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Marinella.

6
    The lights were on in the Lombardos’ house. Therefore Liliana was at home, even though he couldn’t see her. Would she be coming to eat the arancini as she’d promised? For no apparent reason, Montalbano had the suspicion that at the last minute she would find an excuse not to come. As he slipped the key into his front door, he heard the telephone ringing. This was something that happened often. It was as though the phone could hear his car approach from a distance and then started ringing at once, so that he wouldn’t have time to answer. He tried to move as fast as possible, but when he lifted the receiver he heard only a dial tone.
    He went straight to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, took out the arancini, and put them in the oven, which he then lit and set at a low temperature. Then he went to the bathroom and washed up, came back out, turned on the television, sat down, and watched himselfbeing interviewed by Nicolò. After turning off the set, he started setting the table on the veranda.
    When he’d done this, he sat down on the bench, lit a cigarette, and started thinking about what was eating away at him. Where could the shot that struck his car have come from?
    The hole of entry spoke quite clearly: there was no splintering; it was clean and formed a perfect circle. The bullet was fired by someone positioned at a perfect right angle to the car and, therefore, if the carabinieri’s reconstruction was correct, the shot could only have come from a gunman on the other side of the queue of cars, in the open countryside along the road.
    But this wasn’t possible, either, because in that case the bullet, before reaching his car, would have ended up hitting one of the cars stuck in traffic.
    Unless the gunman happened to have fired the shot from the second floor of a building. But in this case the entry hole should have had an almost oval shape.
    There was no explanation.
    He looked at his watch. It was already nine fifteen. What was keeping Liliana? Or had she again lacked the nerve to come, as he’d already imagined?
    The telephone rang. He hestitated for a moment, unsure whether to answer or not. It might be some hassle that would send his evening up in smoke, just as easily as it might be Liliana herself.
    He picked up the receiver.
    “Inspector Montalbano?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s Liliana.”
    “Are you coming?”
    “I got as far as your front door, but then I saw a car there that wasn’t yours, and so I thought . . .”
    “Don’t worry, it’s mine.”
    “Why’d you change cars?”
    “I had to. I’ll explain later.”
    “Are you alone?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ll be right over.”
    Montalbano went and opened the door and waited there until he saw her approaching from the road. She was wearing slacks and a blouse, maybe because she had something serious to tell him.
    But she certainly was beautiful.
    By way of greeting, she shook his hand, a strained smile on her pale face. The inspector took her out to the veranda.
    He didn’t like the fact that Liliana was so serious and apparently worried, as if preparing to be interrogated. It would be better if she loosened up a little; that would make it easier to talk.
    “In the fridge I’ve got a bottle of that nice wine you liked.”
    “Sure, why not?”
    After she’d drunk half a glass, she sighed deeply, and a bit of color returned to her face.
    “Why did you have to change cars?”
    Montalbano told her about the shoot-out at the checkpoint, but didn’t tell her that the carabinieri had ruled out that the shot could have been fired at that moment.
    Now she seemed more relaxed.
    “Shall I go and get the arancini?”
    “I’ll come with you.”
    “Let’s bring our plates with us.”
    As soon as he opened the oven, a heavenly scent wafted out and overwhelmed their senses.
    “Let’s do this,” said Montalbano. “Since they should be eaten nice and hot, let’s just take one each right now, and then we’ll come back for