Free IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) by Andrea Camilleri

Why?”
    “How is it you’ve become even more beautiful?”
    “Are you finally starting to get ideas?”
    “No, it was a simple observation. Listen, I had a look outside and I think we can eat on the veranda.”
    “Good idea. I’ll prepare everything myself. Go.”

    If the pasta ’ncasciata , when they had finished it off, was greatly missed, the melanzane alla parmigiana , when it reached its end, deserved some sort of long funeral lament. Meeting an hon orable death along with the pasta was also a bottle of tender, beguiling white wine, while to the melanzane they sacrificed half a bottle of another white, which under a veneer of utter meekness concealed a treacherous soul.
    “We must finish that bottle,” said Ingrid.
    Montalbano went and fetched the olives and tumazzo.
    Afterwards, Ingrid cleared the table and Montalbano heard her starting to wash the dishes.
    “You can leave them,” he said. “Adelina’s coming tomorrow.”
    “Sorry, Salvo, but I can’t help myself.”
    The inspector got up, grabbed a brand-new bottle of whisky and two glasses, and went back out on the veranda.
    A little while later, Ingrid sat down beside him. Montalbano filled her glass half full. They drank.
    “Now we can talk,” said Ingrid.
    While stuffing themselves they hadn’t spoken except to comment on what they were stuffing themselves with. During the frequent silences, the smell and sound of the sea splashing against the piles supporting the veranda became an extra seasoning and backdrop as unexpected as it was welcome.
    “How’s your husband doing?”
    “Fine, I think.”
    “What do you mean, ‘I think’?”
    “Ever since he was elected to Parliament, he’s been living in Rome, where he bought himself an apartment. He comes to Montelusa once a month but spends more time with his constituents than with me. Anyway, it’s been years since we’ve had sexual relations.”
    “I see. Any lovers?”
    “Just so I can feel alive. B-grade. They come and go.”
    They sat in silence a bit, listening to the sounds of the sea.
    “Salvo, what’s wrong?”
    “With me? Nothing? What could be wrong?”
    “I don’t believe you. You’re talking to me but you’re thinking of something else.”
    “I’m sorry. I’ve got an important case on my hands and from time to time I get distracted thinking about it. It involves a girl who was—”
    “I’m not going to take the bait.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Salvo, you want to change the subject and so you’re trying to arouse my curiosity. But I’m not going to take the bait. Mostly, you’re incapable of lying; I’ve known you too long for that to work. What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing.”
    This time Ingrid filled the glasses. They drank.
    “How’s Livia?”
    She’d gone directly on the attack.
    “Fine, I think.”
    “I see. Do you feel like talking to me about it?”
    “Maybe in a little while.”
    The air was so briny that it burned the skin and expanded the lungs.
    “Do you feel cold?” the inspector asked.
    “I feel perfectly fine.”
    She slipped her arm under his, squeezed it, and laid her head on his shoulder.

    “. . . in short, not until late August did she finally deign to answer the phone when I called. Believe me, I must have called her every day for almost a month. I was starting to get seriously worried. Livia said she herself had also tried to call me several times from Massimiliano’s boat, but there was no reception, given that they were out on the open sea. I didn’t believe her.”
    “Why not?”
    “What were they doing? Sailing around the world without ever going ashore? Is it possible they never entered a port equipped with a telephone? Come on! So, when we did finally get a chance to see each other, the shit hit the fan. When I think back on it now, I believe I was a little aggressive.”
    “Knowing you, I’d say it was a bit more than ‘a little.’”
    “All right, but it helped. She said there had been something between her