The program did not say where, but I feared it might be this hotel with its thoroughly boring entrees. It distressed me to think that Paolina’s last dinner had been duck, tough, greasy, and overcooked, with a skin like hard plastic. She had tapped her knife against the offending skin and been rewarded with a sharp, cracking sound. Jason had neither called nor arrived, although he was usually more considerate than to leave me uninformed. Was I expected to present myself, unaccompanied, for the evening’s events? I could hardly plead exhaustion. I’d been here two days and had, after lunch, finished the Hazzard book about Graham Greene on Capri while sitting on my balcony in a comfortably padded chair with the gorgeous blue green water of the Bay of Naples before me. Capri no doubt lay somewhere in the distance, overhung with the rain-bloated clouds that shrouded the peak of Vesuvius and the bay. Or was Capri in the other direction? When the wind picked up later in the afternoon and ruffled the pages of my book, I went inside for a refreshing nap.
What do You think about Mozzarella Most Murderous?
