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that ninety percent of the fatal accidents were the fault of the work providers.
    “Not to worry, Chief. They’re wearing safety harnesses. You may not have noticed.”
    “So much the better. Fazio, I need you to do one of those things you’re so good at.”
    “What?”
    “I want you to go aboard the
Vanna
—with the excuse, say, that you need to draw up a complete list of the people to be summoned by the prosecutor—and get me all the vital information you can, official and unofficial, on the owner of the boat, the captain, and the four crew members.”
    Fazio gave him a questioning look.
    “I’m sorry, Chief, but what would any of that information have to do with the corpse they found?”
    Smart question, but dictated by the fact that Fazio knew nothing of what the inspector had discovered concerning the so-called niece, Vanna.
    “I’m just curious.”
    Fazio looked even more doubtfully at him.
    “And what do you plan to do with all this official and unofficial information on them?” he asked after a pause.
    “I want to know what the mood is on that boat, what sort of relationships they have among themselves . . . You know, people who spend so much time together, in such a small space, morning, noon, and night, often end up hating each other or can’t stand one another . . . Sometimes a word slips out and the whole house of cards collapses.”
    This explanation clearly failed to convince Fazio, but he didn’t venture to ask anything else.
    Towards late morning, the inspector decided to phone the medical examiner.
    It was probably too early to do so, but there was no harm in trying.
    “Montalbano here. I’m looking for Dr. Pasquano.”
    “The doctor’s busy,” the operator said.
    “Could you do me a favor?”
    “If possible.”
    “Could you find out from his assistant when the doctor plans to perform the autopsy on the body that was found at sea yesterday?”
    “Just a minute.”
    By the time the other person came back, Montalbano had already reviewed the multiplication tables for seven and eight. It was a good way to make the time pass when he had to wait.
    “He’s working on it right now.”

    “I’m so sorry, Inspector,” Enzo said, throwing his hands up the moment Montalbano walked into the trattoria.
    “What are you sorry about?”
    “I haven’t got any fresh fish. With the bad weather yesterday . . .”
    “What have you got?”
    “An antipasto of caponata made by my wife, a first course of
pasta alla norma
or with broccoli, and then, as a second course, an eggplant parmesan that’ll have you licking your fingers.”
    He was right. But instead of licking his fingers or his mustache, the inspector decided to order a second helping of eggplant.

    Once outside, he realized he needed to take a long meditative-digestive walk all the way out to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty. He’d really stuffed himself this time. He even decided to go a bit out of his way, so he could walk past the
Vanna
and the
Ace of Hearts
docked beside it.
    There wasn’t anybody on the deck of either boat, which probably meant that they, too, were eating.
    When he got to the end of the jetty, he sat down on the usual flat rock. The spot afforded him a good view of the yacht and cruiser.
    Halfway through his cigarette, he noticed a wooden crate, of the sort used for fish, floating on the water near the
Ace of Hearts
. He remembered what the harbor captain, Zurlo, had said on TV, and decided to wait and see where the currents would take the crate.
    Sticking a hand in his pocket, he counted the cigarettes he had left. There were about ten; that would suffice.
    A good hour later, the crate got wedged against the breakwater protecting the arm of the jetty. Captain Zurlo had been right. The outward currents, starting from the quay, necessarily carried all floating objects as far as the eastern arm, exactly where he was sitting.
    He had an idea.
    Making his way over the rocks, slipping and cursing, he was