Mozzarella Most Murderous Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Sunday in Sorrento

  Chapter 1 - A Lovely Sorrento Morning

  Chapter 2 - Pandemonium by the Pool

  Chapter 3 - Meeting the “Executive Garbage Man”

  Chapter 4 - Bambinis in the Hall

  Chapter 5 - A Conspiracy of Women

  Chapter 6 - Scientists Incoming

  Chapter 7 - A French Encounter

  Chapter 8 - Sicilian Hospitality

  Chapter 9 - Dinner Palermo Style

  Chapter 10 - The Return of an Errant Husband

  Monday in Amalfi - Slow Food, Fast Food

  Chapter 11 - Apology with Paint

  Chapter 12 - A Chat with Nunzia

  Chapter 13 - Pre-Trip Detecting

  Chapter 14 - Four for Amalfi

  Chapter 15 - In a Shady Amalfi Piazza

  Chapter 16 - Lobby Inquiries

  Chapter 17 - Gracia Sindacco’s Revelations

  Chapter 18 - Another Fine Dinner

  Tuesday in Pompeii

  Chapter 19 - Carabinieri—Absent but Revered

  Chapter 20 - Expectant in Pompeii

  Chapter 21 - The Two Faces of Constanza

  Chapter 22 - A Green-Eyed Evening

  Wednesday in Sorrento

  Chapter 23 - Dog Days

  Chapter 24 - The General from Rome

  Chapter 25 - An International Confrontation

  Chapter 26 - “She Was a Free Spirit”

  Chapter 27 - Theories of the Crime

  Chapter 28 - Another Good Deed

  Chapter 29 - A French Invitation

  Thursday in Sorrento

  Chapter 30 - A Scream in the Night

  Chapter 31 - The Morning After

  Chapter 32 - Evidence in an Ashtray

  Chapter 33 - What a Day!

  Friday in Naples

  Chapter 34 - The Assignment

  Chapter 35 - Escape to Naples

  Chapter 36 - Crime in the Streets

  Chapter 37 - Another Ticket

  Saturday

  Chapter 38 - Finally Capri

  Chapter 39 - The Price of a Mistake

  Chapter 40 - On Handling a Large, Unconscious Man

  Chapter 41 - Prisoner in Route—Driver in Distress

  Chapter 42 - A Tale to Tell

  Chapter 43 - In the Manager’s Office

  Chapter 44 - A Postnatal Gathering

  Epilogue

  Recipe Index

  Praise for the delectable Culinary Mysteries by Nancy Fairbanks …

  “Clever, fast-paced … A literate, deliciously well-written mystery.”

  —Earlene Fowler

  “Not your average who-done-it … Extremely funny … A rollicking good time.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Crime Brûlée is an entertaining amateur-sleuth tale that takes the reader on a mouthwatering tour of New Orleans … Fun.”

  —Painted Rock Reviews

  “Fairbanks has a real gift for creating characters based in reality but just the slightest bit wacky in a slyly humorous way … It will tickle your funny bone as well as stimulate your appetite for good food.”

  —El Paso Times

  “Nancy Fairbanks has whipped up the perfect blend of mystery, vivid setting, and mouthwatering foods … Crime Brûlée is a luscious start to a delectable series.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “Nancy Fairbanks scores again … a page-turner.”

  —Las Cruces Sun-News

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Nancy Fairbanks

  CRIME BRÛLÉE

  TRUFFLED FEATHERS

  DEATH À L’ORANGE

  CHOCOLATE QUAKE

  THE PERILS OF PAELLA

  HOLY GUACAMOLE!

  MOZZARELLA MOST MURDEROUS

  BON BON VOYAGE

  FRENCH FRIED

  Anthologies

  THREE-COURSE MURDER

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  MOZZARELLA MOST MURDEROUS

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2005

  Copyright © 2005 by Nancy Herndon.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-11793-4

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

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  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Jeff, Laura, and Gwen Fairbanks

  Acknowledgments

  To my husband Bill, with whom I went on the Sorrento trip (we had a wonderful time); to my son and daughter-in-law Bill and Anne, who helped plan the trip and then weren’t able to join us because of urgent work commitments (they missed a great time, and we missed them); also to son Bill, who does my Web page (I’d never manage it on my own); to all those readers who e-mail me from the Web page (I love your e-mails, enjoy corresponding with you, and appreciate your comments); to my friend Becky Craver, a wonderful Italian cook herself and the owner of the standard poodle who inspired the creation of Charles de Gaulle (Becky’s dog is no longer as rambunctious and has never, that I know of, been guilty of falling in love with or harassing strange ladies); to my friend, fellow Sister-in-Crime, and reviewer Mary Sarber, with
whom I discuss my books and other mysteries and attend mystery conferences; to my agent Richard Curtis, who has supported my writing now for sixteen years; to my editor Cindy Hwang, amiable dinner companion, provider of contracts, support, and good advice, and her assistant Susan McCarty, who sends me things in the mail, e-mails me, and keeps me on schedule—to all of these people my thanks.

  In writing this book, I am indebted for information to the following authors and their books: Time Out Group, Ltd., Time Out Naples, Capri, Sorrento and the Amalfi Coast; Alberto Capatti and Massimo Montanari, Italian Cuisine: A Cultural History; Giorgio Giubelli, The Sorrento Peninsula; Insight Guides, edited by Vincenzo delle Donne, Naples, Capri and the Coast; Arthur Schwartz, Naples at Table; Jacqueline Clark and Joanna Farrow, Mediterranean Kitchen; Claudia Piras and Eugenio Medagliani, Culinaria Italy; Alfonso de Franciscis, Pompeii Civilization and Art; and John Julius Norwich, The Normans in Sicily.

  N.F.H.

  Prologue

  Although luxuriously housed on the ninth floor of the Grand Palazzo Sorrento, Paolina Marchetti had been unable to sleep, perhaps because of the failure of her carefully arranged assignation. That failure was certainly not the end of her assignment, but it was irritating. As irritating as the poor excuse for a meal she had shared with a chance American acquaintance after an afternoon spent exploring Sorrento, which Paolina had undertaken so as to be unavailable should Ruggiero call to make excuses for his absence.

  He hadn’t called. Probably he was chasing after some new woman, which would inconvenience Paolina in that she would have to seduce him all over again. She didn’t doubt her ability to do so—even if Ruggiero had caught wind of her inconsequential tryst the night before she left Catania. Could Gracia Sindacco—that nosy, old witch—have found out and told their mutual employer?

  “Basta,” she muttered and sprang from the comfortable bed. She would go for a swim, an activity strictly forbidden by the hotel at this hour. Why have such a series of lovely pools tumbling down the mountainside if they could not be used for midnight swims? Slipping out of the transparent silken nightgown that she had chosen to overwhelm the easily overwhelmed Ruggiero, Paolina donned a skimpy, sea green bikini. She pulled on the soft robe provided by the hotel and dropped a notebook that had lain beneath her pillow into the pocket. Then she grabbed a large pink towel from the bathroom, although it was forbidden to take both the room towels and the hotel robes to the pool area. Towels were rented to swimmers at the bar, which was, of course, now closed.

  Most of the hotel patrons she had seen at dinner were middle-aged and stodgy, except for those who were limping and elderly, she mused, as she walked down the empty hall to the pool. That explained their being in bed before midnight and their willingness to eat what the Grand Palazzo Sorrento served for dinner. Hospital fare. It tasted like the food served to her father, the General, after Mafiosi in Palermo had attacked him. Having left her convent school and flown south to be with him, she had told Papa the food was undoubtedly a second attempt to kill him through deprivation rather than violence. Papa had been amused by her indignant opinion, but he had doubted it. Having been hospitalized before, he explained that hospital food was seldom meant to do anything but feed the body, certainly not the soul, as a good Italian meal should.

  The night sky was a stunning blue, deep and dark above her, when Paolina nudged open the glass doors at the end of the hall and padded barefoot into the pool area. A light breeze brushed her cheeks, and the stars seemed close and bright. All her irritation disappeared under the gentle blandishment of night in Sorrento. Like a sinuous creature from the sea, she eased herself into the pool and swam. Ten minutes or so was enough to complete the rehabilitation of her mood. Lifting herself from the water, she trailed droplets to a cushioned lounge chair beside a small glass table, draped the forbidden pink towel around her shoulders, and stretched out. In such delicious and beautiful solitude, Ruggiero’s absence became something to enjoy. Too bad he would be here tomorrow. Of that she was sure. He wouldn’t miss his own meeting.

  She removed the small leather journal from the pocket of the robe, extracted the pen from its holder on the cover, and flipped to a clean page.

  A toast to the absent lover

  Who disappears, unmourned,

  While dark indigo skies …

  No, she didn’t like the lines. They were trite. Uninspired. Ruggiero was not a man to stir her muse. And what of last night’s lover? Danger always spurred passion, and he had had that aura about him. Since she had no lover tonight, however, the evening would end nicely if she could at least sample a tasty snack and write a few perfect lines before returning to her room to sleep.

  As if her thought had been another’s command, a visitor came through the door that Paolina had left ajar, a visitor carrying a tray with two glasses of bubbling wine and two plates. Without rising or offering a greeting, she studied the newcomer and the offering from beneath her eyelashes. Not a particularly welcome person, but as the plates and goblets were set down on the table and a chair pulled up across from her, Paolina could see, in the misty lights that shone on the pool, the rich red of tomato slices, the contrasting white of the fresh buffalo mozzarella, small green basil leaves, a pool of olive oil, and a sprinkle of pepper. She would have welcomed the devil bearing Caprese, so she tucked the journal into the pocket of her robe and waved her hand for the visitor to be seated.

  The conversation was slow and of no consequence, but the mozzarella was moist and fresh, the tomatoes ripe and sweet, the basil adding a hint of anise flavor to the salad. Perfect. Except that a drizzle of balsamic vinegar had been added. No native of Capri would have approved of that. Still, she would not complain because she was enjoying both the salad and the contrast of the sweet-yet-tart fizz of Spumante from her goblet. Only when she began to feel surprisingly drowsy, too drowsy to follow the visitor’s words, did it dawn on Paolina that she had been drugged. Fool, she thought, as the possibility of poison drifted through her fading consciousness. She whispered a curse in the dialect of her native Umbria, but the words never rolled completely off the numbness of her tongue.

  With silent patience her visitor waited for unconsciousness to overcome the beautiful young woman. Then the pink towel was pulled from her shoulders and dropped onto the pavement poolside, the robe left draped on a third chair, and Paolina’s chair rolled toward the water, where a wrought-iron rail warned swimmers away from the waterfall. The visitor studied the barrier, then hoisted the body onto the rail and maneuvered it over, head down. Once the fingers grasping Paolina’s ankles released, she plunged in a clumsy dive over the side, her head glancing off the edge of the pool below at the shallow end before she sank into the water. A dark stain trailed her to the bottom, where she floated, unconscious, in a limp sprawl, the white of her buttocks glimmering through the water.

  With a nod, the visitor rolled the chair back to its place, retrieved the notebook from the pocket of her robe, having already searched her room for it in her absence, placed the goblets and plates on the tray, and departed. Below, the unconscious Paolina breathed in water and drowned.

  Sunday in Sorrento

  To my mind, Caprese is one of the delights of visiting Italy, and I thought of it often during the long flight to Rome. It is a simple dish to fix and can be made at home in the United States, but it will never be the same as eating it in Italy, say, at an outdoor café in a piazza with a beautiful cathedral or basilica looming up in front of you.

  Then there are the ingredients: the tomatoes, which are so delicious, fresh that morning from a vine in the countryside, and the mozzarella, also fresh and made from buffalo milk. You can buy little plastic-wrapped blobs of “fresh” mozzarella in the States, but they’re made from cow’s milk and are much less rich and of a somewhat rubbery consistency. Our buffalo are the wrong kind. Imagine trying to milk an American buffalo. You’d be trampled in one of the stampedes so popular in old western films. In Italy the source of mozzarella is the water buffalo, originally
from Asia, and its milk has over twice the fat content. Go to Italy! Eat the real thing!

  Insalata Caprese

  • Slice 4 ripe tomatoes (large tomatoes such as beefsteaks) and 9 ounces of fresh buffalo-milk mozzarella. Overlap the slices alternately on the plate.

  • Decorate the slices with fresh basil leaves or chopped basil or oregano.

  • Grate fresh pepper over the salad or serve the pepper separately. (Salt if desired, but lightly.)

  • Drizzle liberally with a good, extra virgin olive oil.

  • Serve with balsamic vinegar for those who like it on caprese—I do, but residents of Capri and the Campania would be horrified—and with chunks of Italian bread.

  • For lunch, as a snack, as a first course—it’s wonderful.

  Carolyn Blue,

  “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Albuquerque Sun-Times

  1

  A Lovely Sorrento Morning

  Carolyn

  On my second morning in Sorrento I awoke feeling much better than I had on the first. And why not? I had a lovely room with a balcony that overlooked the Bay of Naples and even, on the right, the volcano. I knew that breakfast would be delicious, unlike the dinners the hotel had provided last night and the night before. I was truly amazed that such a beautiful—not to mention expensive—hotel could have provided two such mundane entrees.

  A young woman I had met in the lobby and with whom I had strolled around Sorrento and dined, said she thought the management must be German, which she deduced from the many signs warning guests of things they were not allowed to do. Perhaps I’d see her at breakfast. She was alone too, her lover having canceled their assignation. She was quite disappointed, although I assumed that he was still paying for her stay here.