Mozzarella Most Murderous Read Free Page B

stared back, until he gave up waiting for my apology and asked, “Do you know this woman?”
    “She is a guest of your hotel,” I replied. “Paolina Marchetti. I met her yesterday.”
    His minion in the black suit whipped out a handheld electronic device over which her fingers flew. “Paolina Marchetti, room nine-oh-five,” she announced.
    “You were swimming with her, Signora?” Signor Villani asked. “These are not hours during which the pools are open to guests.”
    “I came out to enjoy the lovely air of this beautiful Sorrento morning,” I began. The hotel staffers nodded appreciatively, murmuring “ Bene ,” and the like, and breathing deeply to savor the air themselves. “Then I saw the body at the bottom of the pool, so I waded in, dragged her out, and administered artificial respiration, which was of no use, as you can see. I assume she died sometime last night. As for me, I do not swim in my clothing, only in swimwear.”
    “Night swimming is not allowed,” said the manager grimly. “See what happens when guests endanger themselves by breaking the rules.” His employees all nodded. Some frowned. One wiped a tear from her eye at the fate of the rule-breaking Paolina.
    Can this man be Italian? I wondered. All these rules, not that the Italians don’t have rules—and laws—and layers of governmental bureaucracy. But my impression has always been that Italians pay no attention. The low birthrate is a case in point. Although the Pope resides in Italy, and the Church forbids birth control, the Italians obviously practice it. And the traffic. Italian drivers pay no attention to red lights or stop signs or no-parking signs. They even park on the sidewalks. And race their cars through narrow, medieval streets.
    “Lieutenant Buglione at your service,” said a policeman in a delightful uniform. “ Polizia di Stato negli Sorrento .” He shook the manager’s hand. Then he took mine and kissed it. “You must be American lady who drowned. I am so happy to see you have recovered. Sergeant Gambardella,” he continued, pointing out the accompanying officer, who shook the hand of Signor Villani and then bowed over mine.
    “I am—am not the victim,” I stammered. “She’s over there.” Because the crowd of hotel employees had encircled us, Paolina’s body was hidden from view on the apron of the pool. “Behind the lady in the black suit.”
    The employees stumbled in their haste to clear a path to the corpse, all but the lady in the black suit, who turned and pointed dramatically with her electronic device. “Signorina Paolina Marchetti. Room nine-oh-five.”
    “And she has drowned, poor lady?” asked the lieutenant. “So young. So beautiful. Such a tragedy,” he sighed.
    “Actually, since her room was one floor up, perhaps she died in a diving accident,” I suggested. When the crowd moved aside, I had noticed that her head was injured.
    “Diving is not allowed,” said Signor Villani. “Is not allowed even to climb on the railings at the waterfalls. This is most unfortunate. The owners will be horrified.”
    “Yet, I think this pretty American lady is saying what is true. See the head.” The lieutenant bent down and gently lifted aside wet strands of hair, revealing an even larger wound than I had first noticed. “This head has crashed against something, or something has crashed against this head. Is perhaps murder here? Someone throw her over from up there?” He pointed up toward the wrought iron barrier at the edge of the waterfall on the ninth floor. “What do you think, Gambardella?”
    “ No Ingles, mi luogotenente ,” said the sergeant sadly.
    More uniformed men appeared. A doctor in a white coat and little, round eyeglasses arrived and knelt beside Paolina. The lieutenant, speaking in Italian, evidently demanded that everyone go to the lobby and await questioning. Another policeman rushed to the elevator to roust out all guests on the ninth floor. Soon there was greater