Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions Read Online Free PDF Page B

Georg Oberreiter solved the Nölden case, as one or two people may recall, and even though Poldi had spent her life trying to slough off her parents, her parental home and her claustrophobic suburban background like a cat shaking water off its fur, it has to be conceded that blood is thicker than water, Oberreiter blood included. Poldi was simply preprogrammed.
    Maria accompanied her to the door. “Thanks again for the ice cream. If we hear anything from Valentino I’ll call you at once.”
    â€œPerhaps you’ll pay me a visit sometime – then we could have a little chat. I’d like that.”
    Maria shook her head and sighed again as only a mother can sigh who knows her child is beyond help.
    â€œHe used to work for Russo sometimes,” she whispered. “At the vivaio , you know?”
    Poldi remembered the lorryload of palm trees that had missed her by a whisker. Piante Russo .
    â€œYou mean the big tree nursery beside the Provinciale?”
    Maria nodded. “Yes, near Femminamorta.”
    Femminamorta…
    That triggered another vague memory. Diminutive and already half eroded by oblivion, it whirled around the convolutions of Poldi’s brain and then, silent as a snowflake, drifted down to join her images of the last day Valentino was with her. Images of a nervous Valentino who was toting a half-full sack of cement up the stairs to the roof to patch a leak there. A somewhat dejected Valentino, she now recalled, who smoked too much, activated a brand-new mobile with a TIM card, and spoke of having to go somewhere that evening. Somewhere by the name of Femminamorta.
    â€œCould you tell me where it is?”
    Femminamorta wasn’t easy to find, for it was neither a town nor a restaurant, so not signposted, but merely the unofficial name of an estate bordering the Provinciale and right next door to the Russo nursery. Since the lava stone wall beside the road obscured any view of the properties beyond it, and since there was no signpost and Poldi saw no one she could ask, she had to drive back and forth several times before she finally spotted the narrow entrance. From there an almost impassable farm track skirted the nursery’s stone wall for several hundred yards. Beyond it sprinkler systems hummed and diggers roared as they transported mature palm trees to and fro.
    Guided by Maria’s description, Poldi sent the Alfa labouring over hundreds of potholes to an old archway wreathed in bougainvillea and flanked by two columns. Enthroned on one of them sat a sullen-looking lion guardant with a coat of arms featuring lilies in its paws. The lion on the other side was missing.
    Beyond the archway lay a miniature paradise.
    Femminamorta.
    A somewhat dilapidated Sicilian country house from the eighteenth century, built of tuff and limewashed pink, almost entirely swathed in bougainvillea and jasmine and set in the midst of a subtropical garden thick with palm trees, oleander bushes, hibiscus, and avocado, apricot and lemon trees. And, not far away in the background, with its flanks outspread like the wings of a dark guardian angel: Etna.
    Not a soul to be seen. All the shutters were closed, but one upstairs window beside a sun-bleached sundial was open.
    Poldi parked the Alfa and made her presence known.
    â€œ Permesso? ”
    No answer.
    Louder, then. “ PERMESSO? … Hello?”
    Still nothing.
    Fair enough, thought Poldi. She went for a brief stroll through the enchanted garden. The wind rustled softly in the palm trees, house and garden were bathed in scintillating sunlight. There was nothing else to be seen or heard, as if the place needed to be roused from its slumbers. By a laugh, perhaps, because Poldi had realized at once that this was a good place – that the ice here was thick enough.
    Some washing was hanging up behind the house. Poldi was about to call again when she was attacked, out of the blue, by a very angry, very large gander. Hissing, with