Mozzarella Most Murderous by NANCY FAIRBANKS Read Free Book Online

hit the offensive ménage a trois. A hotel clerk with a sense of humor, however twisted.
    Perhaps the thing to do was call Hank Girol, whose wife was stranded in Paris as well. He might have news about the strike in France or at the least an opinion on whether we should attend the party without our spouses. If not, perhaps we could eat a meal that I could write about in one of those fine restaurants in the area that he claimed to know. My readers wouldn’t want to hear about Paolina’s plastic duck or my giant meatball entree. But first we had to escape. It had occurred to me that the Grand Palazzo Sorrento might try to keep me from eating elsewhere. Their dinner menu had no prices, at least for those of us staying here. One just ordered, regretted the culinary result, and the cost, whatever it was, would presumably appear on the bill at the end of the visit.
    Braving the possibility of another telephone encounter with the humorous desk clerk, I dialed Reception and asked to be connected to Mr. Girol’s room. He said that his wife expected to be in this evening, perhaps in time for dinner, and suggested that Jason might have obtained tickets on the same Paris-to-Naples flight. He definitely thought we should attend the cocktail party because, as he put it, “You can count on good wine and wonderful appetizers from an Italian meeting. Think crostini with truffles and mouth-watering antipasto verdure, slices of Parma ham on crusty bread and . . .”
    I did consider those delights and agreed that we should attend the party, whereupon he offered to pick me up in twenty minutes and asked my room number. Not something I’d ordinarily give out to a man I’d known for only an hour or so. Still, his wife was about to arrive. What harm could there be? If he proved overly friendly, I could always threaten him with a word to Sibyl.
    Interesting name. There had been a famous Sibyl who lived in a cave on the coast near the Greek colony of Cuma in the fifth century BC, one of Apollo’s prophetesses. Now what was the story about her? I’d have to look in the history book I’d brought along. However, while I was gathering clothes for the evening, I remembered. She had offered nine books of prophesy to the Roman King Tarquinius for a very high price, and he, not being a worshipper of Apollo, had refused, whereupon she burned three of the books and offered the six remaining for the same price. Eventually, with just three books left, while six had disappeared into the fire and her price remained the same, the king was so impressed that he purchased what was left of the set and took it home to Rome for consultation in time of need. What else could he do in the face of a woman so sure of herself? I wondered if Hank’s Sibyl had such a determined character.
    But twenty minutes? With so little time, I couldn’t stop to speculate as I struggled into pantyhose—horrible invention—yanked a cocktail dress over my head and zipped myself into it, combed my hair and added jewelry, and dumped a few items from my shoulder bag into a silver evening clutch. Evening bags are so impractical. One’s lucky to get a room key, a Kleenex, a lipstick, a credit card, and a bit of money into an evening bag. What do women do who wear glasses? Given my age—forty plus—I might have to wear glasses myself someday.
    At the knock on my door, I sallied forth to meet Hank, who complimented me on my teal dress with its silver cording. I thought it was rather nice myself. I had a pretty matching hair clip to hold my hair—blonde—and a matching necklace and earrings. I had bought them in Barcelona the last day there. Jason, my frugal husband, had thought the Gaudi silver earrings I purchased before his arrival were quite enough in the jewelry department for one trip—and this was the first chance I’d had to wear them since I’d found the dress to match—in an El Paso boutique, of all places. The earrings were a little heavy, which brought to mind an image