Free Murder Under the Italian Moon by Maria Grazia Swan Page A

buildings, only lights fleeing by. With the speed of the Mercedes, lamp posts looked like fireflies on a caffeine rush. The road narrowed to a single lane, and we climbed a hill. Gravel skittered under the tires. Both sides of the road had tall trees, so tall and so perfectly spaced they formed a natural canopy.
    What was a good Italian Catholic woman doing here with this man of mystery, anyway? The real question pounding my mind was: What was this fascinating man of mystery doing with this silly, love-struck widow?
    The sight of a gate interrupted my mental tug of words. Not a fancy or elaborate gate like the one at my complex, but a simple, sturdy-looking metal barrier. Larry reached overhead, hitting a button, and the gate opened slowly, no grinding or squeaking. It whirred quietly, and we drove through the yawning gap. He must have heard my involuntary gulping.
    "I live here."
    I realized we were high on a hill, and I could see thousands of lights twinkling below. I searched frantically for something to say, something to ask, but all I came up with was, "Uh, huh."
    "And no, I didn't buy the house with the cash from the lottery." I sensed a smile in his voice. He'd answered what was going to be my next question. He reached for something above his head again, and the hill in front of us became alive with lights, the gurgling of a fountain and a garage door opening to let the Mercedes in.
    I followed him up two steps and then through a door that led to a laundry room the size of my kitchen, but with a lot more cabinetry. From there we went into a large room with tall windows and taller walls.
    It must be what real estate agents call "a great room," but it was more than great. It was grand. My prediction of a seduction chamber died at the sight of the contemporary chairs and couch that weren't made of black leather, the common denominator of bachelor pads. I saw white linen with huge, overstuffed pillows. I moved slowly, feeling awkward and out of place.
    Not knowing what to do with myself, I followed Larry like a puppy exploring new surroundings. We turned a corner and I noticed a baby grand piano in the farthest side of the great room. Larry played the piano? We reached the kitchen, also white and wonderful, like the ones in the home and garden magazines Ruby subscribed to. Wait until Ruby heard about my escapade.
    Larry removed his suede bomber jacket and dropped it casually on one of the tall kitchen stools lined up against the huge kitchen island. He opened the door of the side-by-side freezer. The light reflected on his shirt, forming a whimsical aura around his silhouette.
    "Lella, you can choose what you like to eat."
    "You're going to cook?" My voice grated into my ears in the expanse of the room.
    "No, it's already cooked and labeled. Pick what you want, it goes in the oven and we can eat in about thirty minutes."
    I didn't move.
    "Lella, I have a couple who comes once a week. Peter cleans the house, Jim does the cooking and the laundry. They're good people. I've known them for over ten years. The food isn't poisoned." The smile lingered on his lips, but his eyes studied me. I stepped forward and he moved from the freezer. "You pick the meal you want and I'll get the wine. You okay?"
    I nodded and read the labels. Quite an impressive menu. All neatly pre-packaged so that whomever Larry brought home could admire the set-up. Why was I so angry? I was angry because I stepped into his car anticipating some kind of sexual overture. Instead he offered a TV dinner and a glass of wine. I pulled out a baking dish labeled PORK CHOPS AND POTATOES. It seemed like a safe choice.
    "Got it." I turned, but the kitchen was empty. That was when I noticed the photograph on the refrigerator door. It was a picture of Larry sitting next to a gorgeous girl, half my age and, at first glance, a natural blonde.
    I stood, holding the frozen dish in my hands, asking myself once again what the hell I was doing there.
    "That's Olivia, my