Mozzarella Most Murderous (28 page)

“I’m not getting out in that,” squeaked Eliza.

“You there,” shouted the sergeant. “I am a sergeant of the Polizia de Stato in Sorrento, escorting these important visitors back from Naples. I intend to file a complaint against you for endangering my charges and myself, not to mention the unborn infant of this good lady.”

The eager writer of parking tickets backed away, throwing up his hands, stamped around our car and back to his, and sped away, sending a shower of mud onto our windshield. I got back into Hank’s car and said, “That was impressive, Sergeant Gambardella. I’m going to tell your lieutenant that you must be the best officer in his department.” The sergeant flushed with pleasure, and Hank muttered that now all he needed to do was clean the windshield, change the wipers, and we’d be on our way.

Carolyn and Eliza were discussing the neon shrines they’d seen in Naples. Neither of them thought neon was a tasteful example of religious décor.

 

Lorenzo, my dear husband, was all kindness when I dripped into our room at the Grand Palazzo Sorrento. He helped me out of my wet clothes and into a warm shower, then tucked me into bed and fed me hot soup. It was heaven to be warm, dry, and free of leg cramps, with my children fast asleep and my husband sliding into bed, curling up behind me, and wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

“You know, Lorenzo,” I said after I had related the high points of the adventurous trip to Naples. “It’s the weirdest thing. I’m sure that while I was dozing I heard Hank tell Carolyn about flying into Fiumacino, getting a car and an airport hotel room, and then leaving early to drive to Sorrento for the meeting. But the rental papers I had to get out for the stupid policeman said Hank had rented the car in Sorrento the day before.”

“You’re sure of the date?” Lorenzo asked sleepily.

“Well, I was wet, and I was dripping on the paper, so I could have misread that, but I know it said Sorrento.”

“He probably had trouble with the car coming down from Rome and turned it in for another one,” said Lorenzo. “Remember the car we rented in Spain? Fifty kilometers into the countryside and the transmission broke down.”

“And the children were crying, and that farmer came along, towed us to his house, and gave us a really bad wine to drink with some of his own olives.” I laughed at the memory.

“Girol was lucky he made it to Sorrento. He could have been stuck anywhere along the way.”

“Umm,” I agreed. “And since he’s American, there might have been no friendly farmer to give him a tow.” Then we both dozed off, all comfy and warm.

 

 

 

The one place I particularly wanted to see during my trip to southern Italy was Capri. I had heard so much about its beauty, not to mention its food. A friend of Italian ancestry in El Paso told me that the one thing I had to eat, even if I didn’t get to Capri, was Torta Caprese, which she said was “truly a dessert to die for.” Here is a recipe, which I made when I got home. My husband and guests loved it.

 

“Wake up, sleepy
head,” said a disgustingly cheerful voice in my ear.

Although I’d fumbled for the phone and mumbled something into it, I hadn’t opened my eyes. Now I opened one, held the phone away from my ear, and eyed it with intense dislike. It seemed only a moment ago that Jason had awakened me with cheerful whistling in the bathroom, which was all very well for him; he hadn’t gone through a trying day on the road and in Naples. He hadn’t had to fend off thieves and policemen who did not believe it was their mission to serve the public. He hadn’t been pummeled with heavy rain time and again. He hadn’t been awakened from a deep sleep at eleven at night by a phone call from an irate general who wanted to know what I’d found out during my trip to Naples and who wasn’t the least bit sympathetic about the rain and the dog and the police and the thief and the whole dreadful situation that had prevented me from asking Hank more than two questions the whole trip.

“As far as I can tell,” I had said, “he was where he said he was when Paolina died, in a Best Western Hotel near Fiumacino and then on the road to Sorrento in that miserable convertible. Surely there’s someone in Rome who can check that out for you. And what have
you
found out about Constanza?” I asked sharply. I’m not all that cheerful when awakened from deep sleep.

“The people she claims to have stayed with in Milan have left town, so no one can confirm her alibi. Shopping won’t do it. She could have shopped and taken a plane to Sorrento afterward. On the other hand, we have a good evidence-based case against her for killing her husband.”

“Wonderful,” I’d said and hung up. Not very helpful of me, but I’d never been more tired in my life than I was after that trip home from Naples.

And now some idiot was saying, “Wake up, sleepy-head” in my ear! I sneezed and said into the phone, “Who
is
this?”

“Hank,” said the hoarse voice. He sounded as if he had a chest cold. “If you can get dressed and down to the entrance in twenty minutes, we can go to Capri. I’ve hired a boat and made reservations for lunch at a great Caprese restaurant. I even used the hotel’s hair dryer on the car, so it’s habitable.”

“But what about the general?” I asked.

Hank laughed. “I didn’t invite him. No, seriously, it’s okay. We don’t even have to take Gambardella along. The general must have crossed us off his list of suspects. So do you want to go or not? Bianca’s game.”

“What about Albertine and Eliza?” I asked, but without much enthusiasm.

“Didn’t invite them. I’ve about had it with Albertine’s dog and Eliza’s plant-and-Mafia fetish, not to mention too many people in the car.”

“Amen,” I said. “Twenty minutes?”

“Right. Take the elevator that goes straight down to the ground floor. I’ll have the car out front on the turnaround.”

“But what about breakfast?” I asked plaintively, thinking that surely there would be time for a piece of fennel toast and—

“Breakfast in Positano, lunch in Capri. Get moving. We don’t want to miss the boat.” And he hung up.

Capri!
I thought.
Finally!
It’s amazing how fast exhaustion can fall away when you have something wonderful to look forward to. I took note of the sunshine outside the balcony doors, showered and dressed in ten minutes, left Jason a note, and dashed out into the hall. Bianca was waiting at the elevator—no police guard to tell us we couldn’t leave the floor. Hank was waiting outside, top down, not a cloud in the sky. I wouldn’t even need the umbrella I’d prudently brought along.

With me in the back, taking pictures at every opportunity, and Bianca in front, stretching her legs to ward off cramps, asking how long we could spend shopping in Positano, and announcing that she was going to gorge on fish when we got to Capri, we were a merry threesome. Even the lingering odor of Charles de Gaulle blew away as we sped across the peninsula, and then onto the cliff highway.

Positano was a delight—white villas stepping down the steep cliffs right to the deep blue water below, winding streets, cafés, ceramics shops, fashion boutiques, cooking schools. I could see why it’s called the Pearl of the Amalfi Coast. Under a striped umbrella, sitting in cushioned chairs in a café overlooking the town and the sea, we sipped espresso and devoured rolls veined with hazelnut paste. Then we shopped while Hank sat on a bench and coughed.

Bianca bought herself a beautiful lavender blue dress to wear after the baby was born. I had to wonder how many months it would be before she lost enough weight to get into it, but she was confident. Then she bought a brightly colored, round bowl that she intended to fill with candy for the children. While she was buying candy, I found a delightful sun hat with red and green streamers, a lovely shawl as delicate as a spider web, and a huge ceramic platter for which I had no use in mind and no idea how I’d get it home, but I couldn’t resist. I could have stayed all day, but Hank insisted that we’d miss our boat if we didn’t hurry. He stowed our purchases in the rear luggage compartment and hustled us into the car.

“Couldn’t we have caught a boat from here?” I called from the back seat as I passed a cough drop forward. Obviously he hadn’t used soup to stave off the effects of yesterday’s rain.

“There’s an overlook I wanted you to see, so I made arrangements to board further along the peninsula,” he replied, sucking on the cough drop, which seemed to help. When we turned from the main coast road onto one that wove downward, the traffic almost disappeared.

“I wondered why we were going through Positano. It seems out of the way,” said Bianca.

“Some sights aren’t to be missed,” said Hank. “Another half hour on the road is nothing compared to a view you’ll remember until the day you die.”

I had to agree with that sentiment, clutching my camera in anticipation. Still, how could any place be more beautiful than Capri, whose mythology involved Lucifer stealing a piece of heaven and planting it in the blue waters off the tip of the Sorrento Peninsula? “Will there be time to see the Blue Grotto?” I asked eagerly, having read of its ethereal light.

“Depends on the weather and finding a boatman to take us there,” Hank answered, his cough starting up again. “So what are you planning to eat on Capri, Carolyn, now that you’ve had
insalata Caprese
at least twice?”

“Yesterday hardly counts,” I muttered resentfully. “Charles de Gaulle got most of mine, and I haven’t forgotten that Adrien said poodles were hunting dogs and meat eaters. Have another cough drop. You may need to see a doctor.”

“The dog wanted to eat out of the same plate you’d eaten from,” said Bianca.

“That dog is not in love with me!” I insisted. “I think Albertine turned him against me and then sicced him on me every chance she got. When she’s in her hotel room, she probably trains him to do awful things to me.”

Hank laughed. “He’s a young, male dog. Don’t you remember how little boys expressed their affection? By being as obnoxious as possible.” He pulled off a few miles along the way and we got out on a narrow stone path between two towering rocks.

“Maybe I’ll have
ravioli Caprese
,” I mused. “It’s a two-cheese ravioli in tomato sauce, and for dessert—what else?—
torta Caprese
. It’s a cake made of almonds, chocolate, and strega. Have you ever had strega, Hank? It’s a local liqueur.”

“Sure,” he answered. “It’s great.”

“Or maybe I should have Rum Baba. Capri is famous for it.” From the car we were picking our way through even larger rocks and around vegetation.

“It has an interesting history. A Polish king, Stanislaus, liked to dunk pieces of a favorite German cake with some unpronounceable name in rum, so the king’s baker developed a method for soaking the cake in alcohol ahead of time to save his monarch the trouble. The king named it after Ali Baba in the
Arabian Nights
—although I have no idea why. Maybe it was his favorite bedtime story. Anyway, Stanislaus lost his throne and went to France—you know, I think his daughter was the queen there—and his dessert became popular in the French court, from which it was transported, with all things French, to the kingdom of Naples. Actually, since it’s really French, maybe I’ll stick with the
torta Caprese
.” At that moment we came to the edge of the cliff.