flowers that I’d seen growing on bushes around the city; and a stack of magazines. But goodness knows what mosaics he had in the bedroom and whether he’d showed them to my mother-in-law. I almost choked on a bite of garlic toast when I thought of Vera casting a jaundiced eye on some ancient Roman courtesan and her lover cavorting on a ledge in a bathhouse. I’d seen some of those mosaics myself. They caught you by surprise, especially if you were fourteen years old and accompanied by your father, a rather stern history professor.
Mr. Valetti sighed. “You mother-in-law, the beautiful professora, she no want to see either. My wife Anna, God cherish her soul, she’s-a like the tiles. Her grandfather on the mama’s side make-a tiles in Ravenna, for fix up the basilica there. Very old. Her father, he’s a longshoreman, beat up scabs on Bloody Thursday in 1934 with Harry Bridges, the communista. He no wanna my Anna marry me. He don’t like guys like me jus’ over from Napoli. I’m-a say, ‘I can cook, I gotta job, I’m-a no communista, ’ ” so Anna an’ me elope an’ finda priest in the Mission to marry us. Her papa hire a witch to put a curse on us. No babies. We never forgive him. But that’s many years ago. Anna an’ me make many mosaics together.”
I was sorry then that I’d refused to see the ones in his bedroom. Probably his late wife made them.
“I’m-a got a new project. Emperors’ heads around the sink. When I’m-a chop tomatoes, alla bad emperors, they get splashed behind my sink.” He laughed heartily.
“Tell me, Mr. Valetti, did my mother-in-law ever talk to you about the women’s center?”
“Oh sure. She’s-a say they got too many social-worker types, an’ no one who’s-a know nothing about theory. That’s-a some theory about women an’ how they should forget cookin’ the pasta, an’ go out an’ make more money than their husbands. So I say, “ Cara mia, I’m-a no make money no more. I’m-a retired, an’ I’m-a make pasta like you never eat in you whole life. You an’ me, we be perfect famiglia. ” He sighed. “She no say yes, but she’s gonna do it. You see.”
“Did she ever say anything about people not getting along at the center?” I asked.
“Oh sure. Alla women talkin’ bad about alla other women. Jus’ like in the old country. My sister, rest in peace, she insult a neighbor, an’ they—”
“Did anyone have a grudge against my mother-in-law?” I interrupted. Perhaps Vera had been “set up to take the fall” as they say on TV.
“Naw. Why someone have a grudge against you mama? She’s-a smart woman. She’s-a famous professora. ”
And an irritating one, I thought. “Well, what about the woman who got killed? Did my mother-in-law ever mention her?”
“Oh sure. She say Denise, she’s-a got such a stone head; she’s-a need a hammer behind the ear to tell her anything.”
Oh dear, I thought. I’ll have to keep him away from the police.
“So what you gonna do today, Bellissima ?” He refilled my espresso cup and passed the plate of sautéed tomato slices, a dish I had always associated with the English—and pleasantly so. I like their fried tomatoes much better than their raw bacon or their gray sausage. Not that England isn’t rapidly overcoming its reputation for inedible food.
“You go to Fisherman’s Wharf? Everyone wanna go to—”
“No, Mr. Valetti, I intend to visit the center and find out who killed Denise Faulk.”
He nodded solemnly. “I go too. We—how you say?—spring la Professora from the jail. How you gonna find out who kill the poor dead lady?”
“Well, I thought I’d talk to the security man. He guards the front door and makes everyone sign in. After I find out who was in the building that night, I’ll know whom to investigate.”
“You’re a smart girl, jus’ like you mama.”
“In-law,” I added. “And as kind as it is of you to offer to go with me, you really shouldn’t feel that I need
Mr. Valetti sighed. “You mother-in-law, the beautiful professora, she no want to see either. My wife Anna, God cherish her soul, she’s-a like the tiles. Her grandfather on the mama’s side make-a tiles in Ravenna, for fix up the basilica there. Very old. Her father, he’s a longshoreman, beat up scabs on Bloody Thursday in 1934 with Harry Bridges, the communista. He no wanna my Anna marry me. He don’t like guys like me jus’ over from Napoli. I’m-a say, ‘I can cook, I gotta job, I’m-a no communista, ’ ” so Anna an’ me elope an’ finda priest in the Mission to marry us. Her papa hire a witch to put a curse on us. No babies. We never forgive him. But that’s many years ago. Anna an’ me make many mosaics together.”
I was sorry then that I’d refused to see the ones in his bedroom. Probably his late wife made them.
“I’m-a got a new project. Emperors’ heads around the sink. When I’m-a chop tomatoes, alla bad emperors, they get splashed behind my sink.” He laughed heartily.
“Tell me, Mr. Valetti, did my mother-in-law ever talk to you about the women’s center?”
“Oh sure. She’s-a say they got too many social-worker types, an’ no one who’s-a know nothing about theory. That’s-a some theory about women an’ how they should forget cookin’ the pasta, an’ go out an’ make more money than their husbands. So I say, “ Cara mia, I’m-a no make money no more. I’m-a retired, an’ I’m-a make pasta like you never eat in you whole life. You an’ me, we be perfect famiglia. ” He sighed. “She no say yes, but she’s gonna do it. You see.”
“Did she ever say anything about people not getting along at the center?” I asked.
“Oh sure. Alla women talkin’ bad about alla other women. Jus’ like in the old country. My sister, rest in peace, she insult a neighbor, an’ they—”
“Did anyone have a grudge against my mother-in-law?” I interrupted. Perhaps Vera had been “set up to take the fall” as they say on TV.
“Naw. Why someone have a grudge against you mama? She’s-a smart woman. She’s-a famous professora. ”
And an irritating one, I thought. “Well, what about the woman who got killed? Did my mother-in-law ever mention her?”
“Oh sure. She say Denise, she’s-a got such a stone head; she’s-a need a hammer behind the ear to tell her anything.”
Oh dear, I thought. I’ll have to keep him away from the police.
“So what you gonna do today, Bellissima ?” He refilled my espresso cup and passed the plate of sautéed tomato slices, a dish I had always associated with the English—and pleasantly so. I like their fried tomatoes much better than their raw bacon or their gray sausage. Not that England isn’t rapidly overcoming its reputation for inedible food.
“You go to Fisherman’s Wharf? Everyone wanna go to—”
“No, Mr. Valetti, I intend to visit the center and find out who killed Denise Faulk.”
He nodded solemnly. “I go too. We—how you say?—spring la Professora from the jail. How you gonna find out who kill the poor dead lady?”
“Well, I thought I’d talk to the security man. He guards the front door and makes everyone sign in. After I find out who was in the building that night, I’ll know whom to investigate.”
“You’re a smart girl, jus’ like you mama.”
“In-law,” I added. “And as kind as it is of you to offer to go with me, you really shouldn’t feel that I need
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