The Boarding House Horror

10. Mario Costa

My face grew slack. His smitten tones were one shock too many. In my mind I saw Mario's hand descending comfortingly on Daria's shoulders. Romance bloomed, it seemed. Though I remembered, too, how she had failed to respond to the gesture.

"We met in Switzerland during the war, when I fled there to escape the draft. We've never been together for very long. Fate has decreed otherwise. So far." Mario belched juicily. "Scusa."

The belch could hardly dent the alcoholic miasma that clogged the air. "No worries. Why did you stay at the boarding house, Mr. Costa?"

"Mister Costa. I like that. Much better than 'boy' or 'hey, you.' I came to see Daria, of course. I wanted to tell her I will soon be a chef. Three months of school already. Soon, I will deserve her." He leaned forward, his pleasant face darkening. "I didda not know her father would be here. I hate thatta man. Once, long ago, I asked for Daria's hand. He laughed at me. The pig."

"He refused to allow your marriage?"

"Si, that bastardo. I hate him. If he were not already dead, and he make-a me mad, I might kill him. I think he knew it. It was why he always waved the money in front of my face."

"So." I blew air from my cheeks. "So you had a motive for murder."

Mario blinked at me like a startled owl. He threw his head back and brayed a laugh. "Yes, of course, of course. But you know I didn't kill him. If it were me, it would be a — how do you say? — a crime of passion. I would snap, and then his blood would flow. Not in secret in the middle of the night. Out where everyone could see."

I kept my face neutral. I checked my notes. Ah, yes. The cigarette papers. "Did you ever go to his room?"

His face screwed up and he rolled his eyes to the ceiling. He tapped his nose. "Yes. Notta yesterday. The day before, the bastardo wanted to hire me back to Donna Fortunata. I told him where to go."

Cigarette papers left in room number one not necessarily incriminating. Check.

He leaned forward again and poked my knee with his index finger. His voice sank to a husky, slurred stage-whisper. "I know who did it."

"Do you, now?" Inwardly, I wore a knowing smirk. Outwardly, I was a polite stoic.

"The woman who calls herself Alice Bree."

"Why her?"

"The phone number at Peace Palace. Plus the fake name."

"That you overheard."

He was oblivious to my scathing glare and lowered his voice another notch. "Think about it. Peace Palace. War trial. Witnesses who need to stay safe. Fanatics and patriots are the same thing, and some of them would be proud to gun down any enemy of Darko Dor. Alice Bree is here as a witness, and here in this house to keep her out of sight and secret."

"It's plausible."

"There's more."

"Oh?"

"Did you notice that her eyebrows are lighter than her hair?"

"She wears dark glasses."

"Ho! She does! Today, yes, every minute. Not all of yesterday, though. I saw. She wears a wig, I will bet all of Donna Fortunata on it."

I leaned back and pursed my lips. "What color are her eyes?"

"I know, but I won't-a tell you. Ask her yourself." The burly Italian seemed to think this the very height of comedy and burst into a gale of raucous laughter.

The electric light went dark. My heart skipped a beat.

A second later, thunder shook the house and vibrated my chair. As sonic blast rolled by and faded, a thin, feminine scream rose through the floorboards.

*Italian language. An insult. Literally, "Go die murdered."