A Deadly Paradise by Grace Brophy

assertion. Probably not, he concluded.
    He parked in the last space, which he assumed belonged to the murder house. No. 5 Piazza Garibaldi was a narrow structure squeezed between two public buildings, a clock tower with the hour hand missing and a falling-down chapel with flaking stuccowork. The house was painted an incongruous throbbing pink. In the blinding sun bouncing off the square, it assaulted the eyes. Only one day had passed since the German’s body had been discovered, and no curious crowds or reporters were congregating outside the house. Cenni was grateful that the finer points of Baudler’s murder had not yet reached the press, but realized it was just as likely that it had already dropped into the category of old news.
    The door was unlocked, and Cenni entered directly into the main sitting room, which was narrow and minimally furnished with a faded purple couch, two wicker chairs, and a wicker basket filled with art books. No TV, he noted. The floor was marble and completely out of place in this small peasant house. The sitting room led into a small kitchen with highly polished marble countertops and a large fireplace at the far end. Both rooms were empty, and he wondered what’d happened to the questore’s “reliable” officer.
    “So you’ve finally arrived. I was getting bored counting my fingers and toes.”
    Cenni whipped around to find Elena standing behind him.
    “Where did you come from?” was his unfriendly response to his favorite inspector. But he really did want to know where she’d been hiding.
    She pointed to a small doorway located between the two rooms.
    “Stairway,” she responded. “And I’m doing very well, thank you. Nice to see you too,” she said, but with a wide grin of affection.
    “Sorry Elena, but you startled me. How are you? And what are you doing here? Piero told me that you’re still recovering from your gunshot wound, and the questore insisted that you’re on medical leave. I did request you, you know.”
    “Piero treats me like a baby, although I love every minute of it,” she added, still grinning. “Marinella called”—Cenni smiled when Elena mentioned the name of the office gossip—“to tell me you’re back. I phoned the questore and told him I wanted to return early, to work with you on this case. He agreed, although he also said that the rules you impose as to those you’ll work with are ridiculous. And my shoulder is healing nicely. Thank you for asking! Would you like to see me do some pushups?”
    Cenni hesitated about how to express his pleasure that Elena was back. She was adamant about women’s rights and an advocate of doing things American style, so he was never sure if he was allowed to kiss her on the cheek or even give her a collegial pat on the back. This time she made it easy on him.
    Abandoning all foreign influences, she kissed him on both cheeks and smiled in delight. “Look what I found,” she said, holding up a yellowing sheet of paper. “Very interesting stuff!”
    CENNI SPENT THREE hours in the house going over the postmortem, the crime-scene photos, and, finally, the evidence that Elena had found. He had already discussed the crime-scene photos and the postmortem at length with Tahany Falchi while she smoked half a pack of Players. The body, she’d said, had been moved after Baudler was dead, dragged ten feet from where she had fallen and positioned against the first cellar step. The German had been standing near the stacked firewood when she was first struck with a jagged piece of firewood. The police found the piece of wood that had been used, lying apart from the other firewood. A sliver had lodged in the dead woman’s right arm. It was a long, unwieldy log, some three feet in length. It was difficult, according to the forensic report, to get clean fingerprints. A number of partials were found, including those of the victim. Perhaps she had stacked the wood herself, Falchi suggested. The other two sets might include