Doctored Evidence by Donna Leon

with the
Carabinieri
.’ She paused, then added, ‘Someone in the neighbourhood – I can’t remember who it was – told me her son died five or six years ago, and that’s when the television began. For company.’
    â€˜So he died before you moved in?’
    â€˜Yes. But from what I’ve heard, I suspect she was always “a difficult woman”.’
    â€˜And her lawyer?’ Brunetti asked.
    â€˜She said she’d speak to Signora Battestini.’
    â€˜And?’
    Signora Gismondi pushed her lips together as if in disgust.
    â€˜The postman?’ he asked with a smile.
    She laughed out loud. ‘He had nothing good to say about her, as a matter of fact. He’d takeeverything up to her, whenever it came – he was always climbing those steps – and she never gave him anything. Not even at Christmas. Nothing.’
    His attention was unwavering and so she went on. ‘The best story I heard about her was from the marble man, the one over by the Miracoli,’ she said.
    â€˜Costantini?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes. Angelo,’ she said, pleased that he knew whom she was talking about. ‘He’s an old friend of the family, and when I told him who I was having trouble with, he told me that she called him about ten years ago and asked him to come and give her an estimate for a new flight of steps. He said he already knew her or knew about her, so he knew it was pointless to go, but he went anyway. He measured the steps, did all the calculations, and went back the next day to tell her how many steps she needed and how high they would have to be, and how much it would cost.’ Like anyone who enjoys telling a good story, she paused there, and he responded like any good listener.
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜And she said she knew he was trying to cheat her, and she wanted him to do it with fewer stairs and each of them lower.’ She allowed the full idiocy of this to sink in, then added, ‘It makes you wonder whether maybe Palazzo Boldù really did throw her out.’
    He nodded at this. ‘Did people visit her, Signora?’ he asked after a moment.
    â€˜No, no one I can remember, well, not anyone I remember seeing more than a few times. There were all the women who worked for her, of course. Most of them were black, and once I spoke to a woman who said she was from Peru. But they all left, usually after only a few weeks.’
    â€˜But Flori stayed?’ he asked.
    â€˜She said she had three daughters and seven grandchildren, and I suppose she had to keep the job so she could send them money.’
    â€˜Do you know if she was paid, Signora?’
    â€˜Who? Flori?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I think so. At least she had a little money.’ Before he could ask her to explain, she said, ‘I met her once on Strada Nuova. It was about six weeks ago and I was having a coffee in a bar, and she came in. It was that place just at the corner near the Santa Fosca
traghetto
. When I went over, she recognized me, you know, from the window, and she kissed me on the cheek, as if we were old friends. She had her purse open in her hands, and I saw that all she had were some coins. I don’t know how much. I didn’t look, you know, but I saw there wasn’t much.’ She stopped speaking, memory taking her back to that afternoon in the bar. ‘I asked why she had come in, and she said she wanted an ice-cream. I think she said she loved ice-cream. I know the man who runs the place, so I told him I was offering and not to take her money, that I’d pay.’
    It was only now that the possibility occurredto her: ‘I hope I didn’t hurt her feelings. By insisting I pay, I mean.’
    â€˜I don’t think it would, Signora,’ he said.
    â€˜I asked her what she wanted and she said chocolate, so I asked him to give her a double cone, and I could see from her face when he gave it to her that all she had been going to