Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Sunday in Sorrento
Chapter 1 - A Lovely Sorrento Morning
Chapter 2 - Pandemonium by the Pool
Chapter 3 - Meeting the “Executive Garbage Man”
Chapter 4 - Bambinis in the Hall
Chapter 5 - A Conspiracy of Women
Chapter 6 - Scientists Incoming
Chapter 7 - A French Encounter
Chapter 8 - Sicilian Hospitality
Chapter 9 - Dinner Palermo Style
Chapter 10 - The Return of an Errant Husband
Monday in Amalfi - Slow Food, Fast Food
Chapter 11 - Apology with Paint
Chapter 12 - A Chat with Nunzia
Chapter 13 - Pre-Trip Detecting
Chapter 14 - Four for Amalfi
Chapter 15 - In a Shady Amalfi Piazza
Chapter 16 - Lobby Inquiries
Chapter 17 - Gracia Sindacco’s Revelations
Chapter 18 - Another Fine Dinner
Tuesday in Pompeii
Chapter 19 - Carabinieri—Absent but Revered
Chapter 20 - Expectant in Pompeii
Chapter 21 - The Two Faces of Constanza
Chapter 22 - A Green-Eyed Evening
Wednesday in Sorrento
Chapter 23 - Dog Days
Chapter 24 - The General from Rome
Chapter 25 - An International Confrontation
Chapter 26 - “She Was a Free Spirit”
Chapter 27 - Theories of the Crime
Chapter 28 - Another Good Deed
Chapter 29 - A French Invitation
Thursday in Sorrento
Chapter 30 - A Scream in the Night
Chapter 31 - The Morning After
Chapter 32 - Evidence in an Ashtray
Chapter 33 - What a Day!
Friday in Naples
Chapter 34 - The Assignment
Chapter 35 - Escape to Naples
Chapter 36 - Crime in the Streets
Chapter 37 - Another Ticket
Saturday
Chapter 38 - Finally Capri
Chapter 39 - The Price of a Mistake
Chapter 40 - On Handling a Large, Unconscious Man
Chapter 41 - Prisoner in Route—Driver in Distress
Chapter 42 - A Tale to Tell
Chapter 43 - In the Manager’s Office
Chapter 44 - A Postnatal Gathering
Epilogue
Recipe Index
Praise for the delectable Culinary Mysteries by Nancy Fairbanks . . .
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Berkley Prime Crime titles by Nancy Fairbanks
CRIME BRÛLÉE
TRUFFLED FEATHERS
DEATH À L’ORANGE
CHOCOLATE QUAKE
THE PERILS OF PAELLA
HOLY GUACAMOLE!
MOZZARELLA MOST MURDEROUS
BON BON VOYAGE
FRENCH FRIED
Anthologies
THREE-COURSE MURDER
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MOZZARELLA MOST MURDEROUS
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
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Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2005
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Acknowledgments
To my husband Bill, with whom I went on the Sorrento trip (we had a wonderful time); to my son and daughter-in-law Bill and Anne, who helped plan the trip and then weren’t able to join us because of urgent work commitments (they missed a great time, and we missed them); also to son Bill, who does my Web page (I’d never manage it on my own); to all those readers who e-mail me from the Web page (I love your e-mails, enjoy corresponding with you, and appreciate your comments); to my friend Becky Craver, a wonderful Italian cook herself and the owner of the standard poodle who inspired the creation of Charles de Gaulle (Becky’s dog is no longer as rambunctious and has never, that I know of, been guilty of falling in love with or harassing strange ladies); to my friend, fellow Sister-in-Crime, and reviewer Ma
ry Sarber, with whom I discuss my books and other mysteries and attend mystery conferences; to my agent Richard Curtis, who has supported my writing now for sixteen years; to my editor Cindy Hwang, amiable dinner companion, provider of contracts, support, and good advice, and her assistant Susan McCarty, who sends me things in the mail, e-mails me, and keeps me on schedule—to all of these people my thanks.
In writing this book, I am indebted for information to the following authors and their books: Time Out Group, Ltd., Time Out Naples, Capri, Sorrento and the Amalfi Coast; Alberto Capatti and Massimo Montanari, Italian Cuisine: A Cultural History; Giorgio Giubelli, The Sorrento Peninsula; Insight Guides, edited by Vincenzo delle Donne, Naples, Capri and the Coast; Arthur Schwartz, Naples at Table; Jacqueline Clark and Joanna Farrow, Mediterranean Kitchen; Claudia Piras and Eugenio Medagliani, Culinaria Italy; Alfonso de Franciscis, Pompeii Civilization and Art; and John Julius Norwich, The Normans in Sicily.
N.F.H.
Prologue
Although luxuriously housed on the ninth floor of the Grand Palazzo Sorrento, Paolina Marchetti had been unable to sleep, perhaps because of the failure of her carefully arranged assignation. That failure was certainly not the end of her assignment, but it was irritating. As irritating as the poor excuse for a meal she had shared with a chance American acquaintance after an afternoon spent exploring Sorrento, which Paolina had undertaken so as to be unavailable should Ruggiero call to make excuses for his absence.
He hadn’t called. Probably he was chasing after some new woman, which would inconvenience Paolina in that she would have to seduce him all over again. She didn’t doubt her ability to do so—even if Ruggiero had caught wind of her inconsequential tryst the night before she left Catania. Could Gracia Sindacco—that nosy, old witch—have found out and told their mutual employer?
“Basta,” she muttered and sprang from the comfortable bed. She would go for a swim, an activity strictly forbidden by the hotel at this hour. Why have such a series of lovely pools tumbling down the mountainside if they could not be used for midnight swims? Slipping out of the transparent silken nightgown that she had chosen to overwhelm the easily overwhelmed Ruggiero, Paolina donned a skimpy, sea green bikini. She pulled on the soft robe provided by the hotel and dropped a notebook that had lain beneath her pillow into the pocket. Then she grabbed a large pink towel from the bathroom, although it was forbidden to take both the room towels and the hotel robes to the pool area. Towels were rented to swimmers at the bar, which was, of course, now closed.
Most of the hotel patrons she had seen at dinner were middle-aged and stodgy, except for those who were limping and elderly, she mused, as she walked down the empty hall to the pool. That explained their being in bed before midnight and their willingness to eat what the Grand Palazzo Sorrento served for dinner. Hospital fare. It tasted like the food served to her father, the General, after Mafiosi in Palermo had attacked him. Having left her convent school and flown south to be with him, she had told Papa the food was undoubtedly a second attempt to kill him through deprivation rather than violence. Papa had been amused by her indignant opinion, but he had doubted it. Having been hospitalized before, he explained that hospital food was seldom meant to do anything but feed the body, certainly not the soul, as a good Italian meal should.
The night sky was a stunning blue, deep and dark above her, when Paolina nudged open the glass doors at the end of the hall and padded barefoot into the pool area. A light breeze brushed her cheeks, and the stars seemed close and bright. All her irritation disappeared under the gentle blandishment of night in Sorrento. Like a sinuous creature from the sea, she eased herself into the pool and swam. Ten minutes or so was enough to complete the rehabilitation of her mood. Lifting herself from the water, she trailed droplets to a cushioned lounge chair beside a small glass table, draped the forbidden pink towel around her shoulders, and stretched out. In such delicious and beautiful solitude, Ruggiero’s absence became something to enjoy. Too bad he would be here tomorrow. Of that she was sure. He wouldn’t miss his own meeting.
She removed the small leather journal from the pocket of the robe, extracted the pen from its holder on the cover, and flipped to a clean page.
A toast to the absent lover
Who disappears, unmourned,
While dark indigo skies . . .
No, she didn’t like the lines. They were trite. Uninspired. Ruggiero was not a man to stir her muse. And what of last night’s lover? Danger always spurred passion, and he had had that aura about him. Since she had no lover tonight, however, the evening would end nicely if she could at least sample a tasty snack and write a few perfect lines before returning to her room to sleep.
As if her thought had been another’s command, a visitor came through the door that Paolina had left ajar, a visitor carrying a tray with two glasses of bubbling wine and two plates. Without rising or offering a greeting, she studied the newcomer and the offering from beneath her eyelashes. Not a particularly welcome person, but as the plates and goblets were set down on the table and a chair pulled up across from her, Paolina could see, in the misty lights that shone on the pool, the rich red of tomato slices, the contrasting white of the fresh buffalo mozzarella, small green basil leaves, a pool of olive oil, and a sprinkle of pepper. She would have welcomed the devil bearing Caprese, so she tucked the journal into the pocket of her robe and waved her hand for the visitor to be seated.
The conversation was slow and of no consequence, but the mozzarella was moist and fresh, the tomatoes ripe and sweet, the basil adding a hint of anise flavor to the salad. Perfect. Except that a drizzle of balsamic vinegar had been added. No native of Capri would have approved of that. Still, she would not complain because she was enjoying both the salad and the contrast of the sweet-yet-tart fizz of Spumante from her goblet. Only when she began to feel surprisingly drowsy, too drowsy to follow the visitor’s words, did it dawn on Paolina that she had been drugged. Fool, she thought, as the possibility of poison drifted through her fading consciousness. She whispered a curse in the dialect of her native Umbria, but the words never rolled completely off the numbness of her tongue.
With silent patience her visitor waited for unconsciousness to overcome the beautiful young woman. Then the pink towel was pulled from her shoulders and dropped onto the pavement poolside, the robe left draped on a third chair, and Paolina’s chair rolled toward the water, where a wrought-iron rail warned swimmers away from the waterfall. The visitor studied the barrier, then hoisted the body onto the rail and maneuvered it over, head down. Once the fingers grasping Paolina’s ankles released, she plunged in a clumsy dive over the side, her head glancing off the edge of the pool below at the shallow end before she sank into the water. A dark stain trailed her to the bottom, where she floated, unconscious, in a limp sprawl, the white of her buttocks glimmering through the water.
With a nod, the visitor rolled the chair back to its place, retrieved the notebook from the pocket of her robe, having already searched her room for it in her absence, placed the goblets and plates on the tray, and departed. Below, the unconscious Paolina breathed in water and drowned.
Sunday in Sorrento
To my mind, Caprese is one of the delights of visiting Italy, and I thought of it often during the long flight to Rome. It is a simple dish to fix and can be made at home in the United States, but it will never be the same as eating it in Italy, say, at an outdoor café in a piazza with a beautiful cathedral or basilica looming up in front of you.
Then there are the ingredients: the tomatoes, which are so delicious, fresh that morning from a vine in the countryside, and the mozzarella, also fresh and made from buffalo milk. You can buy little plastic-wrapped blobs of “fresh” mozzarella in the States, but they’re made from cow’s milk and are much less rich and of a somewhat rubbery consistency. Our buffalo are the wrong kind. Imagine trying to milk an American buffalo. You’d be trampled in one of the stampedes so popular in old western films. In Italy the source of mozzarella is the water b
uffalo, originally from Asia, and its milk has over twice the fat content. Go to Italy! Eat the real thing!
Insalata Caprese
• Slice 4 ripe tomatoes (large tomatoes such as beef-steaks) and 9 ounces of fresh buffalo-milk mozzarella. Overlap the slices alternately on the plate.
• Decorate the slices with fresh basil leaves or chopped basil or oregano.
• Grate fresh pepper over the salad or serve the pepper separately. (Salt if desired, but lightly.)
• Drizzle liberally with a good, extra virgin olive oil.
• Serve with balsamic vinegar for those who like it on caprese—I do, but residents of Capri and the Campania would be horrified—and with chunks of Italian bread.
• For lunch, as a snack, as a first course—it’s wonderful.
Carolyn Blue,
“Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Albuquerque Sun-Times
1
A Lovely Sorrento Morning
Carolyn
On my second morning in Sorrento I awoke feeling much better than I had on the first. And why not? I had a lovely room with a balcony that overlooked the Bay of Naples and even, on the right, the volcano. I knew that breakfast would be delicious, unlike the dinners the hotel had provided last night and the night before. I was truly amazed that such a beautiful—not to mention expensive—hotel could have provided two such mundane entrees.
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