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 seen directed at him. ‘I’m coming to that, Guido,’ he said. Vianello must have been startled by his own voice because he opened his fist and spread his arm along the top of the bench, as if offering his open hand as an apology.
Brunetti smiled but said nothing.
Vianello continued. ‘She liked the way the people who read the cards gave advice to everyone who called. They seemed sensible. That’s what she told her children.’ Vianello paused, as if to invite questions, but Brunetti had none to ask.
‘That’s how I learned about this,’ the Inspector continued. ‘A few months ago, my cousin Loredano mentioned it to me, almost as a joke: something his mother had got interested in. Like she was listening to Radio Maria or had started to read gardening magazines. He didn’t think much of it, but then his sister, my cousin Marta, called me about a month after that and told me she was worried about their mother, that she talked about it all the time and really seemed to believe in all this horoscope stuff.
‘She didn’t know what to do, Marta.’ Vianello finished his glass of water and set it on the table. ‘I didn’t, either. She was worried, but Loredano thought it would pass, and I guess I thought it would, too, or I wanted to believe that because it was easier.’ He looked across at Brunetti and pulled up one side of his mouth in a wry grimace. ‘I think we all wanted it not to be a problem. So we ignored it and pretended it wasn’t happening.’
There was noise at the door as people came into the bar, but neither of them paid attention to it. Vianello continued: ‘Then Loredano called me about a month ago and told me Zia Anita had taken three thousand Euros out of the company account without telling him.’
He waited for Brunetti to comment, but he did not, so the Inspector went on. ‘Loredano took a look at the bank account and saw that, over the last few months, she’d been taking money from the account: five hundred, three hundred, six hundred at a time. When he asked her about it, all she said was that it was her money and she could do whatever she wanted with it, and that it was necessary and for the best of causes and that she was doing it for his father.’
Old women, Brunetti knew, often felt a need to give their money to good causes, and very often that cause proved to be the Church. Though Brunetti would hardly call that a ‘good cause’, he knew that many people considered it to be, just as he knew that people who gave to the Church would feel no hesitation about naming it. Vianello’s aunt’s failure to do so opened a Pandora’s Box of possibility about the recipient of her generosity.
‘ “Good cause”,’ Brunetti repeated in a neutral voice. ‘ “For his father”. ’
‘That’s all she said,’ Vianello replied.
‘Have your cousins got any idea how much money is involved?’
‘Including that three thousand, maybe seven thousand in total. But she’s also got money of her own, and they’ve no way of knowing what she’s done with that.’
‘Was that what you were talking about with her now?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I was listening, not talking,’ Vianello said tiredly. ‘She called me to complain about how Loredano is bothering her.’
‘Bothering her?’
Vianello failed to smile. ‘That’s how she sees it now: she’s doing something she says is necessary. She thinks she has every right to do it, and she’s angry because her children are trying to make her stop.’
‘I’ve forgotten, Lorenzo. How many children are there?’
‘Marta and Loredano: they’re the oldest. And Luca and Paolo, the two youngest. The three boys — men, really — run the business.’
‘And your uncle? Where’s he in all of this?’ Brunetti asked.
Vianello raised his hands involuntarily. ‘I told you: he doesn’t pay attention to much. Never did, and now that he’s older and not in the best of health, it’s even worse. Loredano said he tried to talk to him and make him understand, but all he said was that his wife had her own money and could do whatever she wanted with it. Or with his. I suppose he thinks it’s some sort of proof of his masculinity that his wife can spend a lot of money: shows what a good provider he is.’
‘Even if he isn’t working any more?’
‘Probably more important, now that he isn’t and now that he can’t do the things he used to do.’
‘God, it’s complicated, isn’t it?’ Brunetti said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. ‘Do any of them know what she’s doing with it?’
Vianello shook his head. ‘Nothing they’re certain of. But if she says it’s for a good cause, then she’s probably giving it to someone.’ This time Vianello slapped the surface of the table, making no attempt to disguise his anger. ‘The trouble is,’ the Inspector continued, ‘I agree with her. Well, partly. She does have the right to do whatever she wants to do with her money. When the business was new, she worked like a dog for years, and she never got a lira for it. Even after things got better, she stayed on in the office and ran it. And never got paid for it.’
Brunetti nodded.
‘So she’s entitled to as much money as she wants. Both legally and. . and morally, if that’s the right word.’
Brunetti suspected it was.
‘But. .’ the Inspector began but failed to finish the sentence.
Brunetti suggested a way to do so. ‘But her family has the right to know what she’s doing with it?’
‘I think so, yes. I don’t like saying it, but I think that’s the case. And it’s not because it’s their money. It’s not. It’s hers. But surely the fact that she refuses to tell them means she suspects she shouldn’t be doing whatever it is she’s doing with it.’
‘What are your cousins going to do?’ Brunetti asked.
Vianello looked at the table. ‘Follow her,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon.’
Vianello looked up and, entirely without humour said, ‘I think they’ve watched too much television or something. They’ve spoken to the manager of the bank. He’s known the family for thirty years. He’s done all their banking for them.’
Vianello stared at his hands, as if one of his fingers were the director of the bank and he wanted to see what he was going to do.
‘What did they tell him?’
‘About the withdrawals and how she won’t tell them what she’s doing with it.’
‘And?’
‘And he said he’d call Loredano the next time she made a withdrawal and then start talking to her and keep her in the bank for as long as he could.’
‘Until someone from the family got there to see where she went?’ Brunetti asked, failing to disguise his astonishment. ‘Cops and robbers?’
Vianello shook his head, eyes still on his fingers. ‘I wish it were that easy.’
‘It’s not easy,’ Brunetti said. ‘It’s crazy.’
‘I thought so, too,’ Vianello said. ‘That’s what I told them.’