Free Hot Ice by Gregg Loomis

Come give Momma a hug!”
    Jason stood his ground. “At the risk of sounding inhospitable, might I ask what you’re doing here?”
    She shook her head, setting multiple chins in motion like Jell-O. “Doing? Well, I’m enjoying the company of your dog—Pangloss is his name? And I’m also enjoying a delightful and refreshing Piemonte this wonderful woman offered me.”
    Gianna shrugged. “ Signore, I no offer ennythin’. She ast an’ I …”
    Jason nodded to his housekeeper. “I understand, Gianna. Not your fault.”
    With a last resentful scowl at Momma, Gianna departed toward the back of the house.
    “Really, Jason, I wouldn’t think you’d begrudge …”
    He noted the customary dialect had dropped from her speech. Her English could be as precise as his when she chose. And he could guess whom she was trying to impress.
    “Think again. My privacy is my own.”
    Maria finally spoke up. “Jason, who is this woman?”
    Jason didn’t take his eyes from his visitor. “We used to do business together.”
    Momma rose with a grace one would not expect of a woman of her bulk, crossed the room, and smothered Maria’s hand in hers. “And you must be Dr. Bergenghetti. May I call you Maria?” She reached out to touch the scarf around Maria’s neck. “Hermès, right? Hard to miss those beautiful colors. And all this time I thought Jason was exaggerating how pretty you are! You’re so lucky! He simply adores you!”
    Jason was quite sure he had never mentioned Maria to Momma. For that matter, he realized with a jolt, he’d never said anything about having a dog, either.
    Jason sensed that Maria’s hostility, if not melting, was at least showing signs of a thaw.
    Momma led Maria back to the couch, still holding her hand. “And I understand you’re a scientist, too! You certainly don’t look like one.”
    Maria smiled weakly. “I will take that as a compliment.”
    Momma’s effervescence was as uncharacteristic as speaking in exclamation points.
    “As delighted as we are to have you here, I’m guessing this isn’t a social visit,” Jason said.
    If she noted the sarcasm, Momma ignored it. “Actually, you’re right. I do have a bit of business to discuss.”
    She looked pointedly at Maria.
    Jason shook his head. “This is our home. There’s nothing you can say to me you cannot say in front of Maria.”
    “Of course, darling,” Momma oozed. “It’s just that … well, I have no idea how secure this house is.”
    “Secure?” Maria asked, as though Momma might think the structure was about to slide down the hill into the sea.
    “She means she doesn’t know if anyone else might be listening,” Jason explained. “You know, bugs.”
    Maria was less than happy about the implications of that. “Why would anyone want to listen to us?”
    Jason was about to explain how in Momma’s business paranoia was like an inoculation against a potentially deadly disease when Momma went over to a pair of French doors. “It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t we all sit outside?”
    Maria remained seated. “No! I want to know why someone would, what is it? Bug, yes, bug the house.”
    Momma was already opening the doors that led out to a small balcony and a table with four chairs. “I couldn’t guess, dearest. All I know is that when I arrived here an hour or so ago, all everyone was talking about was the American who nearly got run over by a cement truck. How many Americans on this island, Jason?”
    “OK,” Jason conceded gruffly, “but I still want to know—”
    He stopped in mid-sentence. There was a man sitting at the table, a man whose skin was the color of midnight. Even seated, Jason could see he was tall, perhaps seven feet. His hands rested in front of him on the table, hands far too big for a normal person. But his most remarkable feature was his eyes. They reminded Jason of pebbles polished by a stream: smooth, shiny, and lifeless. The man slowly got to his feet, confirming Jason’s original estimate