The pyramid of mud

The shooting death of Giugiù Nicotra, his body found inside a huge pipe on a muddy construction site, propels Camilleri's irresistible 22nd Inspector Montalbano mystery set in Vigàta, Sicily (after A Nest of Vipers). Nicotra, the chief accountant for the construction firm Rosapina, lived nearby with his German-born wife, Inge, and an unidentified older man, both of whom are missing. At the victim's house, Montalbano discovers a bullet casing and other clues to the killing, but it's outside actions that galvanize his investigation. A reporter attributes Nicotra's murder to his wife's adultery and attacks the inspector's handling of the case, a Rosapina lawyer accuses Nicotra of stealing a gun from his office, a German lawyer says that Inge has returned to Germany, and yet another attorney escorts a man into Montalbano's office to confess to the crime. Despite feeling his age, Montalbano manages to arrive at a solution to the puzzle with his customary cunning, humor, and fearlessness. Readers will hope he lives forever. Agent: Donatella Barbieri, Agenzia Letteraria Internazionale (Italy). (Jan.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

When a construction company's senior accountant is found dead on a work site, Inspector Montalbano can't shake the feeling that the murdered man was trying to send a message.The rain has been so relentless in Montalbano's part of Sicily that construction sites across the area have been closed. But when a body is found at a site near Sicudiana, Montalbano must trudge through the mud to see where this manwho turns out to be Giugi Nicotra, senior accountantdied. His body is discovered inside a large pipe, part of a new water main, but evidence suggests that he was shot elsewhere before making his way here. But why? As Montalbano and his team search for information on Nicotra, they put together a frustrating picture of work stoppages, phony inspections, and highly inflated prices for materials, an example of a broken system with which Montalbano is all too familiar. Distractions pile up as the team gets closer to finding the motive for murder, but the fishiness is immediately apparenteven the prosecutor, Jacono, admits that things aren't adding up. When Montalbano realizes he's "still at the opening lines of a play they want to put on," he uses it to his advantage, quietly homing in on the guilty party as they start to believe they're free. In this 22nd installment, Camilleri (A Nest of Vipers, 2017, etc.) shows us a more introspective and self-aware inspector, capable of questioning his own abilities, who steadfastly makes it to the bottom of this orchestrated crime with the calmness of a man who has already seen it all. From start to finish, the image of Nicotra in the pipe haunts the inspector, who keeps close to his chest the feeling that "the truth of [his] death is to be found here."The usual humor and strong personalities we expect from Camilleri will be missed by fans in this book, but the more intricate portrait of the detective will make the pages turn anyway. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

The thunderclap was so loud that not only did Montalbano suddenly wake up in terror, but he gave such a start that he nearly fell out of bed. For over a week it had been raining cats and dogs without a moment's pause. The heavens had opened and seemed to have no intention of closing ever again. It was raining not only in Vigàta, but all over Italy. In the north the rivers were bursting their banks and doing incalculable damage, and in a few towns the inhabitants had to be evacuated. But it was no joke in the south, either. Rivers and streams that had been dry for years and given up for dead had come back to life with a vengeance and broken loose, ravaging homes and farmlands. The previous evening the inspector had heard a scientist on television say that all of Italy was in danger of suffering a gigantic geological disaster, because it had never had a government willing to undertake any serious maintenanc eof the land. In short, it was as if a homeowner had never taken the trouble to repair a leaky roof or some damaged foundations, and then was surprised and complained when his house collapsed one day on top of him. Maybe this is exactly what we deserve , Montalbano thought bitterly. He turned on the light and looked at his watch. Six-oh-five. Too early to get out of bed. He lay there with eyes closed, listening to the crashing of the sea. Whether calm or in a frenzy, the sound of it always gave him pleasure. Then it suddenly dawned on him that the rain had stopped. He got out of bed and opened the shutters. The thunderclap had been like the big boom that marks the end of a fireworks display. Indeed, there was no more water falling from the sky, and the clouds approaching from the east were light and fluffy and would soon chase away the black and heavy ones. He went back to bed, feeling relieved. It was not going to be a nasty day of the kind that always put him in a bad mood. Then he remembered the dream he'd been having when he was woken up. He was walking through a tunnel in complete darkness except for the oil lamp in his hand, which didn't give off much light. He knew that a man was following one step behind him, someone he knew but whose name he couldn't remember. Earlier the man had said: "I can't keep up with you; I'm losing too much blood from my wound." And he had replied: "We can't go any slower than this; the tunnel could collapse at any moment." A short while later, as the man's breathing became more labored, he'd heard a cry and the thud of a body falling to the ground. So he'd turned around and gone back. The man was lying on the ground facedown, with the handle of a large kitchen knife sticking out between his shoulder blades. He was immediately certain the man was dead. At that moment a strong gust blew out his oil lamp and immediately the tunnel collapsed with an earthquakelike rumble. The dream was clearly a hodgepodge resulting from an excess of purpiteddri a strascinasale and a news item he'd heard on television about a hundred or so miners who'd died in amine in China. But the man with the knife in his back, where'd hecome from? Montalbano searched his memory, then decided that it was of no importance. Ever so gently, he drifted back to sleep. Then the telephone rang. He looked at the clock. He'd slept for barely ten minutes. Bad sign, if they were calling him at that hour of the morning. He got up and answered the phone. "Hello?" "Birtì?" "I'm not--" "Everything's flooded, Birtì!" "Look, I--" "There was a hundred rounds of fresh cheese in the storeroom, Birtì! Now they're under six and a half feet of water!" "Listen--" "To say nothing of the warehouse, Birtì." "Jesus fucking Christ! Would you please listen to me for a second?" the inspector howled. "So you're not--" "No, I'm not Birtì! That's what I've been trying to tell you for the last half hour! You've got the wrong number!" "So, if you're not Birtino, then who is this?" "His twin brother!" He slammed down the receiver and went back to bed,c ursing the saints. An instant later the telephone started ringing again. He jumped out of bed, roaring like a lion, grabbed the receiver, and, yelling like a madman, said: "Fuck off , you, Birtino, and your hundred rounds of fresh cheese!" He hung up and unplugged the phone. He now felt so upset that the only solution was to take a nice long shower. As he was on his way to the bathroom, a strange little jingle could be heard coming from somewhere in the bedroom. And what could that be? Then he realized that it was the ringing of his cell phone, which he rarely used. He answered it. It was Fazio. "What is it?" he asked rudely. "Sorry, Chief, but I tried calling you on the land line,and some guy answered . . . I must have got the wrong number." So it was Fazio he'd told to fuck off. "You really must've, because I'd unplugged the phone," he lied in a confident, authoritative voice. "Of course. Well, the reason I'm disturbing you on your cell phone is there's been a murder." How could you go wrong? "Where?" "In the Pizzutello district." Never heard of it. "Where's that?" "It's too complicated to explain, Chief. I've just sent Gallo with a car for you. And I'm on my way to Pizzutello. Oh, and put on some boots. Apparently the place is kind of a bog." "Okay. See you in a bit." He turned off the cell phone, plugged the land line back in, and managed to make it to the bathroom when he heard the phone ring. If it was the same guy looking for Birtino, he would get the address and then go and shoot the lot of them. Including the fresh cheese. "Chief, wha', did I wake yiz?" Catarella asked apprehensively. "No, I've been awake for a bit. What is it?" "Chief, I wannit a tell yiz 'at Gallo's squawk car woun't start an' 'ere warn't no utter cars available inna lot o' cars for availability in so much as they was unavailable 'cuz they was unmovable." "What is that supposed to mean?" "'Ey're broke." "And so?" "An' so Fazio ordained me to come an' pick yiz up inmy car." Yikes. Catarella wasn't exactly an ace at the wheel. But there was no alternative. "But do you know where the murder victim is?" "Assolutely, Chief. An', jess to be sure, I'm bringin' along my talkin' naviquator." Excerpted from The Pyramid of Mud by Andrea Camilleri All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.