Mozzarella Most Murderous (13 page)

I had planned to go straight to my room for a nap. Maybe I’d sleep right through dinner. However, we walked in to a squabble in front of the desk, where Valentino Santoro was protesting to Lieutenant Buglione that he would never have killed Paolina, that he had loved her. If Bianca hadn’t been there to translate, I wouldn’t have known what was going on. The lieutenant demanded to know where Santoro had been the night of Signorina Marchetti’s death. The chemist said that he was in his lab until after midnight working on a problem that had to do with toxic volcano gases. An incredulous Lieutenant Buglione stared and threw up his hands, announcing that he doubted Santoro, given his professional interests, was a romantic enough man to have killed for love or to have inspired such love in a pretty young woman that she would commit suicide over him.

What an astonishing piece of reasoning, if it could be called that. A man could be neither romantic nor violent just because he harbored a scientific interest in toxic substances? Perhaps I should write a letter to the
Journal of the American Chemical Society
to let chemists know that the Italian police considered them wimpy and boring. They could commit crimes at will in Italy and expect to be overlooked as suspects. I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from giggling, a sign that I really did need a nap. And where were Captain Pagano and Lieutenant Vacci of the Carabinieri?

Again the nap was forestalled, this time by the arrival of Constanza Ricci-Tassone, who told the lieutenant in no uncertain terms that Paolina’s death had been either a suicide or an unfortunate accident, that he was to stop harassing Dottore Santoro, a valued employee of her husband’s company, and that Paolina’s body was to be sent home immediately to—“Perugia, is it not, Ruggiero?” Her husband had followed her into the room, so evidently the conference had broken up for the day. “Perugia has marvelous truffles, Lieutenant. If you have not been to Umbria to try them, perhaps you should accompany the body.” Lieutenant Buglione looked understandably confused and hastened away to confer with Sergeant Gambardella.

I, meanwhile, was staring at Signor Ricci. He did look
exactly
like Saint Giuseppe Moscati, just as—What was her name?—Nunzia, the maid, had said. The handsome, square face, the hairline that ran straight across his forehead, the neat, dark mustache.

“Is my necktie crooked, Signora Blue?” Ricci asked, smiling.

“You look so much like Saint Giuseppe Moscati,” I replied. “I saw his picture in a church here in Sorrento. It’s an amazing resemblance. And he was a scientist and a medical doctor, a professor in Naples.”

“I am most complimented, Signora, to be compared to a scientific saint.” He smiled at me. His wife smiled at me. Then he leaned over and kissed my cheek. “
Molte grazie
, sweet lady,” he murmured in my ear.

His wife stopped smiling and said, “The Holy Father has made hundreds of saints, more than all the other popes together, and you, Ruggiero, are not one of them.” Then she turned to those of us who had made the trip to Amalfi and told us that we would be escorted by limousine to Pompeii the next day. “Please be here in the lobby at ten,” she ordered, and walked away.

“After driving for a day in Italy, a limousine sounds good,” said Hank. “Italian drivers and roads make you appreciate a nice interstate highway. Even the Pulaski Sky-way looks good after the Amalfi Coast road.”

I had to agree. “In Texas we don’t have that many cars on our interstates. I wonder how the lieutenant found out about Valentino’s connection to Paolina.”

“Maids,” said Hank. “They know everything and tell everything. Try not to smoke any pot in your room. You’d be caught for sure.”

I must say that I found that remark rather offensive. “I have never smoked pot,” I said.

“Never?” He laughed. “Even if you didn’t inhale?”

I noticed that Lieutenant Buglione was about to leave, so I scurried over to intercept him, leaving Hank to make tasteless jokes with someone else if he was so inclined. “Lieutenant, a moment of your time,” I called.

He turned and bowed over my hand.

“Are the Carabinieri going to help with the investigation?”

He threw up his hands. “I do not know. We talked much. Then they left. And I remain.”

Then my question would have to be asked of him, which was just as well since he had been involved from the beginning. “Tell me, was a red leather notebook found in Paolina’s room?”

He assured me that no such thing had been found there or in the pool area.

“Then I don’t think you need to consider accident or suicide as the cause of her death. If either of those had been the case, the notebook would have been in her room. The murderer must have taken it. Find the book, and you’ll know who killed her.”

“An interesting theory, Signora,” said the lieutenant, nodding and stroking his chin as he gave it his attention. “However, is possible a maid steals the book when she cleans the room.”

“Why would a maid steal a book of handwritten poetry?” I asked. “And didn’t your men search Paolina’s room before the maids were allowed in to clean it?”

“
Si
. We look in her room first, but maybe the maid go in before we get there, take the book, and leave.”

“That sounds unlikely to me,” I retorted.

“Maybe we search the swimming pools for the book. She could drop when she fall in.”

“I doubt that people carry notebooks into a pool with them.” If it were left up to Lieutenant Buglione, this case would never be solved. He was more interested in pleasing the Riccis. “And now I want to introduce you to Jill McLain, an employee of the hotel who has seen Paolina here in the past with an older man, perhaps the murderer.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” suggested the lieutenant.

I pointed to Jill behind the desk. “Such a pretty girl,” I murmured.

“But maybe I can spare the moment to hear her,” said the lieutenant, who evidently thought her very pretty, too, if his dawning smile was any indication.

I left them smiling and talking. There were certainly more questions that I needed to ask, but they would have to wait until after I’d had a little nap. Then it occurred to me that I needed to write a column. After all, I did want my expenses to be tax deductible. I’d write about lemons.

 

I fell onto
the bed without even checking to see where Violetta and the children were. The one yet to be born occupied my thoughts, and that birth couldn’t be soon enough for me. He was kicking again, all the way up the elevator. People noticed and stared. Picking Lorenzo’s nice, fat pillow from its place beside mine, I tossed it to the end of the bed and hauled my swollen feet and ankles up, me who had been known for my pretty legs, for the most slender and shapely ankles in Rome. I groaned at the luxury of resting my back, which ached from the weight of the baby, and at the pleasure of raising my feet and ankles so that the throbbing eased. If Signor Girol had been able to see my ankles, he wouldn’t have been such a flirt.

I had left Carolyn in the lobby lecturing poor Lieutenant Buglione on his sloppy investigation and knocking down his ill-conceived reasoning. Sighing, I thought of something that I myself should do for the late Paolina, poor girl. She must have had a lot of fun while she lived. Gracia Sindacco, the office manager to Ruggiero, should be here and on the job by now. If anyone knew the gossip about his secretary, it would be she. I’d heard that she had six sons, all of them grown now, but still there would be the bond of motherhood between us, as well as the bond of being Italians, although Sicilians—were they true Italians? Well, I would see. And so I lazed on the bed for a few more minutes and then rolled to my feet to search out Gracia Sindacco. She proved to be the very stereotype of a witch, just as Ruggiero had said, although he may have been referring to her personality as well as her looks.

Her skin was dark and lined, her nose long, her hair gray and pulled into a tight knob at her neck. Add to these characteristics a stringy body draped in black, baggy clothes—ah well. I prided myself on being able to charm anyone. “Signora,” I called as I limped into the office beside the conference room at the end of the hall. “You must be Gracia Sindacco. I am Bianca Massoni, wife of Lorenzo. I have heard that you have six sons. What a fine thing! Your husband must have been delighted with his good fortune to have such a wife in his house.”

She had been looking me over. “Have you come, Signora Massoni, to ask me to deliver your child? Big as you are, I do not think the time is now. Your baby has not dropped.”

Not an easy woman to charm. I laughed and asked permission to sit, which was granted. “I do know that, Signora Sindacco, although you are the only one to say my time is not yet. The foreigners are sure I am about to give birth before their eyes. So I do not need a midwife today, but advice from a mother of six—that would be welcome. Both my husband and I are only children, and the baby—” I patted my stomach, “will be only my third.” And so I did manage to charm Gracia, who sat down and insisted on pouring me a glass of some strange, cool drink—from a fruit of unknown origin.

I wouldn’t have minded the juice of the blood orange, for which Sicily is famous, but this was not it. Still, what she provided went down well, and we mothers of Italy were soon chatting away about husbands and children. It didn’t take me long to work the conversation around to the unfortunate death of Paolina Marchetti, whose mother, I surmised, would be grief-stricken at the loss.

Gracia shrugged. “If that one was my daughter, I would not grieve too long,” she said grimly.

“Really?” I must have looked as interested as I felt. “I did hear that she came here to meet a lover who called off the assignation. It’s thought she committed suicide from grief.”

Gracia snorted and leaned forward to pour herself more of the mystery drink. It had certainly perked me up. “Have another glass,” she urged. “It will help with that swelling in your ankles.”

I slid my glass forward for a refill. How nice it would be to attend the dinner tonight with normal ankles and feet that did not lap over my shoes.

“She would not commit suicide over a man. She’d just find another. She was sleeping with Signor Ricci, but I know that she took home someone else the night before she left for Sorrento, and the one who failed to meet her here must have been a third. They were alike, those two—Ruggiero and his young secretary—sleeping with anyone who was willing and some who weren’t, but I doubt he, Ruggiero, knew she was as unfaithful to him as he was to Constanza.”