Mozzarella Most Murderous by NANCY FAIRBANKS Read Free Book Online Page B

Professor Evers. What are the chances of that?
    “There’s a dead lady in the swimming pool,” said Andrea in his excellent English. “Murdered. That’s what Mama thinks.”
    “Aren’t you a darling little curly-haired tyke?” said Eliza Stackpole, patting Andrea on the head. “And with such good English.” Then she turned to her husband and said, “Francis, I think we should turn straight around and go back to Oxford.” She had turned pale at the thought of a dead lady in the hotel swimming pool.
    “Nonsense,” said the professor from England.
    “She’s not still in the pool,” Bianca explained to her son. “Of course she isn’t. Don’t cry, Giulia. The lady’s body has been taken away, dear, and her soul’s gone up to God.”
    “I’ll bet her body was all puckered,” said Andrea with relish, “and the police will cut her up to see how she died.”
    Giulia began to cry, which was probably her brother’s intent. Bianca said, “Where in the world is your mother, Lorenzo? She’s supposed to be taking care of the children.”
    “I have no idea, my love,” he replied. Then to me, “I know your husband’s research and look forward to meeting him, Signora Blue. And now, why don’t we look for that welcome party we’ve been invited to?”
    “Maybe I will come along to the party,” murmured Eliza Stackpole. “Bodies in the swimming pool? How dreadful! You, fellow, take those bags up to our room. I’m certainly not staying there by myself in a hotel that has dead bodies scattered about. The poor woman was probably drowned by the Mafia.”
    The Mafia? That was a scenario I hadn’t considered. Our hosts were Sicilians, and Paolina, when we stopped yesterday to watch a wedding party entering a church, said it was undoubtedly a Mafia wedding; she could tell by the tuxedoed men with hard faces who were keeping the crowd from coming too close. On the other hand, it had been a chance remark, and she had nothing to do with the meeting and the hosts from Catania.
    “You saw the dead lady in the swimming pool, didn’t you?” Andrea had edged up beside me and was staring at me with great interest. “Mama said you pulled her out.”
    Now the Stackpoles were staring at me. Jason was sure to hear about and disapprove of my brief association with the deceased. If he ever arrived.

7
    A French Encounter
     
     
     
Bianca
     
    “What’s a tyke , Mama?” my sweet Andrea asked.
    I couldn’t remember—if I’d ever known. “Something nice, I’m sure, sweetheart.” But I thought that it was probably something unkind. The English have always considered us either frivolous or dangerous. And Signora Stackpole thought the Mafia must have killed Paolina? What nonsense. The Mafia doesn’t throw people into swimming pools. As for the English—they’ve been sending their pasty-faced sons and horse-faced daughters to Italy to be exposed to culture and to sow their wild—what’s the phrase?—Grasses?—for decades, centuries, and looking down their long noses at us. I used to hate having them on tours. They either ignored me and talked among themselves—“Look, Wycomb, that child has a dirty face.” As if their children never got smudged. Or they wanted to argue with me and pronounced all the historical and place names wrong. Or they said disapproving things about the church and the pope. No one has the right to do that but us Italians.
    I liked the Americans much better. They were friendlier, and why wouldn’t they be? Half of Italy immigrated and bred the joy of life into them. Carolyn, for instance, was a pleasant woman, even if I did suspect her of murdering Paolina.
    At that moment, I heard her say, “What a beautiful dog,” and when I looked around, a huge black poodle let out a loud woof and launched himself at her. Poor Carolyn landed on her bottom, looking dazed, while the dog licked her face.
    My daughter, who loves dogs, cried, “Look at the doggie, Mama. He’s kissing Signora Blue.”