The Terra-Cotta Dog by Andrea Camilleri Page A

Montalbano had to leave the office. He went out, stopped at the usual shop, bought a small bag of càlia e simenza , and headed toward the jetty. When he was at the foot of the lighthouse and about to turn back, he found himself face-to-face with Ernesto Bonfiglio, the owner of a travel agency and a very good friend of the recently deceased Cavaliere Misuraca.
    â€œIsn’t there anything we can do?” Bonfiglio blurted out at him aggressively.
    Montalbano, who was trying to dislodge a small fragment of peanut stuck between two teeth, merely looked at him, befuddled.
    â€œI’m asking if there’s anything we can do,” Bonfiglio repeated resentfully, giving him a hostile look in return.
    â€œDo about what?”
    â€œAbout my poor dead friend.”
    â€œWould you like some?” asked the inspector, holding out the bag.
    â€œThanks,” said the other, taking a handful of càlia e simenza .
    The pause allowed Montalbano to put the man he was speaking to in better perspective: Bonfiglio, aside from being like a brother to the late cavaliere, was a man who held extreme right-wing ideas and was not all there in the head.
    â€œYou mean Misuraca?”
    â€œNo, I mean my grandfather.”
    â€œAnd what am I supposed to do?”
    â€œArrest the murderers. It’s your duty.”
    â€œAnd who would these murderers be?”
    â€œWho they are , not ‘would be.’ I’m referring to the local party leaders, who were unworthy to have him in their ranks. They killed him.”
    â€œI beg your pardon. Wasn’t it an accident?”
    â€œOh, I suppose you think accidents just happen accidentally?”
    â€œI would say so.”
    â€œYou would be wrong. If someone’s looking for an accident, there’s always somebody else ready to send one his way. Let me cite an example to illustrate my point. This last February Mimì Crapanzano drowned when he went for a swim. An accidental death, they said. But here I ask you: How old was Mimì when he died? Fifty-five years old. Why, at that age, did he get this brilliant idea to go for a swim in the cold, like he used to do when he was a kid? The answer is because less than three months before, he had got married to a Milanese girl twenty-four years younger than him, and one day, when they were out strolling on the beach, she asked him: ‘Is it true, darling, that you used to swim in this sea in February? ’ ‘It sure is,’ replied Crapanzano. The girl, who apparently was already tired of the old man, sighed. ‘What’s wrong?’ Crapanzano asked, like an idiot. ‘I’m sorry I won’t ever have a chance to see you do it again,’ said the slut. Without saying a word, Crapanzano took off his clothes and jumped into the water. Does that clarify my point?”
    â€œPerfectly.”
    â€œNow, to get back to the party leaders of Montelusa province. After a first meeting ended with harsh words, they held another last night. The cavaliere, along with a few other people, wanted the chapter to issue a press release protesting the government’s ordinance granting amnesty to crooks. Others saw things differently. At a certain point, some guy called Misuraca a geezer, another said he looked like something out of the puppet theater, a third man called him a senile wreck. I learned all these things from a friend who was there. Finally, the secretary, some jerk who’s not even Sicilian and goes by the name of Biraghìn, asked him please to vacate the premises, since he had no authorization whatsoever to attend the meeting. Which was true, but no one had ever dared say this before. So Gerlando got in his little Fiat and headed back home to Vigàta. His blood was boiling, no doubt about it, but the others had made him lose his head on purpose. And you’re going to tell me it was an accident?”
    The only way to reason with Bonfiglio was to put oneself squarely on his