Mozzarella Most Murderous (24 page)

Poof! Someone was knocking on the door. Probably Giulia thought she needed to use the toilet. It was time that she stopped that, so I just closed my ears and thought about Constanza, who had seemed genuinely miserable about her husband’s death.
What would I do if anything happened to Lorenzo? I’d just die. He’s such a sweetheart.

More knocking. I wasn’t sure I could get out of the tub if I wanted to. Lorenzo would have to come in and drag me out. But I’d locked the door. “Go away!” I shouted. “I’m resting.”

“
Cara mia
,” shouted my husband, “you’re not stuck in the tub again, are you?” He rattled the doorknob.

Of course, he was right. I’d done this last month, an embarrassment I’d managed to forget. “Of course not,” I shouted.

“Mama, I need to pee pee,” called my daughter.

Sighing, I tried to get out, and of course I couldn’t. And I’d locked the door. Lorenzo would be so peeved with me, but I had to tell him what had happened, although I waited ten more minutes because it felt so good to lie in the warm water. In fact, I ran more in and ignored the pleas and grumbles from outside. Then I admitted my predicament, and a man from the hotel staff had to be called to take the door off the hinges. Of course the children tumbled right in and cried things like, “Mamma’s naked!” and “Look how big her tummy is!” until Lorenzo shooed them and the workman out and extracted me from my comforting soak. That’s when I heard that Constanza had invited us to lunch and I had only twenty minutes to dress. The children shrieked about being left behind, and we had to get permission for Violetta to stay with them in our room, and Giulia had wet her panties, poor thing. I felt embarrassed for that, among my other sins, and changed her clothes myself.

What a relief to get out of there, and to have a tasty meal for a change. I could have hugged Constanza, who still seemed pretty broken up, although not as much as she had been in the middle of the night. She ended the speculation about the fate of the conference by saying it would continue, but on this floor in this room. Then we were all taken aback because a messenger from General Bianconi called Carolyn out during the salad. My goodness, was he going to arrest her? Maybe I shouldn’t have asked him if Paolina was gay. I didn’t know she was his daughter.

We were almost through the main course when Carolyn returned, saying the general had had more questions for her. She didn’t seem upset, so maybe my rather outlandish idea that
she
had killed Ruggiero because
he
had killed Paolina had been completely wrong. Carolyn got only a few bites of the fish before dessert was served. Good thing she’d taken her salad with her.

We were enjoying our peaches when the general walked into the room behind a waiter bearing espresso. He apologized for interrupting our meal and waved his two aides in, the short one and the tall one. They walked right over to Constanza and told her they were arresting her for the murder of her husband.

She exclaimed, looking flabbergasted, as the Americans say, “I didn’t kill my husband. He died of a heart attack.”

“Yes, he did, Signora,” said the general, “but that heart attack was induced by a shot of insulin.” Constanza turned pale, and I remembered that Carolyn had said she was diabetic. “Insulin from a syringe you tried to dispose of in the sand of a cigarette tray outside your new room.”

Constanza turned to Carolyn and cried, “You! I thought you were my friend. I gave you my company and my conversation. And you betrayed me.”

The general nodded, taking that as a confession. Carolyn had turned pale, then pink, while the rest of us looked from one woman to the other.

“And for nothing you betray me. I did not kill Ruggiero,” Constanza continued indignantly. “I found the syringe beside his bed when I heard him cry out. Of course, I knew he was in there with a woman. The hall door was closing when I entered. I realized immediately that the syringe contained one of those—those drugs that enhance performance. Sexual performance.” She herself was more flushed than Carolyn. “How could I let people know that he had died in such an undignified manner? I couldn’t, so of course I picked up the syringe and disposed of it as soon as I had the chance. I had to think of my children.”

“A very interesting story, Signora, except that the syringe contained insulin, which does nothing for a man’s sexual prowess but can kill a man who does not have diabetes. Loppi. Marsocca.” He nodded to his aides, and they walked Constanza toward the door. The female Carabinieri, Flavia, was taking all this in, wide-eyed, but the general left without even speaking to her, so she went back to her dessert. Nothing seemed to affect her appetite.

“Carolyn, for Pete’s sake—” Jason began.

“Just
don’t
, Jason,” she retorted, on the verge of tears. “Has it occurred to you that she might have done the same thing to Paolina and for the same reason? Jealousy! She’s strong enough to have pushed Paolina over the waterfall. General,” she called after the departing federal agents, “you should have Paolina’s body examined for a syringe mark and for insulin.”

“That occurred to me as well,” said the general, and closed the door.

Gracia, who had been seated with us and had tried to follow Constanza out, turned and glared at Carolyn. “That Paolina was a slut. She slept with an American the night before she left Catania. Ruggiero probably found out and followed her to Sorrento to kill her because she was his lover.”

“No, he didn’t,” cried Valentino. “He broke his date with Paolina to visit an old mistress in Catania. I had to call him on his cell phone because of a problem at the plant. He was there, with Maria Falingerno. She answered my call. The man couldn’t even be faithful to poor Paolina.”

“Whatever Ricci and his young slut were doing that night, my mistress killed no one,” snapped Gracia. “She was a good wife to her no-good husband, and she was in Milan visiting designer shops and friends on Saturday and Sunday. She couldn’t have killed Paolina, and she wouldn’t have killed Ruggiero.
I’d
have been happy to kill him, but it would have broken her heart, so I didn’t, but I’m glad he’s dead. God will dole out what Ruggiero Ricci deserves: either hell or a long, painful time in purgatory.”

Everyone was gaping, including me, and of course Flavia, who was jotting down notes, but not Albertine, who said calmly, “Signora Ricci-Tassone
was
in Milan on Saturday. I saw her coming out of Versace. I must say, I was rather surprised to find her shopping there. The clothing is much too gaudy and daring for a woman of her age and lineage. Of course, she might have been buying for her daughter, but I wouldn’t want a daughter of mine wearing—”

“I imagine the Mafia killed both of them,” said Eliza Stackpole. “Constanza even admitted that her father-in-law had been in the Mafia, or his father. One or the other. I can’t imagine why you’d think Constanza killed her own husband, Carolyn.”

Flavia jotted down more notes. Everyone else turned and stared accusingly at Carolyn, who had been continuing to eat her peach. She looked up and said bitterly, “I think you should all tell the general about your theories. I didn’t tell him that Constanza killed Ruggiero. I just mentioned that she’d pushed something into an ashtray in the hall, and later, when he asked, I mentioned that she was diabetic.”

“I don’t see what business it was of yours, Madame Blue,” said Albertine haughtily.

“Well, I think we’re all finished with dessert and coffee,” I said. “I’m going back to my room for a nice nap.” Of course, Lorenzo immediately asked if I was having contractions, and I replied, “No, just a great desire to make up for the sleep I lost last night.”

After that, the whole group trailed out into the hall, nobody saying anything until Jason reached his door and cursed rather colorfully. Of course we all reassembled and watched him standing on one foot, staring at the bottom of his shoe. I could tell by the odor what had happened and said, “Charles de Gaulle strikes again.”

“Mon dieu!” exclaimed Adrien Guillot. “I do apologize, Jason. How in the world did he get out?”

“Maybe you should have a talk with him,” said Jason as he used the handkerchief the Frenchie had given him to wipe off the shoe.

Carolyn sent a really mean look toward Albertine, stepped gingerly over what was left on the floor, stalked into her room, and slammed the door.

“I’ll do better than that, my friend,” said Guillot. “I’ll put him in a kennel until we can all leave this dreadful meeting.”

“Adrien, you know Charles hates kennels. He’ll be devastated,” cried Albertine. Her husband grabbed her arm and walked her away while Jason, having given up on his shoe, took it off and reinserted his key card in the door.

“What a day!” I said to Lorenzo as we continued to our room. “Do you think Constanza could have killed Ruggiero?”

“There
are
shots that cause an erection,” said my husband, grinning. “And pills. That sounds more likely to me, given Ricci’s interest in the ladies. All the ladies. Don’t think I didn’t see him patting your knee the first night.”

I giggled. Nothing got by Lorenzo, but he knew better than to think I’d be interested in another man.

 

 

 

 

In our time pizza is popular all over the world, its crust thick or thin, soft or crisp, it toppings varying from the early pizza with marinara sauce to pizzas topped with whatever strikes the fancy of the cook and the customer—caviar, pineapple, chili, shrimp, whatever the area provides. Why not? It is the ultimate one-dish meal.

The Italians, however, are not so tolerant of pizza innovation. Neapolitans argue on the street about what constitutes a proper and delicious pizza topping. The Italian government sets standards that dictate how the real thing is to be made. And pizza, after all, is an Italian phenomenon, awarded to Italy by history.

The word pizza probably came from pita, a flat bread made and eaten in many early societies. The Romans had a baked bread called picea that may have been the forbearer in Italy. By the beginning of the 1100s the word had changed to piza, a flat round cake baked in a medieval oven—still not the real thing. Enter Naples around 1670, where the crust was adorned with tomatoes, garlic, oregano, and olive oil—pizza alla marinara—and the king, Ferdinand IV, who liked to go slumming, joined his poorer subjects in eating the new delight. Pizza hit the big time when Ferdinand wanted it at home in the castle. Maria Carolina, his wife, disapproved, but even a stuffy Hapsburg queen does not forbid her king his desire. She allowed outdoor pizza ovens to be built in the gardens of the Capodimonte palace, and soon not just the king and the commoners were eating pizza. The nobility built their own ovens so they too could eat it.

The first pizzeria opened in Naples in 1830, and the first innovation occurred in 1889 when Queen Margherita, wife of King Umberto I of the house of Savoy, visited Naples and asked for pizza. In her honor, pizza maker Raffaele Esposito, owner of Pizzeria di Pietro, used mozzarella, tomatoes, and basil leaves, the white, red, and green of the flag of unified Italy, and named his new pizza for the queen. She loved it, the Neapolitans loved it, and pizza Margherita became a favorite of Naples. The poor made it at home, and Esposito’s pizzeria became a popular haunt of the nobility.

Strangely, New York, with its immigrant population, embraced pizza before Rome and Northern Italy. There was a pizzeria in lower Manhattan early in the twentieth century, but Rome waited to approve pizza until the 1970s and ’80s. Now it’s being eaten in India and China. One wonders what the toppings are. As long as it’s baked properly in a woodfired, stone oven, it’s still pizza.

Carolyn Blue,
“Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Colorado Springs Bugle

 

I woke up
the next morning feeling more than a little depressed. Of course I knew that everyone was angry with me because they held me responsible for Constanza’s arrest. But what if she was guilty? Why didn’t they consider that? My own husband had complained about how much my meddling—that’s what he called my efforts—would hurt his interactions with fellow chemists. I retorted by asking whether Albertine’s dog was affecting her husband’s relations with his colleagues. Jason muttered, “Damn dog.” He’d scraped and scrubbed the sole of his shoe, but the smell was still there. At least he had the good sense to take the shoe off before entering the room. Now the shoe in question was sitting out on the balcony, while Jason, wearing sneakers, was off having breakfast with his colleagues and discussing chemistry. I was left to order my own breakfast.