Free The Track of Sand by Andrea Camilleri

cries, and laughter.
    All at once he found himself on a lawn with small tables and chairs, big umbrellas, and chaises longues. There were even two very long tables with food and drinks and apposite waiters in white jackets. Off to one side was a little wooden cottage with a man standing in its rear window and a queue of people lined up in front of him.
    There were at least three hundred men and women crowding the lawn, some sitting, some standing, some speaking or laughing in groups. Beyond the lawn, one could see the so-called hippodrome.
    People were dressed as if it were Carnival, some in equestrian garb, others in top hats and coats and tails as if attending a reception by the Queen of England, others in jeans and turtlenecks, others in Tyrolean lederhosen and feather caps, others in forest-ranger uniforms (or so they appeared at least to the inspector), one guy in full Arab regalia, and others in shorts and flip-flops.Among the women there were some with hair so big you could have landed a helicopter on top of it, others in miniskirts up to their arm-pits, others in maxiskirts so long that anyone who came too close risked tripping up in them and breaking his neck, another in a bowler hat and nineteenth century riding costume, and a twentyish girl in skin-tight blue-jean short shorts which she could allow herself to wear thanks to the impressive hindquarters with which Mother Nature had endowed her.
    When he had finished gawking, the inspector noticed that Ingrid was no longer at his side. He felt lost. He had an overwhelming desire to turn tail, walk back up the great lane, through the villa’s salons, slip back into Ingrid’s car, and—
    “Ah, you must be Inspector Montalbano!” said a male voice.
    He turned around. The voice belonged to a man of about forty, very thin and very long, wearing a khaki bush jacket, shorts, knee socks, colonial pith helmet, and a pair of binoculars around his neck. He also had a pipe in his mouth. Maybe he thought he was in India at the time of English rule. He held out a soft, sweaty hand that felt to the inspector like wet bread.
    “What a pleasure! I am the Marchese Ugo Andrea di Villanella. Are you related to Lieutenant Colombo?”
    “The carabinieri lieutenant from Fiacca? No, I’m—”
    “Ha ha! I wasn’t talking about a lieutenant of the carabinieri, but the Colombo you see on TV, you know, the one in the trench coat whose wife you never see . . .”
    Was this guy a cretin or simply trying to make an ass out of the inspector?
    “No, actually I’m Inspector Maigret’s twin brother,” Montalbano replied gruffly.
    The marchese looked disappointed.
    “I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”
    And he walked away. Decidedly a cretin, and slightly loopy into the bargain.
    Another man came forward, dressed as a gardener, in dirty overalls that smelled bad and a shovel in his hand.
    “You seem new here,” he said.
    “Yes, it’s the first time I—”
    “Who’d you bet on?”
    “Actually, I haven’t yet—”
    “You want some advice? Bet on Beatrice della Bicocca.”
    “I don’t—”
    “Do you know her table of rates?”
    “No.”
    “Let me recite it for you: Cough up a thousand in euros / and a kiss on the forehead is yours./A clean five thou without tips / and she’ll give you a kiss on the lips. / But find ten grand to shell out; / and you’ll find her tongue in your mouth .”
    The man bowed and walked away.
    What kind of fucking loony bin had he stumbled into? And wasn’t this Beatrice della Bicocca playing unfair?

7
    “Salvo, come!”
    At last he spotted Ingrid, who was waving her arms as she called him. He headed towards her.
    “Inspector Montalbano; the master of the house, Baron Piscopo di San Militello.”
    A tall, thin man, the baron was dressed exactly like someone the inspector had seen leading a fox hunt in a movie. Except that the actor in the movie was wearing a red jacket, while the baron’s was green.
    “Welcome, Inspector,” said the baron,