Of course I wanted Jill to remember the man’s name, but she couldn’t. Then she asked me the name of the handsome police lieutenant who was in and out of the hotel investigating Paolina’s death. I promised to introduce her to Lieutenant Buglione if she’d glance through the hotel register to see if she could spot the name of the couple that spent the Fourth of July at this hotel.
Then I spotted Bianca coming off the elevator and talked her into having a cup of coffee with me while I ate breakfast. She’d already eaten with her family but agreed to join me because she had information to pass on, things she’d learned from a hotel maid named Nunzia, who thought she’d seen Saint Giuseppe Moscati in the hallway, although it had evidently been Ruggiero Ricci, fresh from a quarrel with a foreigner who spoke Italian.
The reported conversation Ricci had had with the foreigner was really quite interesting: “I wasn’t here; where were you?” And Ricci replied that he was in Catania. Then the man said, “Maybe it was your wife.” Could they have been talking about Paolina’s death, her employer claiming to have been elsewhere when it occurred, the stranger suggesting that Ricci’s wife was responsible? If so, who was the foreigner who spoke Italian? And could
he
have killed Paolina? He might be either of the Europeans at the meeting—Professors Guillot and Stackpole. I’d have to pay more attention to them. I suggested that Bianca listen in on anything Guillot might say in French while I monitored Stackpole’s conversations, which was not a very exciting prospect.
While we were having this conversation, I was eating a new item from the buffet table. Bianca called it
Sfogliatelle
. She wrote down the name for me. How delicious it was. Crispy dough, not the least greasy, although it evidently had lots of grease in it—including that contemporary no-no, lard—shaped into shells and filled with a soft cream that smelled and tasted of orange and vanilla. Bianca advised me to forgo looking for a recipe. “If no Italian wants to make it, why do you think Americans would?” she asked.
“Because they can’t get it at home,” I suggested. However, once I’d seen the recipe, I decided not to impose it on my readers.
Bianca made a quick trip up to her room after her second cup of coffee, and I returned to the lobby, where I found Lieutenant Buglione on the job, but unable to give me any news of his investigation because, as he explained, it was too early to know anything about the death or even the deceased. I had to tell him that Paolina had been Ruggiero Ricci’s secretary, something the lieutenant had yet to discover for himself, and about Ricci’s conversation in the hall on the eighth floor with the mysterious Italian-speaking stranger.
Lieutenant Buglione was appalled at the idea that he might have to investigate a big-shot Sicilian industrialist, so I suggested that he talk to Jill, who had seen Paolina in the hotel with an older man last summer. “It could have been Ricci,” I suggested. “And what about the autopsy?”
“Autopsy? There is no autopsy,” said the lieutenant. “We don’t know the signorina was murdered. She is safely at rest in ice chest until we know—”
Constanza Ricci-Tassone sailed up to us at just that moment, causing me to worry that she’d heard me suggesting her husband might be a murderer. “Of course, Paolina was not murdered,” said the lady in her most haughty voice. “In her distress over the desertion of her lover, she must have become careless and fallen over the edge of the pool. Such a sad but romantic occurrence. So Italian, do you not think, Lieutenant?
“As for an autopsy, you certainly cannot send the girl’s body home to her parents in such a state. It’s bad enough, the rumors of suicide. They will want her buried in sacred ground, as any parent would. Because Paolina worked for my husband, we will stand as her parents in the absence of her own, and demand that her remains be respected. You understand, Lieutenant. There is to be no autopsy and no talk of suicide, and certainly not of murder.”
“
Si, Signora
,” said Lieutenant Buglione, all but bowing as she swept regally away to breakfast.
I tried to argue with his decision, but he pointed out that Signora Ricci-Tassone, a woman of noble stock, who looked on the deceased as her own daughter, was not to be denied her wish that the body be interred intact. “I can not offend such a woman,” he protested.
“Very few wives look on their husband’s pretty secretaries as daughters,” I retorted. “She’s trying to protect her husband or herself.”
The lieutenant ignored my comment and fixed his gaze on the front door. “What are
they
doing here?” he grumbled.
They
were a man and a woman in fancy uniforms with red stripes down the sides of their trousers and skirt, respectively, a white leather sash stretched diagonally across their chests, and hats with visors and a big gold thing on the peaked tops, sort of Nazi-looking. They whipped their hats off, stuck them under their arms, and strode across the lobby toward us.
“Who are they?” I whispered.
“Carabinieri,” said Buglione through tight lips. “Captain. Lieutenant.” He saluted. “We’ve had no terrorist events in the area, no civilian riots, no—”
“Why are we speaking English?” demanded the male, who had the most gold on his uniform, not to mention a number of medals.
“A courtesy,” Buglione replied. “This lady is an American.”
The two Carabinieri—were they soldiers?—studied me, nodded, and the captain said, “Captain Giorgio Pagano and Lieutenant Flavia Vacci. We received a call about a murder.”
“That was yesterday,” snapped Lieutenant Buglione. “And it’s a suicide. Or an accident.”
“It is not,” I broke in, so pleased that they were all politely speaking English. “I discovered the body. I’m Carolyn Blue. And this is Lieutenant Buglione of the Polizia di Stato.” It wasn’t very nice of him not to introduce himself when they had.
“Signora. Lieutenant.” The captain made a little bow, looking ever so formal and solemn. His subordinate actually smiled at me.
Maybe they’ll take this seriously
, I thought,
and not do whatever Constanza Ricci-Tassone wants.
“I think we should adjourn to the breakfast room, which I’m told has an excellent buffet,” said Captain Pagano.
“It does,” I assured him. “And this morning they have—” I couldn’t remember the name of the pastry—“those shells with orange and vanilla cream inside.”
Lieutenant Flavia Vacci, as plump and cheerful as her captain was grim and formal, absolutely beamed.
“Shall I show you the way?” I asked, deciding that I wouldn’t mind having another of those delicious pastries. Besides which, I needed to pass on to the newcomers all my information and theories. I really didn’t trust Lieutenant Buglione to remember everything. “I have information for you,” I added.
“Signora, you are too kind,” said the captain, “but this initial discussion must be one between colleagues. We shall be happy to interview you later once we have assessed the seriousness of the case.”
Buglione shot me a rather smug look. I suppose if I’d been a pretty young thing, like Jill, to whom he’d missed an introduction, he might have insisted that they listen to me. Well, I’d tell the Carabinieri what they needed to know later, and I certainly wasn’t going to wait around for them and miss the trip to Amalfi. Late afternoon would be time enough. Were there two police forces that investigated murders? How odd.
. . . Many of the pastries that are most popular in Naples and the towns of the Campania are complicated and never made at home, but good bakeries abound in the region. One such delight is Sfogliatelle—hard to pronounce and spell, wonderful to eat. It turned up at the breakfast buffet one morning while I was in Sorrento, a spiraled shell pastry that is painted before it is baked with a butter and lard mixture (which is so delicious that one can almost forget the cholesterol dangers) and filled with seminolina, ricotta, and egg yolks flavored with vanilla, cinnamon, and candied orange peel. Sfogliatelle. I ate two and thought I’d gone to pastry heaven. All over the Campania the inhabitants were devouring them with their morning coffee, probably thinking the same thing.
Carolyn Blue,
“Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Albany Morning Post
14
Four for Amalfi
Bianca
What a drive
we had! Hank chose to take the scenic Nastro Azzurro route from the west side of Sorrento across the peninsula on twisting roads through farmlands, terraced orchards, and vineyards. Both women in the back seat asked to stop every few miles. Eliza Stackpole saw people selling bags of wild oregano on the roadside and wanted to ask them questions about native herbs, but neither Hank nor I offered to translate. Carolyn wanted to buy a bag, but I assured her that the U.S. government would not let her bring it back into her country. “Or maybe you plan to eat it before you leave,” I suggested. Of course, she couldn’t. She didn’t even have cooking facilities.
Then we passed through Saint Agata Dei Due Golfi, where, Carolyn remarked, there was a Michelin-starred restaurant. Hank said it was too early for lunch, and we’d never get to Amalfi if we stopped and waited for the restaurant to open. She then talked him into a quick stop to see an amazing marble altar, multicolored and immense, at Santa Maria delle Grazie. Carolyn had found it in a guidebook as soon as she saw the name of the town on a road sign. Eliza thought the altar gaudy and declared that she much preferred the more austere churches of England. Then we maneuvered out of the parking lot, which, for some reason, was crowded with farm vehicles and equipment, and continued across the peninsula to Positano and the Amalfi Coast.
The coast road was intimidating, and Hank grumbled that it would have been easier to come by boat. He was probably right. Cliffs towered above us and sheared away hundreds of meters down to the water where the tide dashed itself into spray against the rocks. The road twisted, clinging to its ledge, in turns so sharp that large vehicles had to edge back and forth to get around, taking up both lanes in their efforts to keep from tumbling in a long, long fall to the wild waters below.
Hank Girol’s rented car, sleek and sporty with its top folded down, had only two doors. Of course, that meant I sat in front with him because I could never have scrambled over the folded down front seat into the back—not carrying my immense stomach before me. I felt bad for Carolyn. Eliza Stackpole, who had replaced her heavy tweeds with loose trousers and blouse, boots fit for rock climbing, and a floppy cotton hat that blended nicely with her khaki hair, insisted on sitting where she couldn’t see how far we had to fall if we went off the road. After they had squeezed in back and Hank moved my seat back far enough to accommodate my tummy, Carolyn had to pull her knees up under her chin. No wonder she wanted to get out for everything that interested her.
Eliza, of course, prattled about the trees and bushes. At one point she remarked that the protective black nets on the lemon groves looked like hairnets on green hair in a punk beauty saloon. I was astounded to think that she’d ever been in such a place. I asked her what her favorite hair-dye color was, but she thought dying one’s hair was a waste of time. Did that mean that her strange hair color was natural? I asked whether the English girls with green hair favored mohawks or long frizzes. Eliza said she never talked to girls like that; she’d just peeked into the window of such a shop and then hurried away.
Poor Carolyn couldn’t have been at all comfortable, stuffed in back there, but she didn’t complain. In fact, the possibility of tumbling down the cliff once we got on that road didn’t seem to enter her mind. She folded herself into awkward positions, hung over the side of the car, stretched out her arms and hands holding her tiny camera, and took photos of everything on both sides of the road. Then, when she got a picture that looked particularly good to her, she passed the camera around so the rest of us could look at the little window where the picture appeared.
I couldn’t fault her enthusiasm because the water foamed against jagged rocks, shimmered blue-green away from the cliffs, and sparkled like diamonds in sunshine beyond the swathes of color. Still, I’m afraid that we were never sufficiently excited about her pictures. Hank had to keep his eyes on the road, which was crowded with cars, tour buses, and even people walking to stairs that dropped down the rock face to hotels and houses beyond our range of vision.
I was clinging to the arm rest to keep my baby from being hurled against the dashboard when Hank had to brake sharply for foolish drivers or the warning honk of a bus that was about to attempt a dangerous curve on the other side of the road. So I had only one hand to take the camera and often no desire to look away from the road. And Eliza was still going on and on about flowers, trees, and cacti. What was the name of the blue flowers that hung in lovely sheets on the cliff? We didn’t know. What tree was that, clinging like an upright greenish black umbrella to a jut of stone ahead to the left? Plane tree? I wasn’t sure. I was a city girl. Did those cacti bloom and, if so, when? None of us could say, although Carolyn, a desert dweller, thought cacti bloomed whenever it rained. She had to promise Eliza copies of any vegetation she photographed.
What all of us could identify were the orchards, growing on the terraced cliffs, walnuts and peaches (for which Sorrento was famous; Carolyn said some food writer, goodness knows how many centuries ago, had called Sorrento peaches “delicious enough to raise the dead”), and particularly the lemon groves. They were so pretty, and they reminded me, not of hairnets on green hair, but of the region’s favorite liqueur, Limoncello. I wouldn’t have minded a little glass right then to take off the edge of fear engendered by the road. Probably I should have been a sensible mother-to-be and stayed safely at the hotel. The baby certainly seemed to think so. It kicked so hard from time to time that its little foot poked my dress against the dashboard.