Mozzarella Most Murderous (15 page)

“So Adrien told me. He’s actually a good man, and an excellent scientist, not to mention quite embarrassed about the dog’s behavior. I hear you think Ruggiero Ricci is a saint.”

“I do not. I said he looked like a saint whose picture I saw in Sorrento. And he does. You’d be amazed. As for his character, I think he may have murdered Paolina, his secretary. He was certainly having an affair with her.”

Jason snapped his book closed. “Carolyn, I hope that you’re not getting mixed up in this murder investigation.”

I scooted down under the covers and said, “I’m listening to gossip, Jason. I’m not investigating. The police are doing that, but not very effectively. The lieutenant in charge is so overwhelmed by the importance of the Riccis that he’s let them convince him Paolina’s death was probably an accident or a suicide.”

“Probably was,” said my husband and turned out the light.

“And the Carabinieri evidently aren’t even interested in the case,” I muttered as I turned on my side and settled down to sleep.

“Good for them. I wish you weren’t,” said my husband.

 

 

 

 

In the eighth century BC, Greeks sailed to the Island of Ischia in the Bay of Naples, but many were discouraged by the volcanic activity that drove them to settle on the mainland at Cuma. Ironically, that move brought them into the shadow of Vesuvius. The largest eruptions in Europe occurred here in 5960 and 3580 BC, and the area suffered devastating earthquakes, but we have no written records of these. Now a grim reminder of disasters ancient and modern, Mount Vesuvius rises from a plain in the Campania with Naples to the north and the Sorrento Peninsula to the south. Over two million people live near it today.

Preceded by a violent earthquake in 62 AD, Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD and destroyed Pompeii, Herculaneum, and other Roman towns. Between 3,400 and 16,000 citizens were killed—no one is really sure how many. This was the first earthquake to be described by a historian, Pliny the Younger. Fifty more eruptions followed into modern times. Between 79 and 1037 AD the volcano brought fear and disaster every hundred years or so, and then it went dormant for 600 years. In 1631 it reactivated and destroyed a dozen towns or more, killed another 4,000 people, and continued to erupt off and on into the twentieth century, devastating Naples in 1906, with lava flows invading towns up to 1944.

During eruptions Vesuvius has expelled columns of smoke, ash and fire, mud, boiling water, lava, and poisonous gases. The descriptions in historical times are terrifying. Yet between the earthquakes and eruptions, the lava breaks down into rich soil, trees and plants grow, people forget that Vesuvius is a volcano, and they move back to reap its blessings. They plant fields, orchards, and vineyards and produce delicious food, wonderful wine, and a superb cuisine. They build houses and public structures on the land, while Vesuvius, the only active volcano on mainland Europe, lies in wait for a greater disaster than ever with two million people at risk, and more every year.

Carolyn Blue,
“Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Raleigh Star-Telegram

 

We had a
little family argument because Lorenzo didn’t think I should go to Pompeii in my delicate condition, while Violetta and the children wanted to go in my place. I insisted that I’d be fine, that I could always go back and rest in the limousine if I got tired, and that there wouldn’t be room for three people to take one place, even mine.

Downstairs I found Carolyn breaking up an intimate conversation between Jill at the desk and Lieutenant Buglione so that she could tell him about Gracia Sindacco’s Mafia hit-man theory. The lieutenant insisted that he had interviewed all guests on Paolina’s floor and found them to be ordinary tourists, not Mafia hit men, and on our floor, he added, smiling triumphantly, everyone was a guest of the Ricci convention, either a scientist or the spouse of a scientist. When Jill suggested that the criminal might have been a Mafia hit lady, Buglione chuckled appreciatively while Carolyn’s lips pressed together in irritation. I noticed that the bruise was back on her cheek. How strange.

“Haven’t the Carabinieri returned?” I asked Lieutenant Buglione. “I called them myself because I thought you could use some help.”

He frowned at me. “Do you know why they have that red stripe up their trousers?” he asked slyly.

“So they can find their pockets,” I replied. “And I also know what a tumor does on the brain of a Carabinieri. Nothing.” Carolyn was looking shocked, so I told her to pay no attention. “The Carabinieri are national heroes. Everyone loves them. That’s why they’re called
la Benemerita
, the well deserving.”

“Collodi didn’t think so,” snapped Buglione. “He made fun of them in
Pinocchio
.”

“That was a long time ago, Lieutenant,” I responded, “when they were poor, uneducated lads. And Collodi was from Florence. The Florentines are known for thinking they’re better than anyone else. These days the Carabinieri officers are the top graduates of the military academy.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Carolyn. “But when are they coming back?”

“I see that you ladies are not satisfied with my investigation,” said Buglione resentfully, “and I, you will notice, am here every day with my men.”

“Doing what?” Carolyn muttered as he stomped off. Then she told me that Pompeii, as she remembered it, was short on shade and long on sun. She had come prepared, with comfortable shoes, a hat, sunscreen, and drinking water, and hoped that I had done the same. As if I’d never been to Pompeii. “Are you sure you’ll be up to so much walking?” she asked, looking worried on my behalf.

“If I’m not, I can just sit down on a rock. They’re everywhere. Or go back to the limousine and take a nap. Or faint so that handsome medics will come and carry me away.” I grinned at her. “When I was pregnant with Giulia, we went hiking in the Dolomites. It was lovely.” I didn’t mention that my feet hadn’t swelled so much during my first two pregnancies.

“Hiking?” Carolyn looked horrified. “How could Lorenzo do that to you?”

“He didn’t want me to get too fat,” I explained. “He should be very pleased to hear that I’ll be walking all over Pompeii. You can spend six hours or more there if you want to. And of course walking is good for bringing on labor.”

“It is?” she asked weakly. Then she squinted at me. “You’re putting me on, aren’t you?”

“Just a little,” I admitted. “But I
am
getting a bit tired of hauling this child around. Labor is beginning to look better and better.” Then I took pity on her and asked, “So what should we do next in our investigation?”

“Well, we need to find out where Constanza and Ruggiero were the night Paolina died,” said Carolyn, readily distracted. She got no further because Constanza and the guide she had hired shooed us into the elevator for the trip down the cliff to the road. I considered suggesting that we ask Constanza herself where she and her husband had been when the murder occurred. She was right there, our hostess for the day. However, I reconsidered that idea. Carolyn might do it.

 

There were nine
of us in all in the limousine taking the SS145 north, the heavily traveled, twisting road to Castellammare di Stabia, where we turned onto the A3, the Naples-to-Salerno highway with the Pompeii turnoff. The chauffeur and the tour guide sat up front, separated from the rest of us by a glass window. In back were Constanza, Hank, Eliza, Albertine, Carolyn, me, and Charles de Gaulle, who was assigned a place where luggage could be stored behind the last seat. Evidently thinking the dog would sit with Albertine, Carolyn leapt in first and scooted to the back, which is how she ended up with Charles de Gaulle’s head resting on her shoulder. I suppose it must have been a shock to her when the chauffeur opened up the back and let in the dog. It immediately gave a low, lovesick woof and nuzzled Carolyn’s neck.

She shoved him away with a hand on his nose and didn’t say another word except to answer when Constanza asked if she was comfortable back there.

“Lovely seats,” said Carolyn politely. “Much nicer than the plastic ones on the
Circumvesuviana
.” She was trying to edge away from the dog, but there was no room to do so because I was taking up the rest of the seat.

Constanza was, of course, amazed to learn that Carolyn had ridden, with her luggage, from Naples to Sorrento on the little train. I was just glad it hadn’t been me; I’d been on the
Circumvesuviana
and knew that it was no place for an expectant mother, whereas this delightful limousine made traveling like floating down the road on a cloud. I even dozed off while Carolyn, Constanza, and Albertine discussed opera in Catania and Palermo. Composers’ names drifted into my sleep—Verdi, Mozart, Puccini, Donizetti, Bellini. I dreamt that I was in the opera house in Palermo, with Johnny Stecchino, played by Roberto Benigni, in the balcony threatening the audience with a banana. After waking up with a start, I said, “I saw that movie.”

The three women looked at me in surprised confusion. Then Carolyn said, “Oh, for goodness sake!” after glancing down at her blouse. “He’s drooled on me. Madame Guillot, would you please tell your dog—”

I spoke quickly to the dog in French because I could see that harsh words were about to be exchanged. Charles de Gaulle actually lifted his head and turned to look at me, so I continued to talk to him in French, but how much can you think of to say to a dog, especially a French dog? Finally I murmured softly, “Look you ill-behaved, froggie mutt, if you don’t leave my friend alone, I’m going to climb back there and hang you up by your designer dog collar.”

“What did you say to my dog?” demanded Albertine.

“I don’t know what she said to him,” Carolyn intervened, “but his head is off my shoulder, and I think he’s moved away.” She glanced into the back compartment, where Charles de Gaulle was now lying down, staring at me in an unfriendly way.
Does he bite?
I wondered. He hadn’t so far.

Nobody got into a squabble because the tour guide turned on her microphone and began to tell us the history of Pompeii. Iron Age settlements in the ninth and eighth centuries BC, influence of Etruscans, Samnites, Greeks, Romans, the 62 AD earthquake—nap time again. I knew all that. Carolyn woke me up by exclaiming, “I didn’t know they thought Vesuvius was just a green mountain until it erupted!” The guide continued by describing the awful plaster casts made of agonized people who had tried to escape and died and the excavations of the city that had begun in the eighteenth century.

She droned on, and again I dropped into a pleasant snooze. Naps are good for pregnant women, and I needed to store up strength for hiking through dust and clambering over stones on a very large site, carrying my very large baby. At least, I hoped that my mountainous stomach was mostly baby; if it wasn’t, I had a lot of dieting to look forward to if I wanted to retrieve the body my husband was so fond of. I was very happy to hear Constanza announce that we would break for lunch around one. I was hungry already, and I’d certainly need a rest by then.

Evidently the plan was to see major civic and religious ruins in the morning, so of course we looked at a lot of pillars without roofs, something I’d seen so many times in Rome: the remains of temples to Fortuna Augusta, Jupiter, Apollo—that was a good one because the statue was of Apollo naked except for a scarf over his arms, and he had a nice butt, but his bow and arrow were gone—and Isis, who had a lot of worshippers in Pompeii before they were gassed or buried under falling buildings when Vesuvius exploded. The temple had little rooms in which to keep water from the Nile and sacrificial ashes and a big room for worshippers. It’s a wonder Europe ever became Christian when the Roman soldiers kept bringing new religions home from the East.

There were theaters and amphitheaters holding from a thousand to twenty thousand people, not enough for soccer, but not bad. Near the amphitheater were a gymnasium and a pool for gladiators with graffiti left from their stay. I imagined them, coming in from practice, all sweaty, scratching things into the wall. The guide didn’t translate the graffiti. In her place, I would have, if it had been interesting. Needless to say, I did not climb up and down any crumbly, grass-choked amphitheaters. I was watching out for myself and the baby.

Probably the most unsettling sight was the view of Vesuvius, gray and forbidding, through the columns of the Forum. Or maybe it just looked gray because the clouds had rolled in, shadowing everything beneath. Of course we visited the thermal baths at the Forum, which had statues, carvings, pools of different temperatures, heat from boilers under the floors, dressing rooms, and separate sides for men and women. It was very elegant in its day. I remember reading that, after the earthquake when the baths were rebuilt, they dropped the separate sides for different sexes. I wonder how people felt about that? Titillated? Embarrassed?

I was thinking about that when we went out into the streets, which in Pompeii were full of obstacles. Big stepping stones had been set crosswise so the citizens could get from sidewalk to sidewalk without stepping into rushing water that couldn’t be contained by an inadequate sewer system. Down the center ran a rise in the stone pavement low enough that the wheels of carts and chariots could roll along with the stones in between. You could see the tracks worn in the road by the heavy traffic.

Those streets are not easily negotiable, not only because of the obstacles but also because the step down from the sidewalks in front of the buildings was often a long one. When I made the attempt, disaster struck: I lost my balance, stumbled toward one of those large stones, and would have fallen stomach-first onto it except that Constanza was right behind me. She grabbed me under the armpits and jerked me onto my feet, right off the ground, in fact. I don’t know when I’ve been more frightened. She’d saved my baby, and yet she just shrugged off my thanks and said in a surprisingly kind voice, “Be more careful, Bianca. How sad it would be to lose a baby from a misstep.”