Moretti and Falla Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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certainly not at the top of our list. We have, of course, read your statement. You asked to speak to us — is that because you wish to add to that statement?”
The amusement left Adriana Ferrini’s face as swiftly as it had appeared, to be replaced by what looked like apprehension. “Do police officers give any importance to feelings, forebodings — what I can only call atmosphere? I cannot add any facts to my statement, but I need to give you my impressions.”
Liz Falla thought of Moretti’s instructions to her that morning and her own chilly frisson in the manor lodge, smothered as swiftly as it had been born.
“Impressions, Signora, can be crucial to an investigation. In my experience, women are particularly good at picking up the clues that lie in a smile, a frown, the way someone looks at someone else,” Moretti replied.
Like whatever it was I sensed between you and your hostess, he thought to himself.
“I’m glad you feel like that. Because, even before Toni was killed, I had the feeling something was going to happen. Behind all this, someone is pulling the strings — only I don’t know why.”
“Pulling the strings — are you talking about the changes in the screenplay?”
“Among other things. When we first arrived here, everything was sweetness and light, but that has changed. I really don’t know what Mario is up to, or why. Movie scripts get rewritten all the time, as I know only too well, but there is a feeling of — oh, I don’t know — a hidden agenda to these changes. Mario and I were good friends, then he hit a bad patch, and now he’s pulled out of it. Or so I thought. His wife is a lovely person, and he had everything going for him again.”
“Have you asked him about the changes?”
“Yes. He talks about creative freedom and so on and so forth.”
“Perhaps that’s what it’s all about.”
“Look, Signor.” Adriana Ferrini leaned forward, hands on her knees. “I’m not a member of any artistic elite. I’m not a contessa or a principessa or a marchesa. I come from peasant stock, and I came up the hard way. Now I have diamonds and furs, and homes in three countries, but I also have my sound peasant common sense. I know soft soap when I hear it, and bullshit when I smell it.”
“So,” said Moretti. “Give us your theory, Signora. Use that sound peasant common sense of yours. What, in your opinion, is the hidden agenda?”
“Family.” It was said firmly, without hesitation. “Mario is under pressure from someone in the Vannoni-Albarosa family to make changes to the script — and now you’re going to ask me why, aren’t you? Well, I don’t know. But if I had to put my money on anyone, it would be on Donatella. She spends a great deal of time with Mario and Monty Lord, apart from general get-togethers at mealtimes and cocktails and so on. She is manipulative and cold — a combination I detest.”
“Then why are you staying here?”
“Because I can get more privacy. Not that anyone on your island has bothered me, but a few paparazzi appeared on the hotel doorsteps and were disappointed. Besides, the atmosphere has changed since I arrived.”
“Then who do you think murdered Toni Albarosa — and why?”
“Why is easier. He was two-timing a member of the Vannoni family, right here at the manor. Who? Donatella? Gianfranco? Giulia?”
“Signora —” Liz Falla’s tone was tentative, until Adriana Ferrini turned and smiled at her. “We were under the impression the marchesa was unaware of her son-in-law’s affair.”
Adriana Ferrini snorted and tossed her head. “Monty is such a romantic — he told you that, didn’t he? Donatella has the poor naive man believing she is in need of protection from the wicked world, when it is Monty who should watch out for his virtue, and his heart.”
“In your opinion,” Moretti asked, “has the film been compromised? Is it in jeopardy? Is someone trying to stop it being made?”
“Are either of you married?”
Adriana Ferrini’s unexpected response had both Moretti and Falla speechless for a moment and then they answered in unison.
“No.”
La Ferrini gave one of her celebrated, throaty laughs. “Che peccato! The reason I ask is not to embarrass you, but because there is often a time in a marriage when the husband or wife says one to the other, ‘I don’t know what it is, but something is not right, I am not happy — and I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s not your fault, darling.’ That’s how I feel about all this, and I have even wondered if Toni’s death has absolutely nothing to do with Mario’s games with the script. I told you I could only give you impressions.”
“This has been very useful, Signora, and we are grateful you have given us the time.” Moretti stood up, and Liz Falla followed his lead.
“Oh, by the way — have any members of the family ever spoken about another house, apart from the manor?”
“Another house?” Adriana Ferrini thought a moment, and then shook her head. “No, not another house. But I know the Vannonis are not originally from Florence or Fiesole — one of my maids told me that when she heard about Rastrellamento. There’s Anna’s house in Fiesole, the marchese’s apartment in Florence, and this place. I wouldn’t know about Gianfranco — not my favourite character. Perhaps they had a place that was destroyed during the war — have you asked them? Is it important?”
“Possibly not. They say there is no other house.”
“Ah.” Adriana Ferrini stayed seated on the couch and extended her hand. “I hope I have not wasted your time.”
“Far from it.”
“They tell me you are a pianist, Signor Moretti. A jazz pianist. I must come and hear you play sometime.”
“It would be an honour, Signora.”
Moretti and Liz Falla were at the door when the actress called after them.
“Officers — if what my maid told me is true, you are not dealing with Florentines here. It might be useful to remember that.”
Outside the manor, night had fallen.
“What did she mean about them not being Florentines, Guv?”
“I think, Falla, she was talking about passion.”
“You don’t just mean sex, do you?”
“No.”
Inside the police car, the phone started to ring. Liz Falla got in and answered it.
“The results are in from the post-mortem, Guv. No surprises. Estimated time of death about four o’clock in the morning, a single stab wound to the heart, massive internal bleeding, and little external bleeding. No signs that Albarosa put up a fight, no cuts to his arms or hands. Oh, and the blow was upward, suggesting the attacker was shorter than his victim.”
“Or her victim,” said Moretti. “It could have been a woman — a woman he knew from the sound of it.”
“It doesn’t rule out too many people, because Albarosa was tall. What now, Guv?”
“Home, Falla. No need to go back to the station. We’ll drop off at your place first and I’ll take the car on home. Do you live with your parents?”
“That would cramp my style, Guv,” said Liz Falla cheerily, putting on the headlights and heading out of the courtyard. “I’ve got a flat out at La Salerie, on St. George’s Esplanade by the old harbour. Used to share it with a feller, but I ditched him and kept the flat.”
His partner’s unself-conscious insouciance about her love life was light years away from the sturm und drang Moretti had gone through with Valerie. Maybe it was a generational thing — she certainly made him feel like Methuselah.
“Nice