Drawing Conclusions - Donna Leon [47]
‘Guido,’ she said with every sign of patience, ‘there doesn’t exist the cleric you think capable of telling the simple truth.’
‘That’s not true,’ he shot back. Then, more slowly, ‘There have been some.’
‘Some,’ she repeated.
‘You’ve never trusted them, either,’ he added.
‘Of course I don’t trust them. But I don’t question them in situations where people might lie: dead people or what might have killed them, please remember. I discuss the weather with them when I meet them at my parents’ place. The rain is an especially fascinating topic: too much or too little. They like absolutes. But it’s not the same thing.’
‘And do you trust them when they talk about the weather?’ he asked.
‘If I’m near a window and look outside,’ she answered, got to her feet and said she had to go to the university.
After she was gone, Brunetti glanced through the newspaper she had left on the kitchen table, but he was unable to concentrate on anything he read. He mulled over what he had just said to Paola, aware that his instinctive remarks reflected his real feelings about the death of Signora Altavilla. The nun knew more than she had said, and he needed to find out more about Alba Libera.
He went into the living room and dialled Signorina Elettra’s office number. But then he remembered that it was Tuesday and she would still be at the Rialto Market, selecting the flowers for Vice-Questore Patta’s office, and for her own. He dialled her telefonino number. She answered with a languid ‘Sì, Commissario?’ and Brunetti was again struck by the unfair psychological advantage given to the person who could see who was calling.
‘Good morning, Signorina,’ he said blandly. ‘I’d like to ask you to do something for me.’
‘Certainly, Signore, as soon as I get to the office.’
‘Oh, aren’t you there?’ he asked with false surprise.
‘No, sir, I’m at the market. It’s Tuesday, you know.’ He was her superior; she was not at work and was not likely to be there for another hour, at best. She had probably requisitioned a police launch to take her to the market to buy flowers, or had arranged for one to pick her up and carry her – and the flowers – back to the Questura, a clear violation of the rules concerning the abuse of office. It was his responsibility to reprimand her and see that this abuse of office would not be repeated.
‘If I got there in five minutes, could you give me a ride to work?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Or I could have Foa stop at the end of your calle and pick you up there.’
It took a second for Brunetti to regain his breath, and then all he said was, ‘No, that’s too much trouble. I’ll meet you at the flower stalls.’ He replaced the phone, went back into the bedroom to get his jacket, and left the apartment.
It took him only a few minutes to get to the market, past the fish on his left, their tangy smell something he had always loved. When he glanced up from a large squid, he saw Signorina Elettra standing, arms filled with flowers, just in front of the stand, which really wasn’t a stand, just a line of large plastic buckets set in a row and each one bursting with flowers. Buying the flowers at the stall instead of at Biancat, the florist, was Signorina Elettra’s contribution to Vice-Questore Patta’s latest demand that all unnecessary spending at the Questura be stopped.
Brunetti had never been good at remembering the names of flowers. Iris he knew because he so often bought them for Paola, and carnations and roses were easy to spot. But those small ones with the bright crinkly petals: he’d forgotten their name, so too the bold round ones the size of oranges with the thousands of spiky petals. Gladioli he recognized, but that had never made him like them, and the scent