church had told us about him. After I said he looked like a chemist, Paolina inquired and translated the priest’s reply. She had almost laughed aloud when she saw the saint’s portrait above the candles that lit up with electric lights when one put a coin in the slot. However, she wouldn’t explain her amusement beyond saying that the saint looked like a very unsaintly friend of hers. I had taken a prayer card with his picture to show to Jason.
Now I noticed a resemblance between Giuseppe Moscati and our host, although Signor Ricci did not wear a green lab coat, but rather an expensively tailored suit, and he did not have round spectacles, which might not have been fashionable enough to suit his wife. I had only a moment to wonder if he had been Paolina’s friend. Then it was my turn to be introduced. The dog, thank goodness, the French couple, Bianca, Lorenzo, and their children, who had been petted and smiled upon by Constanza, had moved on to be served drinks.
“But where are your spouses?” Signor Ricci demanded after the introductions, as if cheated by the absence of Jason and Hank’s wife. Once Hank had explained the problem in Paris, Ricci said, shrugging expressively, “Ah, the French. Their workers have no loyalty to the bosses, unlike our good Sicilians. Well, I must wait a bit longer to meet these two scientists for whom I have such great respect. But not too much longer I hope. Signora Blue, your husband is a very lucky man.” Then, much to my astonishment, he leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Lovely, is she not, Constanza?”
“Delightful,” murmured our hostess, who then introduced us to Dottore Valentino Santoro, a fine-featured man in his thirties with sad eyes and an expertise in toxicity. “Do have drinks and antipasti,” said our hostess, and waved us in the direction of an ornate cabinet presided over by a dashing waiter. We moved on, making way for the Stackpoles.
Because I was an American, I was encouraged to drink bourbon, evidently provided specially for my husband, who was not here, and for me, although I don’t like it that much. I had to argue for wine. However, I had no argument with the antipasto and held a small plate of shrimp crostini, mushroom pate on toasts, and little fried zucchini sticks. They were lovely. Had our hostess arranged to have them brought in? Surely the plastic-duck chef had not provided them.
While I nibbled and sipped happily, I endured another round of questioning by inquisitive young Andrea Massoni. Then our host, who said he had overheard me mentioning a woman named Paolina, drew me aside. “May I ask her last name?”
“Paolina’s?” I blinked. “I was speaking of Paolina Marchetti.”
“And you know this woman?” His wife had glided up beside him with Santoro in her wake.
“I did, briefly, yes,” I replied.
“Could you tell me where she is?”
“Well, not exactly. The police took her body away this morning.”
“Her body!” Ruggiero Ricci all but glared at me. “Could you clarify that phrasing to me, Signora Blue?”
“She’s dead,” I explained. He was making me nervous. “Drowned in the swimming pool. I pulled her out, but it was too late. I think she’d been dead for some time. Did—did you know her?”
My host had paled, but more astoundingly, the chemist who worked for him exclaimed, “Paolina is dead?” and began to weep.
Constanza, who didn’t seem the sympathetic type, tried to comfort him while saying to me, “This is quite a shock. Most unfortunate.” She patted their weeping employee on the shoulder. “You must excuse Valentino’s emotional outburst,” and she handed him a handkerchief from her own beaded handbag. “Do control yourself, Valentino,” and to me, “I fear that our young friend suffered an unrequited love for Paolina, who was my husband’s secretary.”
I was dumbfounded. If she worked for the company that invited Jason to this meeting, why hadn’t Paolina mentioned it to
Now I noticed a resemblance between Giuseppe Moscati and our host, although Signor Ricci did not wear a green lab coat, but rather an expensively tailored suit, and he did not have round spectacles, which might not have been fashionable enough to suit his wife. I had only a moment to wonder if he had been Paolina’s friend. Then it was my turn to be introduced. The dog, thank goodness, the French couple, Bianca, Lorenzo, and their children, who had been petted and smiled upon by Constanza, had moved on to be served drinks.
“But where are your spouses?” Signor Ricci demanded after the introductions, as if cheated by the absence of Jason and Hank’s wife. Once Hank had explained the problem in Paris, Ricci said, shrugging expressively, “Ah, the French. Their workers have no loyalty to the bosses, unlike our good Sicilians. Well, I must wait a bit longer to meet these two scientists for whom I have such great respect. But not too much longer I hope. Signora Blue, your husband is a very lucky man.” Then, much to my astonishment, he leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Lovely, is she not, Constanza?”
“Delightful,” murmured our hostess, who then introduced us to Dottore Valentino Santoro, a fine-featured man in his thirties with sad eyes and an expertise in toxicity. “Do have drinks and antipasti,” said our hostess, and waved us in the direction of an ornate cabinet presided over by a dashing waiter. We moved on, making way for the Stackpoles.
Because I was an American, I was encouraged to drink bourbon, evidently provided specially for my husband, who was not here, and for me, although I don’t like it that much. I had to argue for wine. However, I had no argument with the antipasto and held a small plate of shrimp crostini, mushroom pate on toasts, and little fried zucchini sticks. They were lovely. Had our hostess arranged to have them brought in? Surely the plastic-duck chef had not provided them.
While I nibbled and sipped happily, I endured another round of questioning by inquisitive young Andrea Massoni. Then our host, who said he had overheard me mentioning a woman named Paolina, drew me aside. “May I ask her last name?”
“Paolina’s?” I blinked. “I was speaking of Paolina Marchetti.”
“And you know this woman?” His wife had glided up beside him with Santoro in her wake.
“I did, briefly, yes,” I replied.
“Could you tell me where she is?”
“Well, not exactly. The police took her body away this morning.”
“Her body!” Ruggiero Ricci all but glared at me. “Could you clarify that phrasing to me, Signora Blue?”
“She’s dead,” I explained. He was making me nervous. “Drowned in the swimming pool. I pulled her out, but it was too late. I think she’d been dead for some time. Did—did you know her?”
My host had paled, but more astoundingly, the chemist who worked for him exclaimed, “Paolina is dead?” and began to weep.
Constanza, who didn’t seem the sympathetic type, tried to comfort him while saying to me, “This is quite a shock. Most unfortunate.” She patted their weeping employee on the shoulder. “You must excuse Valentino’s emotional outburst,” and she handed him a handkerchief from her own beaded handbag. “Do control yourself, Valentino,” and to me, “I fear that our young friend suffered an unrequited love for Paolina, who was my husband’s secretary.”
I was dumbfounded. If she worked for the company that invited Jason to this meeting, why hadn’t Paolina mentioned it to
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