Marshal Guarnaccia is a pleasantly complex Sicilian working in Florence as an investigator. He's a father and husband who feels like an outsider in Florence. He's a man aware of his own childhood issues even as he helplessly watches his sons grow into men, men who were once children he remembers deeply loving and fiercely protecting. He's also an overweight man, but he doesn't feel at all that he ought to be called fat. His wife is his backbone and she feeds him well.
The novel opens with the false and showy line "...even if he'd known what was going to happen, the marshal would have found it impossible to believe at that moment," but it takes almost 30 pages before what was "going to happen" does happen, and the marshal never once finds what happens impossible. The opening line is a suspiciously empty hook, serving only to pull the reader into marshal's discovery of a faceless dead woman's body.
The first thirty to forty pages are also full of distracting, mostly irrelevant and humorous detours where Marshal walks along a path that allows him to greet the shopkeepers, restaurant owners, and squabbling amorists in the neighborhood such that the reader feels too much like a tourist in a travel brochure being invited to witness the local color, that is, the ordinary people -- and to smell the garlic as well. A native writer of Florence or any other city in Italy would not have written such touristic and bromidic passages at the start of a novel set in Italy. Such a writer would have been more suggestive or even more cryptic -- and more endearing for being such. This reader felt that the author was overconfident that her readers would find these diverting passages entertaining or amusing. Coupled with a very false opening hook, these passages were challengingly irritating.
By the middle of the novel, all the Italianate distractions disappear and the real work of detection begins. This section is focused, direct, and a solid integrated piece of clue-gathering, research, and interviews. The pace, however, is casual, meandering and slow such that it is easily put-down-able.
When the true criminal is discovered, it is something of an anti-climax. No dramatic prelude is developed before it happens and at the peak of disclosure, the reader learns that the culprit feels fairly confident he will escape punishment in the end, which, as it happens, turns out to be actually the case.
The squabbling amorists we are introduced to at the beginning of the novel finally do resolve their disputes at the end and Marshal and his family live warmly, cozily, and tightly ever after.
Any comparisons here to George Simenon's novels are strictly imaginary.