in a conference room talking about toxins. I’d have to eat by myself.
When I stopped by the desk in the lobby to ask for more hotel stationery so that I could write to the children when I got back from Amalfi, I promptly made a fool of myself by telling the clerk what excellent English she spoke. In reply to my compliment, she grinned and said that was probably because she was a native of Michigan, doing a hotel internship with the Swiss company that owned the Grand Palazzo Sorrento.
“Well, that explains the rules posted everywhere,” I remarked, not very tactfully, but she laughed and introduced herself, Jill McLain of Ann Arbor. We fell into conversation about how she liked living in Italy—a lot; how long she’d been here—almost a year; and last, but most important, what, if anything, she knew about Paolina Marchetti.
“Actually, she’s been here before,” said Jill, “several times. Because I was meeting American friends to celebrate that night, I particularly remember that she was a guest of the hotel on the Fourth of July.”
“Alone?” I asked, trying to seem casual about it.
“No, she met an older man, very distinguished looking.”
Ruggiero Ricci , I thought.
“They registered under the same name but had separate rooms, and it doesn’t seem to me that the name was Marchetti. Odd, now that I think of it.” Jill tugged thoughtfully at the brown strands of hair that curved in toward her chin. “What was that name? I can’t remember.”
“Do you think they were lovers?” I asked.
“I suppose they could have been. They were certainly very affectionate, and she was so upset when he was called away on business. She cancelled her own reservation and left. Maybe it was one of those May-December romances, and they were trying to act like uncle and niece or something.” Jill laughed. “You’d be surprised at how many of those uncle-niece couples we get.”
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
When I stopped by the desk in the lobby to ask for more hotel stationery so that I could write to the children when I got back from Amalfi, I promptly made a fool of myself by telling the clerk what excellent English she spoke. In reply to my compliment, she grinned and said that was probably because she was a native of Michigan, doing a hotel internship with the Swiss company that owned the Grand Palazzo Sorrento.
“Well, that explains the rules posted everywhere,” I remarked, not very tactfully, but she laughed and introduced herself, Jill McLain of Ann Arbor. We fell into conversation about how she liked living in Italy—a lot; how long she’d been here—almost a year; and last, but most important, what, if anything, she knew about Paolina Marchetti.
“Actually, she’s been here before,” said Jill, “several times. Because I was meeting American friends to celebrate that night, I particularly remember that she was a guest of the hotel on the Fourth of July.”
“Alone?” I asked, trying to seem casual about it.
“No, she met an older man, very distinguished looking.”
Ruggiero Ricci , I thought.
“They registered under the same name but had separate rooms, and it doesn’t seem to me that the name was Marchetti. Odd, now that I think of it.” Jill tugged thoughtfully at the brown strands of hair that curved in toward her chin. “What was that name? I can’t remember.”
“Do you think they were lovers?” I asked.
“I suppose they could have been. They were certainly very affectionate, and she was so upset when he was called away on business. She cancelled her own reservation and left. Maybe it was one of those May-December romances, and they were trying to act like uncle and niece or something.” Jill laughed. “You’d be surprised at how many of those uncle-niece couples we get.”
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
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