Aaron Elkins - Good Blood

He smacked his forehead and turned angrily on Lombardo. “Why didn’t we know about this before?”

Lombardo, who had been nodding his agreement as Caravale spoke, was affronted. “How could we know? Even today, it only came out by accident.”

“Where is this Praga?” Caravale said. “Do we have him?”

Lombardo pointed through the glass, where Rigoli was just asking the same question.

“And Casimiro Praga, what happened to him?”

“That was the last we saw of him. He never returned, never came back for references, never picked up his pay, never anything.” Basilio shrugged. “Would you like my opinion? I think he decided to look for a safer occupation back home in Padua. When you think about it, after all, it’s only sheer luck that he’s alive. By all rights, he should be dead. I saw an extremely interesting television program about the inexorability of Fate-”

“Are we hunting for Praga?” Caravale asked as they stepped away from the window. He patted his pockets irritably. “Didn’t I have a cigar?”

“We have a call in to Padua,” Lombardo said, “and our own people are working on it too. So what do you think about all this, Colonel? Pretty interesting, eh?”

“Lombardo,” Caravale said, “did you ever hear of the Theory of Interconnected Monkey Business?”

With a few free days tacked on to the end of the Pedal and Paddle Adventure for R and R (Phil had predicted they would need them), the Olivers’ plan had been to spend them in Milan and Verona, seeing the sights, while Phil spent most of his time on the island with his ersatz relatives. But on Wednesday, Gideon and Julie were slow getting out of bed-they were making up for lost time, after all-not rising until almost eleven, which made a lengthy day trip impractical. So instead they stayed in Stresa, strolling the paths and gardens of the Lungolago, doing a little shopping-a wallet for Gideon, a handbag for Julie, postcards to send home before leaving (if they actually got around to it for once)-skipping meals and grazing among the cafes instead whenever the mood hit; in short, not doing much of anything beyond relaxing in each other’s company. An exceptionally lovely day.

On Thursday morning (up late again, but not quite as late as Tuesday), Julie decided that what she really wanted to do was ride in a boat without having to paddle, so they took the longest ferry ride available, an hour-and-a-half cruise north across the border to Locamo, had an outdoor fondue lunch in Switzerland, and came back, stopping for an hour in Ghiffa, a fellow passenger having assured them that the famous hat museum located there-Italy seemed to be well supplied with oddball museums-was well worth seeing, which it turned out to be. Drinks with Phil at a cafe-bar on the Lungolago while they watched the sun go down, then dinner on their own at the Grand Hotel des Iles Borromees again, but this time on the back terrace, beside the extravagant garden. They sat long enough over their coffees to see the last of the daylight fade away and to feel the moisture around them as the dew gathered on the camellias. Another highly successful day, they both agreed, although perhaps they were more up to snuff on eighteenth-century hat-making tools than was strictly necessary.

The next day was their last full day in Italy and, as usual, they were making plans for what was left of it over another late breakfast, tossing around and discarding various ideas.

“You want to know what I’d really like to do?” Julie asked over a bowl of anonymous, Wheaties-like cereal she’d gotten from a plastic jar on the buffet table.

“Yes, I do. You’d like to take the day off from being tourists, not have any schedule at all, start getting ready for tomorrow. Check on our airline tickets, do some packing, make sure we have some clean clothes, take care of the postcards, rest up for the trip home, that kind of thing, so we don’t wind up all stressed out.”

The spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. “How in the world did you know that?”

“Because whenever you quit on the breakfast croissants and the cold cuts and go back to eating cereal, I know that means you’re ready to go home. Your mental gears have shifted.” He himself was working on his second brioche, split and filled with sliced ham and cheese.

She continued to look at him for a few moments, then shook her head. “We’ve been married too long,” she said, returning to her cereal.

“Actually, not having a schedule suits me too. I’d like to go have another look at Domenico’s bones.”

“Domenico’s bones? Why?”

“I’m starting to wonder if I might have made a mistake with them.”

“A mistake? You mean they’re not Domenico’s? Caravale’s going to love that.”

“Oh, no, they’re Domenico’s, all right. No question there.”

“What then? The cause of death?”

“No, I don’t have any doubts about that either. He was stabbed to death. But I think I might have misinterpreted something.”

She waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. “And you’re not going to tell me what it is, right?”

“Well, let me look at them first.”

“Is it something important?”

“Could be, if it’s true. Which it almost certainly isn’t. But it might be.”

She watched him finish his sandwich and dab pensively at his lips without saying anything more. “Thank you so much,” she said, “for that lucid and comprehensive explanation.”

“More later,” he told her, smiling. “Heck, I’m probably all wet anyway.” He finished the last of his coffee and kissed the back of her hand with a smack. “See you in a couple of hours.”

Ah, no, he was informed by a sympathetic corporal at carabinieri headquarters, unfortunately it would not be possible for him to look at the bones because they’d been sent to the Rome laboratory for further forensic analysis. But a thorough set of photographs had been taken. Would the dottore care to see those? Copies could be made for him if he wished.

That might be even better, Gideon said, and a few minutes later he was sitting in an interrogation room with five dozen large, sharp, well-lit color photographs of Domenico de Grazia’s remains. He spent half an hour over them, talking to himself all the way, at the end of which time he carried them back to the clerk who’d given them to him.

“I’ll take this one, and this one, and this one,” he said. “This one too.”

They were quickly reproduced and brought back. The carabinieri had good equipment; the copies were as crisp as the originals. He slipped them into the manila envelope provided.

“Thanks very much. Oh, and is the colonel here?”

“Ah, but he’s not in the office this morning, Signor Oliver,” she said regretfully. “He can possibly be reached, however, if it’s a matter of importance. Would you care to speak with him?”

“No, that’s all right,” he said and was almost out the door with his photographs when he turned around and came back. “Well, yes, on second thought, I guess I would.”

He found Julie back at the Primavera. She had started her to-do list and had pulled the armchair and the ottoman up to the wide-open French windows to work on it, but her eyes were closed and her hands lay comfortably folded over the note pad. The list had gotten as far as a double-underlined “To Do” at the top of the page, but no further. Soothing sounds of quiet conversations in Italian and German drifted up from the open-air cafes in the street below, and the breezes off the lake were stirring a few unruly strands of black hair at her temples. All told, she looked about as stressed out as a house cat dozing on a sunny rug in front of the living room window.

He smoothed the hair back, then bent to breathe in its clean, familiar fragrance and to kiss her gently on the temple, her hair springy and supple against his mouth. “What’s this?” he murmured in her ear. “I thought you had all kinds of things to do.”