Read Quietly in Their Sleep for Free Online Page A

her. Intelligent woman.’
     
    ‘With good taste in paintings?’ Brunetti asked.
     
    Lele’s laugh came down the phone. ‘Modesty prevents my answering that question.’
     
    ‘Is there any talk about him? Or about them?’
     
    There was a long pause, at the end of which Lele said, ‘I’ve never heard anything. But I can ask around if you’d like me to.’
     
    ‘Not so that anyone knows you’re asking,’ Brunetti said, even though he knew it was unnecessary.
     
    ‘My tongue shall be as gossamer,’ Lele said.
     
    ‘I’d appreciate it, Lele.’
     
    ‘It doesn’t have anything to do with Regina, does it?’
     
    ‘No, nothing.’
     
    ‘Good. She was a wonderful woman, Guido.’ Then, as if suddenly realizing he’d used the past tense, Lele quickly added, ‘I’ll call you if I learn anything.’
     
    ‘Thanks, Lele.’ Brunetti came close to reminding him about being delicate, but he reflected that anyone who had thrived as Lele had in the world of Venetian art and antiquities had to have as much gossamer as steel in his nature, and so all he said was a quick goodbye.
     
    It was still well before twelve, but Brunetti felt himself lured from his office by the scent of spring that had been laying siege to the city for the last week. Besides, he was the boss, so why couldn’t he just up and leave if he chose to? Nor did he feel himself obliged to stop and tell Signorina Elettra where he was going; she was probably elbow-deep in computer crime, and he didn’t want to be either an accessory or, truth be told, an impediment, so he left her to it and headed toward the Rialto and home.
     
    * * * *
     
    It had been cold and damp when he left the apartment that morning, and now, in the growing warmth of the day, he felt himself burdened by his jacket and his overcoat. He loosened both, removed his scarf and stuffed it in his pocket, but still it was so warm that he sensed the year’s first perspiration break out across his back. He felt trapped in his woollen suit, and then the traitorous thought came to him that both slacks and jacket were tighter than they had been in early winter when he had first worn the suit. When he got to the Rialto Bridge, he pushed ahead in a sudden surge of buoyant energy and started to trot up the steps. After a dozen steps, he found himself winded and had to slow down to a walk. At the top, he paused and gazed off to the left and up toward the curve that took the Grand Canal off toward San Marco and the Doge’s Palace. The sun glared up from the surface of the water on which bobbed the first black-headed gulls of the season.
     
    His breath caught, he started down the other side, so pleased with the softness of the day that he felt none of his usual irritation with the crowded streets and milling tourists. Walking between the double bank of fruit and vegetable stalls, he saw that the first asparagus had arrived and wondered if he could persuade Paola to get some. A glance at the price made him realize he had no hope of that, at least for another week, when it would flood into the market and the price be cut in half. Ambling along, he studied the vegetables and their prices, occasionally nodding or exchanging a greeting with people he knew. In the last stall on the right, he saw a familiar leaf and went over to have a closer look.
     
    ‘Is that puntarelle ?’ he asked, surprised to find it in the market this early.
     
    ‘Yes, and the best in Rialto,’ the vendor assured him, his face flushed with years of wine drinking. ‘Six thousand a kilo and cheap at the price.’
     
    Brunetti refused to respond to this absurdity. When he was a boy, puntarelle cost a few hundred lire a kilo, and few people ate it; those who bought it generally took it home to give to the rabbits kept illegally in courtyards or back gardens.
     
    ‘I’ll take half a kilo,’ Brunetti said, pulling some bills from his pocket.
     
    The vendor leaned forward over the piles of vegetables displayed in