Mozzarella Most Murderous Read Free Page A

temperatures shoot up into ranges that I consider unsuitable for human existence. Of course, as we in El Paso say, “At least the humidity is low, so it’s always comfortable.” Comfortable if you don’t mind stepping from your air-conditioned house into a hot oven supplied with skin-cancer-inducing sunshine.
    I took a sip of my coffee, turned toward the pool to sit down, and noticed that there was someone in it. Moreover, the person was resting on the bottom at the shallow end. Some lung-strengthening exercise? I used to see how long I could hold my breath when I was a child. So had a girl child in Donna Tartt’s novel The Little Friend . Her underwater practice had saved her life. Mine had made my mother very nervous. In fact, the lady in the pool was beginning to make me nervous, and it wasn’t just the skimpy bikini with that uncomfortable-looking thong bottom. I reflected on how lucky I was to have missed that style when I was young and foolish enough to have adopted it—not that my father would have approved.
    She still hadn’t come up. She wasn’t moving either. Just resting there. My heart rate accelerated. Surely, she wasn’t . . . I kicked off my shoes, jumped in—getting my mint green slacks outfit all wet—and waded toward the woman. The water was about three and a half feet deep where she lay, and I had to duck under to pull her up. Oh, my goodness , I thought as I lifted her to the surface and turned her face into the air. It was Paolina, my tourist friend from yesterday, who had been jilted by her boyfriend, who shared my love for the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay, who wrote poetry herself, something I have never been moved to try.

2
    Pandemonium by the Pool
     
     
     
Carolyn
     
    As a teenager I had been a lifeguard at a lake where my family had a summer cottage. Among the techniques we learned was artificial respiration, so I tried it on Paolina, although I could find no pulse and her face was a bit blue, her skin cold and spongy. My attempts to resuscitate the poor girl had no effect whatever; she had drowned.
    I then utilized the phone behind the bar to call the front desk, getting instead room service and then housekeeping. Some poor maid, having heard a hysterical voice saying, “ Morte. Dama morte ,” which I hoped meant dead woman , connected me with the front desk and an English speaker. While I sat down, weak-kneed, to contemplate poor Paolina’s limp, dripping body, the forces of hotel management and then those of law enforcement gathered and stampeded in our direction—Paolina’s and mine.
    Paolina was an interesting name, I mused sadly. Yesterday I had simply accepted it. Today it occurred to me that it was the name of a Perugian palace, taken over by a pope and turned into a fortress to keep the quarrelsome Perugians in line—Rocca Paolina. Had my late friend been named for the fortress? My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Signor Pietro Villani, the hotel manager, accompanied by a phalanx of hysterical employees, all chattering in Italian. He introduced himself with great formality and a disapproving eye for my sodden clothing.
    Signor Villani then bent over Paolina and took her pulse. “ Morte ,” he announced in sepulchral tones, and made a demand of a well-dressed lady in a chic, black suit. She removed a mirror from her handbag and gave it to him. He held the mirror to Paolina’s lips. “Morte.” His voice deepened with disapproval, and he turned to me. “ Signora ,” he asked, “are you a guest of this hotel?”
    “Carolyn Blue. Room eight-oh-eight,” I replied, wondering whether he thought that I had sneaked in.
    He turned to the table at which I had been sitting. “Is that your coffee, Signora?”
    I nodded. Why was he asking about coffee? Another of his guests was dead on the cement. Surely he was not about to offer me a refill.
    “Food and drink that have not been purchased from the bar are not allowed in the pool area.” He stared at me. I