Through a Glass Darkly by Donna Leon Page A

the
palazzi
looked much as they always did, massive and grand, but the magic had dimmed, and now they also looked slightly in need of repair. He walked down the stairs on his side of the bridge and cut along the
riva
. He didn’t want to have to push his way through whatever crowds still lingered near themarket or walk the gauntlet of cheap masks and plastic gondolas.
    Lamb it was, lamb with balsamic vinegar and green beans. No antipasto and only a salad to follow. This could mean one of a number of things, and as he ate, Brunetti used his professional skills to seek out the possible cause. Either his wife had been so caught up in the reading of some text – Henry James tended to make her most careless about dinner – or she was in a bad mood, but there was no sign of that. Her suitcase was not standing open on their bed, so he excluded the possibility that she was preparing to run off with the butcher, though the lamb would have been more than sufficient inducement for most women. He approached the next course with mounting anticipation and increasing hope: it might involve an explosive dessert, something they had not had for some time.
    The detective finished the beans, keeping an eye on the suspects around the table. Whatever it was, the wife and the daughter were in it together. Every so often they exchanged a secret glance, and the girl had trouble disguising her excitement. The boy appeared not to be involved in whatever was going on. He polished off the lamb and ate a slice of bread, looked over at the beans and made no attempt to hide his disappointment that his father had beaten him to them. The woman shot a glance at the boy’s plate, and did he detect a smile on her face when she saw that it was empty? Thedetective glanced away so she would not catch him watching them so closely. To lead them astray, he poured himself a half-glass of Tignanello and said ‘Wonderful meal’, as if that were the end of it.
    The girl looked worried, glanced at the woman, who smiled calmly. The girl got to her feet and stacked the plates. She carried them over to the sink and said, her back to the others, ‘Anyone interested in dessert?’
    A man kept on short rations at his own table – certainly he was interested in dessert. But he left it to the boy to speak, contenting himself with another sip of wine.
    The woman got up and went over to the door leading to the back terrace, the one facing north, where she kept things that wouldn’t fit in the refrigerator. But when she heard the girl setting the dishes in the sink, she called her over, and they had a whispered conversation. The detective watched the woman go to the cabinet where the dishes were kept and take down shallow bowls. Not fruit salad, for heaven’s sake. And not one of those stupid puddings filled with bread.
    The detective picked up the bottle and checked to see what was left. Might as well finish it: it was too good to leave uncorked overnight.
    The woman came back with four tiny glasses, and things began to look up. What would be served with sweet wine? No sooner had he begun to hope than realism intervened: thismight be another attempt to deceive him, and there might be nothing more than almond cookies, but then the girl turned from the door to the terrace and came towards the table with a dark brown oval resting on a plate in front of her. The detective had time to think of Judith, and Salome, when his suspicions were obliterated by three voices calling in unison, ‘Chocolate mousse. Chocolate mousse’, and he glanced aside just in time to see the woman pull an enormous bowl of whipped cream from the refrigerator.
    It wasn’t until considerably later that a sated Brunetti and a contented Paola sat together on the sofa, he feeling virtuous at having refused the sweet wine and then the grappa that was offered in its place.
    â€˜I had a call from Assunta,’ she said, confusing him.
    â€˜Assunta who?’ he