Mozzarella Most Murderous (23 page)

Albertine nodded and asked how long the mourning period would be and, when told, said how fortunate it was that Constanza looked chic in black. While they chatted, I mused on the absence of Albertine’s poodle. Perhaps she had realized that bringing Charles de Gaulle along on a condolence call might result in his doing something socially unacceptable in front of the new widow.

Then the whole fashion contingent, including Albertine, departed, and Constanza fell limply into a chair, a chair, I might add, that was much more comfortable looking than any in our room. She announced that she simply could not stay in this suite where her husband had died so tragically.
At last
, I thought,
something I can do for her, given that my opinion on her new wardrobe was not solicited.
“Why don’t I call the manager, Signor Villani, and see if I can’t arrange for you to change rooms?” I suggested.

“My dear Carolyn, how thoughtful of you,” said Constanza. “In the absence of my own daughter, you are such a source of kindness and strength. You and Gracia.” She gave each of us a sad smile. Gracia rose from her place beside me on the couch—she was already wearing black, had probably been in mourning since the death of her own husband so many years ago. I wondered if half the women in Sicily might not be wearing black for dead relatives.

“Come,” said Gracia, “I will help you change into clothes for the move and begin to pack for you.”

Off they went to deal with more wardrobe problems while I called the policeman on the room-service phone and demanded to speak to Signor Villani. When I finally got hold of him and explained the problem, he was horrified to hear that such an important man had died in his hotel without his being informed. Perhaps his staff was afraid to awaken him in the middle of the night with such bad news. Signor Villani had to call the general, who said none of us could move off the eighth floor and no one was to enter the room in which Ruggiero had died. As a result, a room that connected to Gracia’s was made available to Constanza, and I found myself escorting the moderately grief-stricken widow to her new quarters while a Carabinieri, splendid in white sash and red striped trousers and armed with a large weapon of some sort, stood guard over the crime and/or death scene, and Gracia, with the help of several hotel employees, moved all other Ricci possessions down the hall.

Having inserted the new key card into the slot, I turned to gesture Constanza in.
Oh my!
I whipped my head right back toward the door because I had caught her shoving something into the sand of a tall ashtray in the hall. Then she sailed past me, evidently unaware of what I had seen. I glanced nervously at the sand, now quite smooth. Had I imagined the whole thing? And if I hadn’t, what had she buried there? A gun? Probably not. Ruggiero had not been shot. Nitroglycerine pills? Perhaps he had had heart trouble after all, unknown to anyone but the two of them, and she had replaced his pills with some innocuous substitute, and he had died. Now she was hiding the evidence. I followed her into the room, thinking I needed to talk to the general. Before some maid came along and cleaned out the ashtrays.

“This is not a suite,” said Constanza irritably.

I explained the problem with the general, and she said she’d have to complain to his superiors in Rome, but first, having slept not a wink since she discovered her Ruggiero’s dead body, she needed to go to bed. I had her in that bed with her shoes off and her robe draped carefully over a chair before she could say another word. As soon as Gracia appeared, loaded down with clothes, I kissed Constanza on the forehead, patted her hand, and escaped.

 

On my way
out of Constanza’s new room, I decided to look in the ashtray myself, but that didn’t happen. A local policeman met me at the door and escorted me to my own door. I did try to tell him that I needed to see the general, but he insisted in broken English that the general was busy. Then I asked for Lieutenant Buglione and was told that he, too, was busy. At least the fellow spoke English, but he also insisted that I go back into my own room. When I stayed outside to argue, he whipped out a key card and opened the door for me. What could I do but enter? However, I was not happy to think that at least four people, counting Jason, now had cards for my room.

Jason was out on the balcony, laptop on a little table, so I began the arduous process of reaching the general through Room Service. He returned my call about twenty minutes later and promised to have someone sift through the ashtray outside Constanza’s door—this after I had assured him several times that she did not smoke and had not been eating an apple or chewing gum. Sometimes law enforcement authorities make it very hard to assist them. I suppose assistance from an amateur seems beneath them or hurts their professional pride. I consoled myself by postulating that a female law officer would be more grateful to and cooperative with helpful citizens. Perhaps I should have called Lieutenant Flavia Vacci, whose voice I could hear in the background as I talked to the general.

I had just curled up on the bed with a book when the telephone rang again. That was fast, I thought, excited to hear what they had discovered in the ashtray. It was Gracia telling me that Constanza had permission from the authorities to gather the conference members and their wives for a luncheon at one o’clock in the meeting room at the end of the hall.

Wonderful!
I thought.
We’ll have decent food for lunch.
I hastened out to the balcony, catching a gust of wind as I opened the doors, and told Jason that we were to be freed from our rooms for lunch.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Maybe they’re going to cancel the rest of the meetings.”

I wasn’t too happy with that thought. I’d never find out who killed whom if Jason insisted on going straight home, but the ticket changes would be expensive, so maybe he wouldn’t. On the other hand, staying here at our own expense would be prohibitively expensive, so I didn’t say anything to him about his desire to leave as soon as possible. I did suggest that the food would be better since Constanza was ordering it and didn’t like the hotel’s Swiss chef.

“Excellent,” said Jason, and went back to writing an article for a chemistry journal on some esoteric toxin in which he was interested. His only other comment to me was that my hair was messy. As if his wasn’t. How could he write in a high wind? Even the wonderful view couldn’t persuade me to do that. I went back inside to finish writing the newspaper column I had been unable to continue last night and then to dress for lunch, about which I was quite right. After we all offered our hostess condolences, we were served a promising first course.

Insalata Caprese
, of which I can never get enough. However, eating it reminded me that I was unlikely to get to Capri this trip, not while we were immured in our rooms or, alternately, sent home. The only nonconference person at the luncheon was Lieutenant Flavia Vacci, smiling as always, chatting with Valentino Santoro, by whom she was sitting, and obviously enjoying her
insalata
as much as I was enjoying mine. I supposed that she was on duty, assigned to verify that all conferees and spouses were actually there, to listen to everything we said, and to be sure we didn’t leave.

While I was eating—I didn’t have to take notes on that lovely salad—Constanza tapped her wine glass and announced that the conference would continue—in this very room, once the dishes were cleared. “I know my dear Ruggiero would have wanted you to finish your deliberations. I am only sorry that those of you who are not chemists can no longer enjoy the beauties of our unforgettable Amalfi Coast. However, the police are insistent that we all stay on this floor for the remainder of our time here. Even I, who have funeral arrangements to make, must do so on the telephone.” She sighed.

“Valentino Santoro, my husband’s right hand, will chair the meeting in Ruggiero’s absence.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Gracia Sindacco, our office manager, will see that all the conference arrangements are carried out as smoothly as these unhappy occurrences allow. And now please enjoy your food and wine and remember my dear husband in your prayers.”

As I went back to my tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella, it occurred to me that Constanza seemed more upset now than she had when I visited her this morning, at which time she seemed much less grief-stricken than Bianca had described her. I was halfway through my salad when Loppi stepped into the room, asked pardon for interrupting our meal, and said the general wanted to see me. Everyone, even Bianca, stared at me as if I was about to be arrested. Jason was particularly taken aback and asked if I wanted him to come with me, which was sweet, but unnecessary. No doubt the general wanted to tell me about the ashtray, even if he did choose an embarrassing time to do it. I rose, about to tell Jason he should finish his lunch, when Loppi placed a hand firmly on my husband’s shoulder and said, “Only the signora.”

“It’s okay,” I whispered to Jason, then thought to pick up my salad plate. If I didn’t take it with me, it would be gone when I got back.

The general awaited me in the room where we first met. After waving me to a seat, he asked if I had any thoughts on the syringe that had been found in the ashtray stand to which I had directed his men.

A syringe? I gave myself a minute to think while forking up a slice of tomato and mozzarella, and what came to me was the memory of Constanza testing her glucose level. It all became too tragically clear to me then. “Constanza killed him with a shot of insulin,” I said. “A shot of insulin can induce a heart attack in a nondiabetic, you know. I remember seeing just that scenario in a police drama on television.”

The general looked skeptical. “Perhaps Signora Ricci-Tassone does not watch American television,” he suggested.

“Perhaps not, but she is a diabetic. She takes insulin. I saw her use one of those test machines that measures glucose levels. She’s a type-two diabetic. She told me so herself, just before she went into the ladies’ room to give herself a shot. It was the day we went to Pompeii.”

“Umm,” said the general. “And why would she kill her husband?”

“Because he was unfaithful, of course.”

“His mistress was dead.”

“And he was flirting with another woman at the dinner and dance just the other night. Or maybe the noise she heard in his room was a lover, so she went in to confront them, the woman ran, and Constanza killed her husband.”

“Because she conveniently had a syringe primed with insulin in her hand at the time?”

“Maybe she had been about to give herself the shot when she heard the noise.”

“It seems unlikely that she would be giving herself a shot in the middle of the night, which is when she discovered the body and called for help.”

“When she called for help is not necessarily when she killed him. Perhaps the woman in his room could testify as to when Constanza came in.”

“We do not know that there was such a woman. That is your speculation, not a fact, Signora.”

I had another thought. “Maybe she heard that you were investigating the company and might close it down.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“Of course not,” I said indignantly, and then tried to remember if I had told anyone who might have told her.

“And killing her husband would deter our investigation of the company? Not really, Signora,” he said.

“But she might have thought it would all go away if Ruggiero were dead, and her children, of whom she is so proud and so protective, would then inherit the company.”

“Umm.” The general tented his fingers and fell into thought.

“You should tell your coroner to look for a needle mark on Signor Ricci’s body. That would be the first thing to do.”

“And our evidence investigators, if Sorrento has any, must look for fingerprints on the syringe and for insulin inside, if anything is left after the burial in sand.” He un-tented his fingers and stared at me for a minute. “Thank you, Signora. You have been very helpful. My apologies for interrupting your lunch.”

That was it? I was to go back to lunch without ever discovering the outcome of my deductions and suggestions? Evidently. The general rose from his chair, although I had not risen from mine, extended his hand, and escorted me to the door.

 

For a second
day we were cooped up in the room together. Much as I love my children, two days in two rooms with two bored, unhappy children is more than any expectant mother should have to endure. Especially one as pregnant as I. The baby had kicked me for the rest of the night after Ruggiero turned up dead.

Interesting that he and Constanza don’t sleep together
, I mused.
I wonder if the noise that awakened her really was the sound of another woman in his room. Maybe he had a heart attack in the middle of adultery and died.
I could imagine his new love struggling out from under him and running for her life. Now, that would be a terrible shock for his lover. And since he hadn’t died in a state of grace, Constanza would have to have a lot of prayers said for his soul to get him out of purgatory. Maybe, given the circumstances, she wouldn’t bother.

Even Lorenzo was becoming short-tempered with Andrea and Giulia, and of course the stupid police wouldn’t let Violetta come to our room to entertain them. I was so tired that I locked myself in the bathroom and stretched out in the tub, soaking in warm water. Probably something the doctor would disapprove of. I’ve always felt that we mothers know what’s good and bad for us and for our babies. So I have to admit that I tend to think of other things when the obstetrician is giving me the “little mother” lectures on how to conduct my life while carrying a child.