Free Treasure Hunt by Andrea Camilleri Page A

phone and told him her husband had gone out and would be back in about an hour.
    “Should I have him call you?”
    “No, thank you. I’m going out now and won’t be back till late.”
    “Should I tell him anything?”
    “Well, yes.”
    He had to say it in a roundabout way so that she wouldn’t understand what he was talking about . . .
    “Tell him I urgently need those things we were talking about, and to call me tomorrow morning.”
    Then he went and sat on the veranda to smoke a cigarette.

    When he saw Ingrid in the doorway, he did a double take.
    How was it that the years didn’t pass for that woman? The gears of time had jammed for her. In fact, she looked even younger to him than the last time he’d seen her, and more than a year had gone by. She was dressed the same way as usual, jeans, blouse, and sandals. And she was as elegant as if she were wearing a designer dress.
    They hugged warmly. Ingrid didn’t use perfume, she didn’t need to, because her skin smelled like just-picked apricots.
    “Want to come in?”
    “Not now, maybe later. Have you decided where to go?”
    “Yes, there’s a restaurant on the shore, at Montereale, where—”
    “The one with the antipasti? I know it. Let’s take my car.”
    He couldn’t figure out what make Ingrid’s car was, but it was the sort of model she really liked. A two-seater, and flat as a filet of sole.
    Four-wheeled, very fast sole. With another woman at the wheel, he might not have been so ready to climb aboard that sort of missile, but he trusted her driving. In fact, when she still lived in Sweden, Ingrid had been a race-car mechanic.
    It took her twenty minutes to get to the restaurant, a distance that would have taken Montalbano a good forty-five. When she drove, Ingrid preferred not to talk. But every so often she turned to look at Montalbano, smiling and lightly stroking his leg.
    They sat down at the table closest to the sea, about twenty yards from the beach. The restaurant was famous for the quantity and quality of its antipasti, to the point that almost all its customers skipped the first course. Which was what they decided to do, too. They also ordered a bottle of chilled white wine.
    As they were waiting for the first antipasti, they used the time to chat a little. Ingrid knew that once he had a plate in front of him, Montalbano only liked to open his mouth to eat.
    “How’s your husband doing?”
    “I never see the guy! Ever since he got elected, he barely comes to Montelusa once every couple of months.”
    “Don’t you ever go to Rome to see him?”
    “Whatever for?”
    “Well, you
are
still husband and wife. . . .”
    “Come on, Salvo, you know very well that it’s only a formality. And, anyway, I like things this way.”
    “Any new loves?”
    “Is this an official interrogation?”
    “Of course not, it’s just to make conversation.”
    “All right, just to make conversation, the answer is no.”
    “So, no men for the past year?”
    “Are you kidding? I guess that, like a good Catholic, you think a woman should only sleep with a man she’s in love with?”
    “If I was so Catholic as you say, I would reply that a woman should only sleep with the man she’s married to.”
    “Good God, how boring!”
    The waiter arrived carrying the first six dishes delicately balanced in his arms.

    After twelve different copious appetizers and two bottles of wine, while waiting for the main course, a mixed grill of fish, they resumed their conversation.
    “And what about you?” Ingrid asked.
    “Me what?”
    “Still faithful to Livia, with an occasional exception?”
    “Yes.”
    “You mean yes to fidelity or yes to the exceptions?”
    “Fidelity.”
    “You mean that after Rachele—”
    “Nothing.”
    “Not even a little temptation?”
    “As for temptations, I have those all the time.”
    “Really? So how do you resist? Do you just say a little prayer and the devil runs away?”
    “Come on, don’t mock me.”
    “I’m not