Montalbano went up to the corpse and, removing a glove, touched it lightly: it was cold and stiff. She must have been very beautiful. The inspector went back downstairs, put his shoes back on, wiped up the wet spot they had made on the floor, went out of the house, closed the door, crossed the road, got in his car, and left. His thoughts were racing as he drove back to Marinella. How to have the crime be discovered? He certainly couldn't go and tell the judge what he'd been up to. The judge who'd replaced Lo Biancoon a leave of absence to pursue his endless historical research into the lives of a pair of unlikely ancestorswas a Venetian by the name of Nicolò Tommaseo who was always talking about his "irrevocable prerogatives." He had a little baby face that he hid under a Belfiore martyr's mustache and beard. As Montalbano was opening the door to his house, the solution to the problem finally came to him in a flash. And thus he was able to enjoy a brief but godlike sleep.
Originally published in Italian as La Voce del Violino by Sellerio editore. Copyright 1997 Sellerio editore via Siracusa 50 Palermo. Translation copyright Stephen Sartarelli 2003. All rights reserved.
Blood at the Root
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