Free Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions by Mario Giordano

realize, signora, that you may have disturbed a lot of evidence?”
    â€œThis wasn’t the crime scene, in any case,” Poldi said irritably, “as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
    â€œOnly the perp could know that,” cried Marco, the young state policeman, and the two older officers instinctively reached for their guns.
    â€œStand still.”
    â€œDon’t move, signora.”
    â€œOh, pipe down, laddie,” Poldi growled in German, adding, in Italian, “I’m going home now; I’ve had enough. You’ve got my address and everything.”
    â€œYou’re going nowhere.”
    â€œYou’re a murder suspect.”
    â€œLike an echo, those two,” my Auntie Poldi told me later. “Like a crotchety old married couple. You know, sometimes I’m glad Peppe and I didn’t grow old together. When I look at couples like that I’d sooner have topped myself.”
    She reached for the whisky bottle, but I jerked it back out of range.
    â€œSo you were suspected of murder,” I said to distract her. “What happened next?”
    â€œWell, the dickheads simply kept me there till homicide arrived. Which turned out to be an advantage in the long run.”
    â€œBecause that was how you got to know Montana?”
    â€œYou’re always so impatient. If the stories you write are as breathless, you mustn’t be surprised if your readers get stressed and give up. Calm equals strong, in sex as in art.”
    â€œAll styles are good except the boring kind,” I lectured in return. “Voltaire.”
    Poldi took a pull at her drink and gave me a long look. “You don’t believe me, eh? You think I’m lying – you think I made it all up, don’t you?”
    No, I didn’t think that. And even if I had, what then?
    â€œSo you were a murder suspect,” I said.

4
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Describes how Poldi is questioned by a detective chief inspector with beautiful eyes and demonstrates that she herself is an expert detective. Rumours take shape in Torre Archirafi and Poldi forms a preliminary suspicion. Subtle eroticism notwithstanding, the policeman proves to be a tough nut. Poldi jousts with death, reaches a decision and receives an initial clue to the murder motive.
    It quickly became hot on the beach at Praiola. Poldi continued to sit in her car, cocooned in a bubble of heat, stupidity and fluttering scene-of-crime tape. Sweating, she watched men in paper overalls cordoning off the beach, spraying marks on rocks, planting little flags and taking photographs. All these procedures were carried out as slowly as if they were taking place on a peak in the Himalayas. The forensic medical examiner scraped something from beneath Valentino’s fingernails, dropped it, looked for it feverishly and rediscovered it on a rock. Peering around with a furtive air, he hurriedly inserted it in a glass vial. Poldi sighed.
    Having been familiar with the course of police investigations from an early age, she waited patiently for homicide to arrive so that she could finally dispel any misunderstandings and be permitted to drive home. But they took their time. Instead, more carabinieri and state police turned up to keep the first inquisitive spectators at bay or simply to chat together and cast suspicious glances at my aunt. The approaches to the beach became choked with patrol cars.
    No one brought Poldi any water or asked her any more questions, not even the two young policemen who were detailed to guard her and had confiscated her car key for safety’s sake. They simply stared at her and left her to sweat.
    â€œYou might at least give me a cigarette, boys.”
    After exchanging a glance, the young pups eventually offered her an MS. From their manner, she might have been a prisoner on death row.
    Poldi shut her eyes against the sun and smoked, thinking of Valentino and her