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
“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
Similar Books
