phone number, we need to track him down immediately.”
    Mayya shook her head no: “I don’t have notary’s phone number, I never talk to him, signora talks to him. But office number, written on little blackboard.”
    She tilted her head to indicate a small blackboard hanging on the kitchen wall, upon which, in neat handwriting, was a phone number next to the words: Arturo’s office. Lojacono pondered whether it was best to warn the notary, thus preventing him from perhaps being given the news by one of his employees, which would allow him to more easily control his reaction. As he mulled these thoughts over he realized that, as always, the husband was the prime suspect.
    Aragona surprised him: “We could look for the signora’s cell phone. Maybe we’d find her husband’s phone number.”
    Lojacono agreed: “Right. Maybe it’s in the bedroom, since we know it’s not in the living room. One more thing: take a turn around the apartment with the signorina, look around as carefully as you can. I want to know if anything is missing, especially any of the valuables.”
    As if pursuing a single thought, Lojacono pulled out his cell and dialed the number of the station house. Guida, the officer at the front desk, picked up on the first ring. When Lojacono said his name, the man’s voice became clear and alert: the lieutenant almost thought he could see him sit up a little straighter in his chair. Lojacono asked for Ottavia Calabrese.
    â€œ
Ciao
, Lojacono, what’s up?”
    â€œAre you done setting up your computers?” asked Lojacono.
    â€œI’m ready. How’s it going there? What do you need?”
    â€œEverything seems to be more or less under control. The forensic squad is