‘I’m still not sure why you’re asking me about this, Lorenzo,’ Brunetti said.

‘I’m not sure I know, either,’ Vianello admitted with a grin. ‘The last few times I’ve gone to see her — I try to stop in at least once a week — there were these crazy magazines lying around. No attempt to hide them or anything. “Your Horoscope.” “The Wisdom of the Ancients.” That sort of thing.’

‘Did you ask her about them?’

Vianello shook the question away. ‘I didn’t know how.’ He looked across at Brunetti and went on, ‘And I suppose I was afraid she wouldn’t like it if I did ask her.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘No reason, really.’ Vianello pulled out a handkerchief and wiped at his brow. ‘She saw me looking at them — well, saw that I noticed them. But she didn’t say anything. You know, make a joke and say one of her kids left them there or one of her friends had been to visit and had forgotten them. I mean, it would have been normal to say something about them. After all, it was like finding magazines about hunting or fishing or motorcycles. But she was almost — I don’t know — almost secretive about it. I think that’s what bothered me.’ He gave Brunetti a long, inquisitive look and asked, ‘You’d say something, wouldn’t you?’

‘To her, you mean?’

‘Yes. If she were your aunt.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ Brunetti said, then asked, ‘What about your uncle? Can you ask him?’

‘I suppose I could, but talking to Zio Franco is like talking to any of those men of his generation: they have to make a joke about everything, slap you on the back and offer you a drink. He’s the best man in the world, but he really doesn’t pay much attention to anything.’

‘Not even to her?’

Vianello was silent before he answered, ‘Probably not.’ Another silence, and then he added, ‘Well, not in a way anyone would recognize. Men of his generation really didn’t pay much attention to their families, I think.’