Antonio’s wife clamped onto Captain Palmiro’s shirt, like a drowning woman clinging to a life raft. “He was home with me! I swear! I’ll swear on anything! I was . . . I went to the bathroom! Yes! About an hour ago or whenever the murder happened. And he was sleeping soundly right where he was supposed to be!”
Captain Palmiro attempted to pry her fingers off his shirtfront. “Celeste, get a hold of yourself.” To Stella, he grumbled, “Stella, that’s enough for now, but don’t leave Aramezzo. We may have more questions.”
Celeste caught sight of her husband and burst into tears.
Antonio wrapped his arms around his wife, his head nodding into her hair, mussed from sleep, as tears leaked from his eyes. “He’s gone, Celeste. He’s gone.”
At this portrait of grief painted in layers, the rest of th
