The Potter's Field

Ingrid didn’t bat an eyelash. Montalbano marveled.

“Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Suddenly it dawned on him.

“You knew?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you himself ?”

“No. In fact, nobody told me, not before you did just now. But, you see, Salvo, wasn’t this to be expected, knowing what Mimì is like? What’s wrong, Salvo? Are you scandalized?”

And she started laughing harder than before. Maybe the two glasses of whisky were already beginning to make themselves felt? Ingrid read his mind.

“No, I’m not tipsy, Salvo. It’s just that you have such a serious expression on your face that I can’t help but laugh. Why do you take it so hard? It’s a very normal thing, you know. I don’t need to tell you that. Just leave him in peace and the whole thing will blow over by itself.”

“I can’t.”

And he told her about Livia’s phone call and Mimì’s excuse for spending the night away from home.

“Don’t you see? If I don’t intervene, Beba will eventually come directly to me. And at that point I won’t be able to cover for him any longer. And there’s another thing about Mimì that has me very worried.”

“Before you tell me, let’s have another round of whisky.”

“No, just order for yourself.”

He told her how Mimì had changed, how he blew up at others for no reason, always seeking conflict to let off steam.

“There are two possibilities,” said Ingrid. “Either he’s upset by the situation because he loves Beba and feels guilty, or else he’s fallen seriously in love with this other woman. All of this assuming, of course, that Mimì has a lover, as you say. But isn’t it possible he’s going out at night for some other reason?”

“I don’t think so.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“I want you to find out if Mimì really does have a mistress. And, if possible, who this woman is. I’ll give you his license plate number, so you can follow him.”

“But I can hardly stake out Mimì’s house every night, waiting for him to—”

“You won’t have to. I’ve done a little calculation, based on what Livia told me, and I’m certain he’ll be going out tomorrow night. Do you know where he lives?”

“Yes. And I’ve got nothing on for tomorrow night. So, what do I do after he comes out?”

“You call me at home. No matter the hour.”

He waited for Ingrid to finish her whisky, and then they left the bar.

“My car or yours?” asked Ingrid.

“Mine. You’ve been drinking.”

“But I can hold it just fine!”

“Yes, but if we get stopped, it’ll be hard to explain and convince them of that. We’ll swing by and pick up your car afterwards.”

Ingrid looked at him and smiled, then got into his car.

When they got to the restaurant Peppucciu ’u Piscaturi, (Peppucciu the Fisherman), which was on the road to Fiacca, it was almost ten o’clock. The inspector had reserved a table because the place was always packed and, knowing Ingrid’s tastes, and that she was a good eater, he had even ordered their dishes in advance, certain that she would approve.

The menu: antipasto di mare (fresh anchovies cooked in lemon juice and dressed in olive oil, salt, pepper, and parsley; “savory” anchovies seasoned with fennel seeds; octopus salad; and fried whitebait); first course: spaghetti with salsa corallina ; second course: langouste marinara (cooked over live coals and dressed in olive oil, salt, and a dash of pepper).

They dispatched three bottles of treacherous white wine, which went down like cool water but, once in the system, shifted into high gear and was off like a shot. When they had finished, they each drank a whisky to give the digestive process a little boost.

“And now, if we get pulled over, how are you going to explain that you can hold your wine?”

He laughed.

The whole way back, Montalbano drove with his eyes popping out and his nerves on edge. Afraid they might encounter some local patrol, he didn’t go over thirty-five miles an hour, and he didn’t once open his mouth, for fear of distraction.

Pulling into the parking lot of the Marinella Bar, he realized Ingrid had fallen asleep. He shook her gently.

“Hmm?” Ingrid said without opening her eyes.

“We’re here. You feel up to driving?”

Ingrid opened a single eye and looked around her, dazed.

“What did you say?”

“I asked if you feel up to driving.”

“No.”

“All right, then, I’ll take you home to Montelusa.”

“No. Take me to your place and I’ll take a shower, and then you can bring me back here for my car.”

As Montalbano was opening the front door, Ingrid was swaying so badly she had to lean against the wall for support.

“I’m gonna lie down for five minutes,” she said, heading for the bedroom.

The inspector didn’t follow her. He opened the French door, went out onto the veranda, and sat down on the bench.

There wasn’t a breath of wind, the surf so soft, the sea barely moving. At that moment the telephone rang. Montalbano dashed in to close the bedroom door, then picked up the receiver. It was Livia.

“Tell me something,” she said. “What were you doing?”