Fernanda patted her arm. ‘That’s a sweet thing to say. But it is just wishful thinking. My sister had Mussolini’s photo on the wall.’
‘What about the necklace?’
‘Violetta could have found it. There’s no proof Lance gave it to her.’
‘Wait!’ Amy brought her hands to her face. ‘I almost forgot. Grandpa left me two postcards. One a picture of Alassio, where he grew up, the other was this village.’
‘And you showed me a message on the back.’ Stella felt her heart start to beat a little faster. ‘There’s no name but Fernanda, you might recognise the handwriting. Have you got it with you, Amy?’
Amy jumped up. ‘Yes, yes, I have. It’s here in my bag. Here, Fernanda.’ Her hand trembled as she handed over the postcard.
Fernanda glanced at the black and white photograph for a mere second, flipped it over and gasped.
‘What is it? Is it Violetta’s handwriting?’ Amy said.
‘This is not my sister’s beautiful hand, but she wrote it, I know she did.’
‘I’m confused,’ Stella said. She glanced around at the equally puzzled faces.
‘Violetta disguised her writing and crossed through the name of the village, but there’s one thing that gives it away, a little touch she couldn’t resist.’ Fernanda smiled. ‘Leo, would you fetch something from the middle drawer over there? A small olive-green leather folder.’
‘Of course, Nonna… There you are. What’s in here?’
‘Just cards and sentimental nonsense.’ Fernanda loosened the faded ribbon. She held up a crayon drawing of a space rocket. ‘You drew this when you were only three or four, Leo.’
‘You’ve kept it all this time!’ Leo shook his head.
‘Ah, here is what I am looking for.’ Fernanda retrieved what looked like a homemade card decorated with pink and orange flowers. ‘We couldn’t afford to spend money on birthday cards when I was a child. We always made them ourselves. This was the last one Violetta gave me, a few weeks before she was killed. Look at the way she finished off the letter “I” in her name with a heart on top, a little flourish just for me. And there on your grandpa Lance’s card she’d topped the I inbacijust the same. That postcard is from my sister, I am sure of it.’
An escaped Allied prisoner and the most ardent fascist in the village had fallen in love. It was the strangest thing Stella had ever heard.
45
Stella had expected Domenico’s house to be in darkness but lights blazed from both downstairs rooms. Her uncle must be up and about, revitalised by the visit from his pal Goffredo. She stepped into the hallway. The smell that greeted her reminded her of the mornings after Ricky had invited all his mates round. Great rumbling snores rose from the living room. She tiptoed in. Domenico lay in his chair, head back, mouth open, sleeping soundlessly. Lying flat out on the couch, one cushion under his head, lay another fully clothed figure. But this wasn’t Goffredo, this was the father of the man who ran the salumeria. What on earth was he doing here?
Now, Stella’s eyes swept the room. An empty bottle of Basanotto, two packs of cards strewn across the table and four empty glasses. A snort came from the far corner. Stella whipped around. So that’s where Goffredo was, zonked out, Violetta’s hat crammed on his head.Mamma mia!What had they been doing? It looked as if only the fourth card player had managed to make it home. Stella was not going to deal with this mess now. Quietly she crept upstairs to bed.
* * *
Domenico’s hand shook as he lifted the coffee cup to his lips.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Stella.’
‘Just wondering if you’d like a glass of water and a painkiller.’ She pursed her lips.
Domenico nodded, eyes closed. He hadn’t moved from his chair. ‘It feels like Leo’s taken his chisel to my skull.’
‘At least you haven’t got to face your wife like Goffredo has. The way that woman was hammering on the door was enough to waken the dead.’
‘I feel like the dead.’ Domenico groaned. ‘The water – please!’
‘Just coming up.’ He looked so pitiful she couldn’t help chuckling to herself as she fetched them both a glass and carried them back in.
‘Grazie mille! Sorry, Stella, and sorry about the hat. It’s definitely beyond repair.’
‘What were you doing with it? Is that stain red wine?’
‘We had a bit of an accident with Goffredo’s glass. And then we were doing forfeits. Whoever lost their hand of cards had to wear it and recite a limerick.’
