Page 19 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

“What are you making?” he asked, nodding at the garment in her lap.

“There’s no need to—” De Luca began, but Aunt Agata exclaimed over him.

“Oh! Let me show you!” She lifted the garment and tugged it over her head, pulling it down so that it circled her neck like a scarf. “It’s a cowl. I sell them in the winter. They’re all the rage in Vernazza. The nights can get chilly during the off-season and there’s nothing worse than feeling the cold on your neck.”

Bastian felt a thump in his gullet. The red-and-orange fabric reminded him of the dead girl’s throat and for a second he was back on the beach, fighting his ugly urges.

The sound of De Luca curtly thanking Aunt Agata broke him from the daze.

“You’re welcome, Inspector,” she said. “Salvador Silvestri has been a blight upon this town for too long. He deserves everything coming to him and more.” She glowered for a moment, then, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, her smile returned as she looked at Bastian. “Be sure to stop by any time. I’m always here and my prices are very reasonable.”

“Grazie,” Bastian said, attempting to suppress a frown as they carried on down the street toward Micio Micio. It was clear the shopkeeper wasn’t a fan of Salvador, but did that make him a killer?

And had the shopkeeper been a littletooquick in pointing the finger? Those needles could certainly be responsible for what happened to the girl on the beach. All that blood, her neck ripped open like a perfect fleshy piñata—

Bastian pursed his lips and ran a hand through his hair. It was going to be a long day if he suspected every person they met of murder.

“You are not a detective,” De Luca said, and Bastian realized he was addressing him.

“No, dear, I’m not.”

De Luca gritted his teeth. “You will not question witnesses. You will remain silent and respectful while I do my job.”

Bastian frowned. How had he been disrespectful? He had simply been trying to find out the facts. If that irritated the inspector, well, that was his problem.

“How did you know Luna?” he asked.

De Luca’s shoulders stiffened, which was impressive, given how stiffly he was already carrying himself.

“We went to school together.”

“Were you close?” Bastian asked.

“Once.”

Bastian wondered if that was the reason for the man’s gruff demeanor. Perhaps he was grieving. He felt his irritation at the inspector softening.

“So, this is personal,” Bastian said.

De Luca didn’t look at him as he said, “Everything that happens in Vernazza is personal.”

8

The cat café was cozy, and there were four-legged furballs everywhere.

They perched proudly on the toy-crammed counter, lounged drunkenly in the street-facing window, and sniffed about on the dozen or so tables, to the delight of the handful of patrons who cooed and tsked at them, giggling when the cats either batted them playfully or nuzzled them affectionately.

“I’m in hell,” Whitby said, peering around with a look of disdain. “I’m in actual hell.”

She had never gotten on with other cats.

A mottled tabby approached her, tail kinked with curiosity. Whitby batted it on the nose—“Scram!”—and the cat scurried away, its tail doubling in size.

Bastian chuckled. “Play nice, Whitby.”

“With these empty-headed fools?” Whitby glared at a glossy silver Burmese that meowed and turned circles as a customer teased it with treats. “Have some dignity!”

A scowling waiter came over. He was pale and muscular, blackhair falling to his shoulders. He wore a headband with cat ears, which did little to soften his grimace. A cat-shaped tag attached to his shirt read MATTEO.