Free The Light in the Ruins by Chris Bohjalian Page A

years old. Lives and works in Bologna. Never married. Knew Francesca because he once bought a dress for another woman from her shop. He says he took her to dinner at Il Latini and—” He stopped midsentence. Spagnoli had been upfront about the fact that he and Francesca had made love, but did the marchesa need to know that? Probably not. Apparently, however, the woman knew enough about her former daughter-in-law that she was able to finish the sentence for him.
    “And then they went back to her apartment together,” Beatrice said.
    “Yes.”
    “That was her way. It wasn’t, of course, her way when she was married to Marco. When she lived with us. But it was how she was at the end.”
    “But you said you hadn’t seen her since 1950,” Paolo said, not precisely sure why he was challenging her and defending the dead woman’s honor. It was almost a reflex.
    “I know what she had become,” Beatrice said.
    “So you were aware of her … habits.”
    “We all were,” Cristina said. “It was how Francesca coped. That’s all.”
    The marchesa glanced briefly at her daughter and then stared out the window behind him, her face absolutely impassive.
    “Why don’t you think this lawyer might have killed her?” Cristina continued.
    “I’ve done this awhile, I can tell. He doesn’t seem the sort to own or borrow bone saws. He doesn’t seem the type to cut out a human heart. And it may be as simple as the fact that he came in well before we found him ourselves. He volunteered to give us fingerprints, which will of course be all over the apartment. And his alibi is good—though far from airtight.”
    “And that is?” Cristina asked.
    “His alibi? He says he left your sister-in-law’s apartment around eleven p.m. and drove back to Bologna. Got there about twelve-thirty.”
    “That’s not an alibi at all. Serafina told me that my sister-in-law was killed sometime after midnight.”
    Paolo couldn’t help but smile. The prosecutor in charge of the case had said the exact same thing. “And, of course, he lives alone with his dog,” Paolo added. “So there isn’t even anyone to confirm when he arrived in Bologna.”
    “Then he might have killed her.”
    “We asked to look at his car. It was clean.”
    “Do you mean there was no knife?” Cristina pressed him.
    “I mean it was clean. There was no blood. And whoever killed Francesca would—forgive me—have been a mess. But clearly the car hadn’t been … sanitized. It was absolutely covered with dog hair.”
    “Do you know for sure he drove that car that night? Maybe he took the train.”
    Paolo sighed. He was confident that the worst thing Mario Spagnoli might have done was corroborate Francesca Rosati’s belief that men were after but one thing. But since clearly Francesca was after that one thing as well, he doubted that Mario had done even that.
    “I assure you, we will look into it,” he said.
    Over the marchesa’s shoulder he saw Serafina approaching and he stood. He introduced her to Beatrice and pushed his chair around to the side of the desk so she could sit, too, but she shook her head and leaned against the wall by the window. So he sat back down. He decided it didn’t matter if the Rosatis were present while Serafina shared with him what she had learned from the Americans.
    “I don’t have much to report,” she told the three of them. “The FBI is going to send us a list of museum executives or curators in New York whose first names are Richard or Russell. If one has been in Italy this week, we’ll pursue that lead. I’ve started callinghospitals to see if any are missing a bone saw or scalpel, but I don’t think we’re going to learn much. They really don’t inventory such items.”
    Paolo noticed that Beatrice was staring intently at Serafina and assumed it was because the marchesa had never before seen a female detective. Then, however, he noticed that the woman was focusing on the side of Serafina’s head and her neck.