Free Liar Moon by Ben Pastor Page A

speed, the driver must have floored the gas pedal for the last stretch of the road outside the gate.”
    Bora nodded. He realized the foolishness of his climb when he tried to crouch down beside Guidi, and nearly cried out in pain. Swallowing his discomfort, he limped to the edge of the nearest flower bed, where the gravel was scattered. “The gate is sturdy,” he observed, “but far from wide. Either the driver had a good sense of dimension, or he was familiar with the entrance. See here, Guidi? It seems the killer’s car backed up right here before leaving the garden.”
    Eventually they walked to the house. Beyond a rose garden terracing up from the gate, it was a stuccoed country residence pompously marked Villa Clara above the door. From all sides, zigzagging paths led to it among flower beds currently devoid of blooms. The walls, shutters and steps were different shades of pink. The type of wall finish, Guidi thought, that readily absorbs moisture. The kind of house that seems to blush after rain. He halted in front of the main entrance, where juniper bushes clipped to a minimum curved in, bordering straw-covered dirt beds ready for spring planting.
    “We know from what the maid told police that she fell asleep after lunch in the pantry at the back of the house. After she heard the crash, it took her ‘some time’ to reach this door. As we know, driver and car had already vanished. Surely if she’d caught a glimpse of Claretta she’d have promptly accused her.”
    In pain though he was, Bora struggled to keep from smiling.

    Guidi saw it, and grew impatient. “I must really seem ridiculous to you today, Major. It’s the second time you’ve laughed at me.”
    “I’m not laughing, but I think you like the widow.”
    “While you despise her. Is that it?”
    Bora leaned against the door frame with his shoulder. “I don’t despise her. I’m indifferent to her. And as long as your feelings do not interfere with your good judgement, you can like the widow all you want.”
    “As if it were your privilege to permit it, Major!”
    “Maybe not. But at least I do not grow sentimental when it comes to murder.”
    “Unless, of course, you have something to gain from accusing Clara Lisi.” Guidi didn’t know why he said the words, but that Bora should then openly laugh provoked him beyond politeness. “You said yourself that the will is a nightmare and will probably be impugned. The Verona Fascists might find it very useful if Clara Lisi is thrown in jail.”
    Bora stopped smiling. “The Verona Fascists? And what have I to share with them? Why would they come all the way to Lago to seek the help of a German officer? Dirty dealings are best done without adding outside witnesses.”
    “Or with the help of favourable witnesses.”
    “You carry a Fascist Party card. I don’t.”
    “I’m sure you carry your own card, Major.”
    “Not at all. I’m a soldier, and don’t dabble in politics. For a police inspector you presume a great deal.”
    Just then the lock of the front door clicked under Guidi’s pressure. He entered first, flipped the light on and let Bora in. It rankled with him that he was reluctant to argue, when Bora seemed to have no trouble
speaking his mind. Within moments he overheard Bora’s cool comment from the next room, “Holy Christ. What a tasteless place. A regular circus. I wonder where they keep the elephants.”
    On the second floor, Claretta’s quarters were easily recognizable by the profusion of vases, shawls and knick-knacks. Misticum brand lipstick jars marked Persia and Capri lined the dresser. The Lenci doll sitting on her bed was as large as a four-year-old child, dressed in a rose-patterned voile frock and with a straw hat on her head. Stuck behind the bevelled edges of the dresser mirror, postcards from vacation spots formed a garland of sea and mountain views. Bora looked at Guidi in the rose-hued warmth of the bedroom. “I feel like I’m inside a uterus. Don’t