Read CB19 A Question of Belief (2010) for Free Online

peace.
    When they were seated opposite one another, Brunetti decided to abandon all pretence that he had not understood the nature of the phone call and asked, ‘Your aunt?’
    Vianello sipped at his drink, took a longer swallow, and set the icy glass on the table. ‘Yes.’
    ‘You looked worried,’ Brunetti prompted.
    ‘I suppose I am,’ Vianello said, wrapping both hands around his glass, a gesture more common with hot drinks than with cold. ‘I’m also trapped.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because I can’t shout at her, which is what I want to do. It’s a normal enough response when people do this.’ He looked at Brunetti and quickly away.
    ‘When people do what?’ Brunetti asked.
    Their eyes met for an instant, but then Vianello looked at his glass again and said, ‘Go crazy. Take leave of their senses.’ He picked up the glass with both palms and set it down on the surface a few times, creating a pattern of rings, then he slid the glass through them, erasing them all.
    ‘What’s she done?’
    ‘She hasn’t done it yet,’ Vianello said. ‘But she will. I told you, Zia Anita has a strong will, and when she makes up her mind there’s no changing her.’
    ‘What’s she decided to do?’ Brunetti asked, and finally took a sip of his drink. It was by now so watery as to be almost tasteless, but it was cold and so he drank it.
    ‘She wants to sell the business.’
    ‘I thought it was your uncle’s.’
    ‘It was. Well, it was his, and now it belongs to his sons. But only in name.’
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘Legally it all belongs to her. When he opened it, bought the building where the workshop and offices are, his commercialista told him it would be better for taxes if he put it in his wife’s name. Then, as time passed, they could transfer it to the boys.’ Vianello sighed.
    ‘But they didn’t?’
    Vianello shook his head, finished his drink, and went to get another, not bothering to ask Brunetti if he wanted one. Brunetti finished his and slid the glass over near the wall.
    Vianello was quickly back, but this time the glasses contained only mineral water and ice. Brunetti took his gratefully; the melting ice had ruined the first one, diluting the Campari and rendering the prosecco flat and tasteless.
    ‘Why does she want to sell it?’ he asked.
    ‘To get money,’ Vianello said and drank some of his water.
    ‘Come on, Lorenzo. Either tell me about this or we go back to work.’
    Vianello propped his elbows on the table, his open palms pressed to either side of his mouth. Finally he said, ‘I think she wants to give it to a soothsayer.’

5
    ‘ Gesù Bambino ,’ Brunetti whispered; then, remembering what Vianello had told him, asked, ‘The magazines?’
    ‘That’s just a part of it,’ Vianello answered, his distress audible. He put his right hand inside the open collar of his shirt and ran his hand up his neck. ‘God, I hate this heat. There’s no way to get away from it.’
    Brunetti avoided the distraction and took another sip of his water. He and Vianello had interrogated so many witnesses and suspects together that there was no tactic they had not been exposed to. He sat back with his arms folded, the very model of patience.
    Vianello leaned back, as well. ‘I told you that’s how it started: reading the horoscopes. And the radio programme in the morning, and then she discovered those private channels where they have the people who read the cards.’ He made a fist with his right hand and banged it on the table, but lightly to show it was a gesture and not an act of rage.
    ‘One of her friends told her about the programmes, how much help they were to the people who called.’
    ‘What does your aunt need help with?’ Brunetti could not stop himself from asking. From the way Vianello had spoken of her over the years, she had always sounded like the pillar of strength and certainty in the family.
    Something flashed across Vianello’s face, something Brunetti had never seen, at least never