Free Chocolate Quake by NANCY FAIRBANKS Page A

those down. “Perhaps I could make a photocopy of these pages, Mr. Timatovich.”
    “Why not? Just so you not taking book off desk. I am having pencil.” The security man produced it. “And pen.” He pointed to the pen, lodged by the page for the present day. Either I’d have to copy all those names or find someone with a copy machine and the authority to order Mr. Timatovich to let me take his sign-in log away. And do it without the director’s knowledge. It seemed to me that, even if she didn’t like Vera, she should have been interested in seeing the actual murderer arrested for the crime. Or maybe not.

13
    Help at Nutrition Central
    Carolyn
     
    F ollowing Mr. Timatovich’s directions, we walked along the hall of the A-building. On the right side were the offices of the director and the crime-scene-taped Business Office; on the left beyond the security guard’s table were an office for the Chairman of the Board, a board-room, and stairs to the second floor, under which was an area, obviously walled off as an afterthought, marked Toilet. Were men allowed to use the facilities? Or did they have to go elsewhere? If so, it was no wonder Mr. Timatovich had been away from his desk. Of course, the bathrooms might be unisex.
    At the end of the hall side-by-side steps and a ramp led down to the next building, which contained, on the left, the Crone Cohort, the toilet, and a storage room, and, on the right, Female and Fit, which had two doors. Conversations could be heard behind office doors, and music accompanied by thumps from the second door on the right, perhaps people getting fit.
    We descended to the third section and found a huge room crowded with cooking and dishwashing equipment, sinks and food preparation areas, refrigerators, a long table with chairs to our immediate right and to the left a small, partitioned-off office. It’s door bore the legend, Alicia Rovere, Food Lady. In various parts of the room, each decorated with appropriate, if somewhat garish murals, women were preparing food. I longed to scoot over to the Food Stamp Gourmet section, where something involving cheese and bananas seemed to be underway, but Mr. Valetti had exclaimed, “Alicia? Is-a you? Mia bellissima !” He was hugging a barrel-shaped lady in the office doorway.
    “Is-a Alicia Rovere,” he cried with delight. “ Moglie de mio amico Alberto Rovere, who’s-a make-a the gelato even better than mine, better than God’s.”
    “Bite your tongue, you heretic,” said Mrs. Rovere. “You want God to send a bolt of lightning through my door?”
    “God an’ me, we got an agreement. I make-a the pizza, Alberto make-a the gelato, and God, he make-a the beautiful women like you to keep us happy.”
    “Always the flatterer,” she said, and then to me, “Are you Bruno’s professora ? You’re too young and pretty for an old goat like Bruno.”
    “That’s very kind of you,” I mumbled. We forty-something ladies are always happy to be called young and pretty, “But Mr. Valetti—”
    “Is-a her mother-in-law I’m-a lose my heart to,” Bruno explained. “This pretty girl is-a Carolyn. Mio amore, she’s-a name Gwenivere. Soon as we get her outa the jail, you an’ Alberto come-a my house for pizza an’ meet her.”
    “What’s she doing in jail?” Mrs. Rovere looked astounded.
    “She was arrested for murdering your business manager,” I replied for Mr. Valetti.
    “Mother of God,” gasped Mrs. Rovere. “Bruno’s in love with the consultant from Chicago? She’ll break your heart, Bruno. I never met a woman with less romance in her soul. Why, she doesn’t believe in God. She doesn’t even like opera.” Mrs. Rovere shoved her hands into the capacious pockets of her apron, which she wore over a severe navy blue dress that came almost to her ankles, and frowned.
    “My mother-in-law doesn’t seem like Mr. Valetti’s type,” I agreed. “Nonetheless, he’s been so kind as to offer his help in my efforts to exonerate