Donna Leon - The Golden Egg

‘Then what would their products be?’

‘Large and small pieces of earth, I’d guess, with quantities of metal stuck in or to them.’

‘She was Director of Products,’ he said, pointing to the words on the form displayed on the screen.

‘It was her father’s company,’ Signorina Elettra suggested.

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning we should be glad he gave her a job and she paid taxes and contributed to her pension. Otherwise, he could just have handed it to her, and that was that, and no taxes paid on it.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it that way,’ Brunetti admitted.

Ignoring that, or pretending to, she said, ‘Look at this.’ She hit a few keys, and the screen exploded in colour. When his eyes adjusted to the change, he saw that he was looking at the cover of a Spanish scandal magazine. The photo showed a Junoesque woman in a bikini she really should not have dared to wear, not any more, with one hand raised to shield her perma-tanned face from the sun. The background was the standard turquoise-floored swimming pool, palm trees everywhere. Beside the pool, a gloriously handsome young man in equally skimpy bathing attire he could wear with panache handed a cigarette to the woman while another much younger couple in thick white cotton beach robes perched, knees pressed together, on the edge of dazzling white plastic chairs, doing their best to look as though they had no idea who those other two people were.

The Spanish caption was easy enough to translate into: ‘Lucrezia, the Princess of Copper, and her new companion, enjoy themselves at the home of friends in Ibiza.’ Signorina Elettra flicked the pages with a touch of a key: Brunetti was impressed by the way they turned as if in response to the motions of a human hand. The magazine opened to two inner pages containing further photos of all four people. The page on the left had more bathing suit photos, a very unfortunate one of Lucrezia Lembo from the back, not only because of the sad sagging that had begun to assail the flesh at the top of her thighs, but for the sight of the young man’s hand slipped under the elastic of her bikini bottom. The captions on the opposite page explained that the two white-clad young people – who remained fully covered in every picture in which they appeared – were her son and daughter, Loredano and Letizia.

‘They seem to like the letter,’ Signorina Elettra said.

Ignoring this and pointing at the screen, Brunetti asked, ‘How many years ago was this?’

She flicked the screen back to the magazine cover and let him read: twelve years before. Lucrezia would have been fifty, with a face that appeared to have been kept behind for a decade or so. Her children looked in their late teens, so they’d be approaching or in their early thirties now.

‘The young man?’ he asked.

‘Her husband, you mean,’ Signorina Elettra said, and Brunetti felt a wave of pathos sweep across him, as if he’d heard of the illness or death of a friend.

Not wanting Signorina Elettra to accuse him of judging people rashly, nor of that equal crime of throwing his compassion around with too liberal a hand, he said nothing, but he did take another look at the face and posture of the young man. His body bristled with confidence: was there a desire that had not been answered? Was there something he still longed to have?

Brunetti forced himself to look away from the photo, troubled that his feelings against this unknown man could be so unreasonably strong. He told himself to stop behaving like a teenage Sir Galahad and said, ‘What about the other sister, or sisters?’

‘There were three altogether,’ she answered. ‘Lavinia and Lorenza, and Lucrezia.’

‘They were stretching a bit with Lorenza,’ Brunetti said, relieved to have so easily rediscovered his ironic tone.

‘As it happens, she died.’

‘What happened?’

‘According to the reports I read, she drowned in their swimming pool,’ Signorina Elettra answered. Brunetti’s memory fled to the first photo.

‘Where?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘not there.’ Then quickly, ‘I should have explained. They had a ranch in Chile, some kind of finca , it sounds like, and she was found there.’ Before he could ask, she said, ‘Eight years ago.’ Then, soberly, ‘She was the baby of the family, only twenty when it happened.’

Brunetti had been busy working out the dates and, when he had finished, he asked, ‘Same mother?’

‘No. He left the first one after thirty-four years and set up a household with – are you ready? – the physical therapist who took care of him after he broke his shoulder in a skiing accident. Lorenza was their daughter.’

‘How old was he?’

‘When he left?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sixty.’

It was a common enough story and certainly none of his business. It had usually happened to his friends when they were about forty: all Lembo had done was wait a generation. ‘He died last year, didn’t he?’ Brunetti asked. He had a vague memory of reading about his death, but what he remembered most was his surprise that the newspapers would engage in so much hand-wringing over the death of another dinosaur.

‘Yes. They were here, but not living in the palazzo .’

‘Where? They?’

‘He was living on the Giudecca. Not with the physical therapist: she left him after the daughter died. He had a companion and people who came to clean and cook. He wasn’t married to the companion.’

Brunetti had the strange sensation that he had just played another round of the backward plot game with his family. Wealthy blonde marries gigolo young enough to be her son. Wealthy man unable to produce a male heir, leaves wife for younger woman, only to have another daughter. Daughter dies. ‘And the other daughter? Lavinia?’

Signorina Elettra made no move towards the keys. ‘She studied abroad and lives abroad. She’s fifty-one now.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Ireland. Teaching mathematics at Trinity College, Dublin.’ Before he could ask, she said, ‘She’s been to her classes this week.’

Brunetti felt relief pass over him at this suggestion that one of the daughters had turned out well. He returned his attention to Lucrezia and asked, ‘Could you go back and show me the name of her doctor again?’

‘Whose?’ she asked, surprised.

‘Signora Cavanella’s.’

She quickly brought up the medical records, and he wrote down the name, address, and phone number of the doctor. The name seemed familiar, Luca Proni. Hadn’t he been at school with Umberto Proni? Surely there could not be more than one family in the city with that name.

He pulled out his phone and dialled the number of the doctor’s office. A recorded message told him the doctor’s office hours were 9–13 and 16–19, Monday to Friday. For emergencies, patients could reach him on his telefonino. Brunetti was astonished to hear such a message from a family doctor, and even more so when it was followed by the number. He wrote down the number and immediately dialled it.

After three rings, a deep voice answered with, ‘Proni.’

‘Dottor Proni,’ Brunetti said, deciding not to waste time and not to deceive. ‘This is Guido Brunetti. I was at school with Umberto.’

‘You’re the one who became a policeman, aren’t you?’ he asked in an entirely neutral voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Umberto’s often spoken of you.’ From the way he said it, there was no way of gauging what Umberto might have said.

‘Spoken well, I hope,’ Brunetti said lightly, trying to remember anything Umberto might have told him, all those years ago, about his older brother. Nothing came.

‘Always.’ Then, ‘How may I help you, Commissario?’

‘You’re listed as Ana Cavanella’s doctor.’