The Bottom of Your Heart by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar

“So he didn’t seem worried to you? You didn’t get the impression he was afraid?”
    â€œNo, Commissario. He didn’t give any weight to the matter at all. But I wasn’t as calm as he seemed to be, and I urged him to be careful. And as you can see, I decided to hold on to the letter.”
    Ricciardi nodded.
    â€œI’m going to have to ask you to let us take it. I assure you that, once we’ve checked it out thoroughly, we’ll return it to you.”
    â€œAre you going to talk to Ruspo? You’ll need to investigate in depth, I’d imagine . . . But if it were to turn out that my husband . . . anything that might sully my husband’s memory . . . Certainly you must understand, I have a child to protect, if his father’s integrity were called into question . . . I’m all alone now, I have to look after him.”
    Ricciardi reassured her: “Signora, the only thing we want is to find out whether someone is responsible for the professor’s death. Anything not directly related to that matter is of no interest to us and will not be divulged. Not by us, at least.”
    After a moment’s silence, Maione said: “Signo’, forgive me, but we do have to ask you this. Where were you yesterday evening? Could your husband have tried to contact you by phone, or I don’t know, might somebody else have tried to contact you on his behalf?”
    â€œI went to dinner with my son, here in the building, at the home of my cousins. I go quite often, when my husband doesn’t come home. We stayed out late, listening to a program on the radio. We didn’t get back until after midnight. As of eight o’clock, when we left for dinner, no one had called; and if someone had called after that, my housekeeper would have come to inform me. So I’d rule out that possibility.”
    The last few words were uttered in a whisper; the woman’s gaze was wandering around the room as if this were the first time she’d seen it. Ricciardi and Maione knew that expression, they’d seen it many times before on the faces of family members of people who had met violent deaths: they didn’t understand right away what had happened, then the reality began to lap against them like a series of waves, until, like a tsunami, the awareness of their loss buried everything, stripping away rational reasoning and mental equilibrium.
    Signora Iovine’s lips began to quiver; she put her hand on her forehead.
    Ricciardi asked: “Do you need anything? Can we do something for you?”
    She emitted a long racking sob and covered her face with both hands. After a moment, she recovered and, apparently calm now, stared at the commissario.
    â€œWe had plans, my husband and I. We had plans. In August we were going to the countryside, where it’s nice and cool. The countryside is so good for the boy. He’s delicate, extreme heat isn’t good for him. We had a new car, did you know that? You can put the top down. Federico couldn’t wait to go on vacation in a convertible. I don’t know how to drive. Now how can I take him to the country? I’ll have to learn to drive, won’t I?”
    Ricciardi dropped his gaze to the carpet. Maione coughed softly. At last, Maria Carmela Iovine del Castello began to cry.

XIV
    N elide was making
ciccimmaritati
. It was Rosa’s belief that if a woman of Cilento had any pride in her birthplace, that dish had to form part of her repertoire, and she intended to put her niece to the test. No one could ever have guessed that there was satisfaction in the way Rosa watched her, because she resembled nothing so much as a pillar of salt. In fact, truth be told, her expression was more of a frown than anything else.
    For that matter, Rosa had no particular reason to be cheerful. Alongside the usual worries provoked by her young master, who seemed unwilling to settle down and start a family of his