Mozzarella Most Murderous

by Nancy Fairbanks

  He loved it; his fans loved it; Americans loved it; and it is simple to fix. It’s said that Caruso was more interested in his fame as a pasta cook than his renown as a tenor.

  Carolyn Blue,

  “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Trenton Sentinel

  23

  Dog Days

  Carolyn

  Nine o’clock! If Hank really planned to take us to Capri this morning, I was late. In fact, if I didn’t hurry, I wouldn’t get any breakfast. Brushing my teeth, applying a bit of makeup, and throwing on some clothes took me only ten minutes. I am a woman who can be ready to leave in record time when necessary. I checked my purse for the room card and other necessities, dashed out the door, and slipped in a puddle. At the end of the hall I could see Albertine Guillot disappearing into the elevator dragging her wretched dog on a short leash. I turned my head to see yellow liquid dripping down my door, and I was sitting in the puddle that had formed on the tile of the hall. This was unbelievably disgusting. That woman had let her dog urinate on my door.

  Gingerly I pushed myself up, desperate to keep my hands out of the mess. Then I called housekeeping to report the antisocial actions of my French nemesis and demand an immediate cleanup. Finally, I locked the bathroom door, undressed, put my clothes into the sink to soak, and took a long shower. A very long shower! By the time I had finished and redressed in clean clothes, housekeeping had removed the evidence of Charles de Gaulle’s bad behavior and left me a note of apology, which was all very well, but they didn’t say anything about punishing the culprits. Well, we’ll just see about that! I thought, and stalked to the elevator.

  And what did I see as I approached the desk to complain in person? Madame Guillot and her dog. If a dog of mine had done such a thing, I’d have gone into hiding. She was at the desk complaining at length to some poor girl about the quality of a cheese she had ordered from room service. “It is not fit to eat with a good wine,” she said. “I have a relaxing afternoon planned, reading on my balcony, sipping white burgundy, and what do you send me?” The girl looked completely befuddled. “A bland, rubbery cheese that no sane person would eat,” said Albertine.

  “Maybe the Signora should be—ah—call to her travel agent,” suggested the young woman, who obviously hadn’t understood a word and looked on the edge of tears.

  Jill intervened at this point to ask if “Madame” planned to drink a fine wine not provided by the hotel.

  “Your hotel does not stock fine wines,” said Albertine haughtily.

  “Our hotel does not allow food and drink to be brought here from outside,” said Jill.

  “How like the Swiss,” retorted Albertine. “They can’t make decent wines themselves, and they won’t buy decent wines for their hotels. No French hotel would—”

  “This hotel is owned by French-speaking Swiss from Geneva, Madame.” Jill looked very prim and reproving as she spoke. “And we have received a very serious complaint about your dog,” she added.

  I stepped up at that point and said, “A complaint from me. Charles de Gaulle urinated on my door, Madame Guillot, and I slipped in it. It’s a wonder I wasn’t seriously injured. My clothing had to be changed and will have to be washed, and I am missing breakfast.”

  “The hotel will see to your clothing, Mrs. Blue,” said Jill sweetly. “Just put it out for the maid in a laundry or dry cleaning bag. “I am sure Madame Guillot will wish to pay for any damage her dog has caused. Shall I call a doctor to be sure that—”

  “Why are you assuming that my dog is responsible for—”

  “Because I saw you dragging the dog into the elevator,” I snapped. “And there were no other dogs in sight, unless you think a guest—”

  “And because Charles de Gaulle’s behavior had been dreadful all week,” said Bianca, who had come up to the desk in time to catch the last of the argument. “Look at Carolyn’s face. The dog did that.”

  “If she would just use the proper makeup, which I provided—”

  “And then he licked her ankles at dinner the day before yesterday, which was really disgusting, and drooled on her yesterday in the limousine,” Bianca continued with enthusiasm. “If I had a dog who behaved so badly, I’d have him put down.”

  “Charles de Gaulle is a model of propriety compared to your children, Signora Massoni. You let them run wild in the halls and ride the elevators up and down so other guests cannot get to their rooms.”

  Good heavens, I wondered, is she suggesting that Bianca’s children should be put down?

  “You are a very nasty person,” said Bianca. “My children are delightful. Only a horrible Frenchwoman—”

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Albertine. “I do not have to listen to insults against myself and my country.” She yanked on the dog’s leash—he had been edging toward me as we argued—and left in a huff.

  “I’m going to ask Jason to take this up with your husband,” I called after her. Then to Bianca and Jill, I said, “I don’t think Professor Guillot likes that dog any better than I do, although he keeps excusing it by saying the dog has fallen in love with me, which is no excuse at all.”

  Bianca started to laugh. “Then he was marking his territory when he peed on your door—the dog, not Professor Guillot.”

  “I’ve missed breakfast,” I said dolefully, thinking of the fluffy eggs, the delightful toast, the fruit and, best of all, the cake. I wondered how Jason would feel about cake for breakfast at home. Of course, he got up so early—

  “I will see that breakfast is brought to your room,” Jill offered. “What would you like?”

  I made some suggestions. Bianca said to send something along for her. She was hungry already and had some things to tell me. Of course, I reminded her about the trip to Capri, but Bianca said, “That’s all off. We’re grounded. Isn’t that the English phrase?”

  24

  The General from Rome

  Bianca

  Before we could take ourselves off to Carolyn’s room and breakfast, a very satisfying thing occurred. I had dialed 112 as soon as I finished talking to Gracia the night before and demanded to know why local representatives of the Carabinieri hadn’t returned to continue investigating the murder at the Grand Palazzo Sorrento. I told the sergeant to whom my call was transferred how disappointed I was to find that my heroes had not answered my plea for help, beyond having breakfast with some lieutenant of the Polizia de Stato in the hotel buffet.

  “Are these the men who follow in the footsteps of the beloved Carabinieri martyr, Brigadier Salvo D’ Acquisto, who gave up his own life in front of a Nazi firing squad so that innocent citizens of Rome would not be killed for the death of a German soldier?” I asked. “Are these the followers of Carabinieri who died with honor and courage on the battlefields of our country?” I demanded, even more theatrically.

  The sergeant, almost in tears over the heroic history of his compatriots, assured me that he would find out what had happened and get back to me. Perhaps, he suggested, they had been called out because of terrorists threatening the peace and safety of our beautiful Italia. These were dangerous times. And so forth.

  He’d done better than return my call. They were here—a tall, handsome captain and a pretty, plump lieutenant. What a nice uniform she wore. Very well cut. We Italians do love a fine uniform, and now that we have women in our military, even more attention to fashion design is necessary.

  The captain marched up to the desk and said to Jill in Italian, “I am Captain Giorgio Pagano of the Carabinieri, Campania unit. It has come to my attention that General Luca Bianconi and his aides are here in the hotel. The lieutenant and I have come to offer our assistance in their investigations.”

  “General Bianconi is questioning suspects, Captain,” said Jill. “I was told not to bother him.”

  “Then you will send a message to the general that we are here. We will await his answer in the breakfast room.”

  Ah ha! I thought. He’s not here because I called. He just wants to butter up a g
eneral from Rome and have another free breakfast. Wouldn’t you know? Even the Carabinieri are losing their reputation for stern attention to business. Soon there’ll be nothing to say for them but that they have pretty uniforms.

  I went to drag Carolyn out of the gift shop, where she was choosing postcards. Once she’d paid for them, we went upstairs to her room. Without Gracia’s magic fruit drink, my ankles had swollen up again, and my feet were lapping out of my sandals. Sitting on Carolyn’s balcony with my puffy feet propped up on her little glass table was heaven, not to mention the cup of coffee and the piece of chocolate cake on a plate that was carefully balanced on my immense stomach. Now if the baby would just stay asleep and not kick the plate off, maybe I could get though the weird story I had to tell Carolyn.

  She didn’t seem in any hurry to hear it because she was forking up scrambled eggs and munching on toast, which she extolled between bites for its wonderful fennel taste. That didn’t sound so wonderful to me, but she was American, so what did I know? I’d been surprised when she wouldn’t let me have both pieces of cake. Naturally, I’d assumed that she’d think eating cake in the morning was horrendously decadent. Maybe she wasn’t such a Puritan after all, just a lesbian, and I hadn’t seen any sign of that lately.

  “So why are we grounded?” she asked, having finished the eggs and toast, the fruit and coffee, and reached for the cake.

  I hated to see it disappear. I really wanted a second piece. “Some general from Rome showed up this morning. None of us are allowed to leave the hotel.”

  “Us who?” she asked, licking the chocolate off her fork like a child with a cookie bowl.

  “Us people connected with the Ricci conference. There’s a guard at every entrance to keep us in, in case we get any ideas about running.”

  Carolyn pushed back a strand of hair that had been blown loose in the wind, which was picking up. Every day around lunchtime, the wind began to blow, and the clouds formed. Well, this wasn’t the high season. If we were going to have another storm, today was a good day since we couldn’t go anywhere anyway. “And don’t ask me what it’s all about,” I added. “He may be a general, but they say he’s not wearing a uniform. Nunzia said he’s probably the head of a government spy group or a Mafia-chasing, undercover federal outfit. She’s got some paranoid ideas for a woman from the country. Oh, and the Carabinieri showed up again while you were buying postcards. They wanted to see this general.”

  Carolyn sipped her coffee thoughtfully and pushed back another straying lock of that loosely tied-back hair. I wondered how old she was. No sign of white in the blonde.

  Carolyn grinned at me. “Maybe they all heard about Eliza and her insistence that the Mafia is everywhere.”

  “Then they should talk to her. I wanted to go to Capri,” I said. “Don’t you think the English are weird?”

  “Better than the French,” she replied. “Of course, Gracia did say that Ricci’s family was Mafia. Even Constanza said they used to be. Maybe these federal agents are investigating the Riccis.”

  The telephone rang in the room, and Carolyn went in to answer it, taking her cake with her. I followed because I was tired of getting slapped by the wind, which was about to blow my empty plate off my stomach. Of course, it took me a while to get out of the chair, so I missed the conversation, but Carolyn passed it on.

  “That was Jill at the desk. She just saw the general, and she said he’s the man who met Paolina here last summer, same name he used then, Bianconi, Luca Bianconi. She looked it up. Paolina was registered as Lucia Bianconi. Since we know that isn’t her name—” She stopped and thought the latest news through. “I know what’s going on,” she exclaimed. “They were lovers, and then he found out about her affair with Ruggiero, so he made arrangements to meet her here—he must be the lover she thought stood her up—but he didn’t; he came here and killed her.”

  “So what is he doing here now?” I asked. It didn’t make sense to me that he’d return to the scene of the crime. “You know, maybe you should put that laundry bag out in the hall. I can smell it.”

  Carolyn turned her head to stare at the plastic bag that held her clothes. “If that dog harasses me one more time, just one more time, I’m going to kick him, and then I’m going to kick Albertine—” She stopped and shook her head. “He—the general—obviously thought the police would take her death for suicide. Now that they’re looking into it—”

  “You’re looking into it. I haven’t noticed Lieutenant Buglione doing anything but flirting with Jill and sidestepping the bigwigs. As for the Carabinieri, they only seem to come for breakfast.”

  “Now that questions are being asked,” Carolyn continued, ignoring my opinion of both the military and state police, “he’s returned to cut off the investigation.” She picked up the bag and, holding it at arm’s length, opened her door and dumped it out in the hall. “There’s a strange man standing at the elevator,” she whispered as she came back in. “Maybe he’s there to see that we don’t go downstairs. Well, I need to get hold of Lieutenant Buglione and no Federale from Rome is going to stop me.”

  Federale? What was that?

  Carolyn called the desk and told Jill that it was “imperative” that Buglione call her room right away. The lieutenant must have been hanging around Jill again because it wasn’t more than half a minute before Carolyn was telling him that the general was the person who had killed Paolina and was now using his position to cover up his crime. Evidently Buglione didn’t think much of that idea because Carolyn listened and then said, “Of course it’s still your case, and you’ll be a hero when you prove that he was the murderer.” More listening.

  “But Lieutenant, I know how to prove it. We just need to get into his room. If the red book is there, he’s the murderer.” She listened again. In fact, I could hear him myself. He was saying they’d end up in jail if they tried to break into the room of a general from Rome. Finally, disgusted with the Carabinieri and with the state police—and I could have told her how much help they’d be—she asked to speak to Jill. She wanted the general’s room number, and from the smug expression on her face, she got it.

  “Now we’ve got to find Nunzia,” she announced. “Maids usually have a master key.”

  “Come on, Carolyn,” I protested. “You want to get a nice woman like Nunzia into trouble? And what is this we? I’m on the verge of giving birth. I can’t be searching the room of some wild-eyed, high-ranking murderer from Rome.”

  “I’ll search the room,” she promised. “You can stand out in the hall to see that nobody catches me at it.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said firmly.

  “I’ll give you the rest of my cake,” she offered.

  I shook my head.

  “I saw you eyeing it, Bianca. Wouldn’t you like some more?” She held up the plate. “See, there’s more than half left. All you have to do is cough and walk away if you see someone coming.”

  25

  An International Confrontation

  Carolyn

  Bianca didn’t ask Nunzia for the master room card, as I’d suggested. Instead she introduced us, and as I was shaking hands with Nunzia, who had been standing in the open door of a room she was about to clean, Bianca picked up the card from the cleaning cart and slipped it into the pocket of her maternity blouse. Then she gave Nunzia a hug and hustled me off. “It takes her fifteen or twenty minutes to do a room,” said Bianca. “That’s how much time you’ve got to search the general’s room before I have to get the key back to the cart.”

  The general had a suite on the tenth floor, which I entered while Bianca stood outside eating my chocolate cake. His bed hadn’t even been made up yet. What if the maid for Ten and Eleven showed up with her cart? I considered my options and decided that I’d pretend to be dressing, buttoning the last button or something. She’d think I was the general’s mistress and pay me no mind. Thank goodness the Italians are so amorous, I thought. Given Sorrento’s reputation for sensuous liaisons, no maid would doubt tha
t the general had been entertaining a lover. After all, he’d done it before.

  This region was the home of the famous sirens of mythology, fish or bird women—the stories don’t agree—whose irresistible songs lured sailors to their deaths on the rocks of islands. When the canny Ulysses plugged his sailors’ ears with wax and had himself tied to his mast, the siren Parthenope was so crushed by her failure to add him to her list of trophies that she threw herself into the sea and washed ashore at Naples. If the maid caught me, she would think of me as a siren luring the general into sexual disaster with my siren song. The only problem with that scenario was my singing voice, which was unlikely to befuddle anyone. These were my thoughts as I scanned all the surfaces for the red leather notebook. It wasn’t in sight.

  Then I quickly pulled out drawers, but they had nothing but hotel literature and rules in them. He hadn’t unpacked. Over on the luggage stand I spotted a heavy leather suitcase. Goodness, I thought. Nobody carries those anymore. They’re too heavy. But the general did, and his was locked. How was I going to get it open?

  Coughing. Good heavens, Bianca was coughing. I darted over to see if the maid was coming, but what I saw was my friend disappearing down the hall with an exaggerated pregnant waddle, cake plate in hand, while two men strode toward this door from the elevator. I ducked back, afraid they had seen me. Quickly closing the door and locking it, I looked around desperately for an escape route. Maybe they weren’t coming here. I headed for the balcony and was in the act of trying to climb over the railing into the side cactus garden when they hauled me back. They certainly didn’t look very friendly. Why hadn’t I thought to put on the security chain? And how did they get past the locked door?