Fatal Remedies by Donna Leon Page A

Iacovantuono to speak to them, ten before they finally accepted his refusal to have anything further to do with the police. The only thing in the entire evening’s doings that made Brunetti feel at all relieved or satisfied was his own refusal to pose the rhetorical question to Iacovantuono of what would happen to all their children if he failed to testify. It was too evident, at least it was evident from Brunetti’s reading of events, what would happen in that case: he and his children would remain alive. Feeling every kind of fool, he gave the red-eyed pizzaiolo one of his cards before he and Vianello went out to the car.
     
    The driver was ill-tempered from having had to sit idly for so long, so Brunetti suggested the three of them stop and eat on the way back, though he knew it would delay his arrival at home until well after midnight. The chauffeur finally left him and Vianello at Piazzale Roma a little before one and an exhausted Brunetti decided to take a vaporetto rather than walk home. He and Vianello made desultory conversation while waiting for the boat and inside the cabin as it made its majestic way up the most beautiful waterway in the world.
     
    Brunetti got out at San Silvestro, blind to the beauty of the moonlit night. He wanted nothing more than to find his wife and his bed, and to lose the memory of Iacovantuono’s sad, knowing eyes. Inside the apartment, he hung up his coat and went down the corridor towards their bedroom. No light came from either of the children’s rooms, but nevertheless he opened their doors and checked that they were both asleep.
     
    He opened the door of their bedroom quietly, hoping to undress in the light that filtered in from the corridor and not to disturb Paola. But it was a vain courtesy: the bed was empty. Even though there was no gleam coming from under the door of her study, he checked to confirm his certainty that it was empty. No lights burned in any other part of the apartment, but he went into the living-room, half hoping, yet knowing how vain the hope was, that he would find her asleep on the sofa.
     
    The only light in that part of the house flickered red from the answering machine. There were three messages. The first was his own phone call, made from Treviso at about ten, telling Paola that he would be delayed even longer. The second was a hang-up and the third, as he had both known and feared it would be, was from the Questura, Officer Pucetti asking the commissario to call as soon as he got home.
     
    He did so, using the direct number to the officers’ room. It was answered on the second ring.
     
    ‘Pucetti, this is Commissario Brunetti. What is it?’
     
    ‘I think you’d better come down here, Commissario.’
     
    ‘What is it, Pucetti?’ Brunetti repeated, but his voice was tired, not at all brusque or imperative.
     
    ‘Your wife, sir.’
     
    ‘What’s happened?’
     
    ‘We’ve arrested her, sir.’
     
    ‘I see. Can you tell me more about it?’
     
    ‘I think it would be better if you came over, sir.’
     
    ‘May I speak to her?’ Brunetti asked.
     
    ‘Of course,’ Pucetti answered, relief flooding his voice.
     
    After a moment, Paola asked, ‘Yes?’
     
    Sudden rage swept him. She gets herself arrested and all she can do is act the prima donna. ‘I’m on my way down there, Paola. Did you do it again?’
     
    ‘Yes, I did.’ Nothing more.
     
    He put down the phone, went into the kitchen and left a note, and the light burning, for the children. He headed towards the Questura, his heart heavier than his feet.
     
    A light shower had begun to fall, really more a liquefaction of air than anything as distinct as rain. Automatically he pulled up his collar as he walked.
     
    After a quarter of an hour he arrived at the Questura. A very worried-looking uniformed officer stood at the door and opened it for him with a salute so crisp it seemed out of place at this hour. Brunetti nodded at the young man - he couldn’t remember