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with this much mystery. What’s the story—are the Verazis making you their heir if you produce her music? Or are you looking for something else altogether?”
    “Turnip truck? What is this turnip truck?”
    “Forget the linguistic excursion and come clean, Vico. Meaning, confession is good for the soul, so speak up. What are you really looking for?”
    He studied his fingers, grimy from paging throughthe music, then looked up at me with a quick frank smile. “The truth is, Fortunato Magi may have seen some of her music. He was Puccini’s uncle, you know, and very influential among the Italian composers of the end of the century. My great-grandmother used to talk about Magi reading Claudia Fortezza’s music. She was only a daughter-in-law, and anyway, Claudia Fortezza was dead years before she married into the family, so I never paid any attention to it. But then when I found my grandmother’s diaries, it seemed possible that there was some truth to it. It’s even possible that Puccini used some of Claudia Fortezza’s music, so if we can find it, it might be valuable.”
    I thought the whole idea was ludicrous—it wasn’t even as though the Puccini estate were collecting royalties that one might try to sue for. And even if they were—you could believe almost any highly melodic vocal music sounded like Puccini. I didn’t want to get into a fight with Vico about it, though: I had to be at work early in the morning.
    “There wasn’t any time you can remember Gabriella talking about something very valuable in the house?” he persisted.
    I was about to shut him off completely when I suddenly remembered my parents’ argument that I’d interrupted. Reluctantly, because he saw I’d thought of something, I told Vico about it.
    “She was saying it wasn’t hers to dispose of. I supposethat might include her grandmother’s music. But there wasn’t anything like that in the house when my father died. And believe me, I went through all the papers.” Hoping for some kind of living memento of my mother, something more than her Venetian wineglasses.
    Vico seized my arms in his excitement. “You see! She did have it, she must have sold it anyway. Or your father did, after she died. Who would they have gone to?”
    I refused to give him Mr. Fortieri as a gift. If Gabriella had been worried about the ethics of disposing of someone else’s belongings she probably would have consulted him. Maybe even asked him to sell it, if she came to that in the end, but Vico didn’t need to know that.
    “You know someone, I can tell,” he cried.
    “No. I was a child. She didn’t confide in me. If my father sold it he would have been embarrassed to let me know. It’s going on three in the morning, Vico, and I have to work in a few hours. I’m going to call you a cab and get you back to the Garibaldi.”
    “You work? Your long lost cousin Vico comes to Chicago for the first time and you cannot kiss off your boss?” He blew across his fingers expressively.
    “I work for myself.” I could hear the brusqueness creep into my voice—his exigency was taking away some of his charm. “And I have one job that won’t wait past tomorrow morning.”
    “What kind of work is it you do that cannot be deferred?”
    “Detective. Private investigator. And I have to be on a—a—”—I couldn’t think of the Italian, so I used English—“shipping dock in four hours.”
    “Ah, a detective.” He pursed his lips. “I see now why this Murray was warning me about you. You and he are lovers? Or is that a shocking question to ask an American woman?”
    “Murray’s a reporter. His path crosses mine from time to time.” I went to the phone and summoned a cab.
    “And, Cousin, I may take this handwritten score with me? To study more leisurely?”
    “If you return it.”
    “I will be here with it tomorrow afternoon—when you return from your detecting.”
    I went to the kitchen for some newspaper to wrap it in, wondering about Vico. He