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ones I saw as a child, had led me to believe.
    Here in my beloved Italy, we are more civilized after centuries of warfare. There are, of course, still crimes of passion. Passion does not end with civilization. And there are thieves who will steal your purse, but not your life. Except perhaps in Sicily and Naples where violence continues as a way of settling disputes. Only the weapons are more civilized, the knife replaced by a submachine gun. Remembering that our hosts at this meeting were Sicilians, I crossed myself and glanced at my babies, playing on the floor with the dolls provided by Carolyn. Could the dead woman have been Sicilian?
    “Tell me about this poor dead girl,” I begged. “Was she beautiful? Was she from Sicily?”
    “I don’t know,” said Carolyn. “I only spent an afternoon and a dinner with her. She mentioned Perugia. Perhaps she was from there, and she was very beautiful. She had come to meet a lover, but he cancelled the assignation. She had dark hair and eyes that were—oh—just a bit slanted, very exotic. And she wrote poetry. We both loved the poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay.”
    “I do not know this poet,” I replied. “An American? Or French, perhaps?”
    “Millay was American,” Carolyn replied. “Her poetry was very—sensuous. About love. I think that Paolina may have been influenced by it in her teens. She also spoke of her desire for a variety of lovers, not to mention her irritation that the man she expected to meet here had not arrived.”
    “Ah, sensuality, lovers. A true Italian. Perhaps she was killed by love,” I suggested. Smiling, I asked if Carolyn too had been influenced by the American poet.
    She blushed. “I read her poetry when I was only eleven or so, and I didn’t really understand what she was writing about then. I was enchanted by the words, the rhymes and rhythms, and by the fact that the book belonged to my mother.”
    It seemed to me that Carolyn disapproved of the dead girl, of her lovers. Americans can be so puritanical about sex. “So how do you think she came to die in the swimming pool?” I asked.
    “I’m not really sure,” Carolyn replied, her face and voice as serious as a Reverend Mother asked to explain the meaning of a passage in the writings of St. Catherine of Siena. “I suppose it could have been a diving accident, although diving is forbidden in the pools.”
    I had to laugh. “What is not forbidden in this hotel? There are signs everywhere telling us what we cannot do, and booklets full of prohibitions in the desk drawer of the room. She would not have paid attention to such silly rules. But perhaps, heartbroken over her lover’s defection, she killed herself,” I suggested.
    “She didn’t seem like the type,” Carolyn replied, frowning.
    “But if she was in love—why not? Unless, of course, she was very devout. Sexual liaisons one can confess and receive forgiveness for, but suicide leaves one in sin and unshriven.”
    “Well, Lieutenant Buglione mentioned suicide, but to me she seemed more irritated than heartbroken. He also thought the lover might have murdered Paolina. Perhaps she was unfaithful, and he was jealous.”
    That hint of disapproval came through again. What, I wondered, if this American woman had murdered Paolina in a fit of Puritan righteousness? America was settled by all those censorious Protestants, from whom Carolyn might be descended, and now she lived in Texas, a violent place. “Was there any evidence that she might have been murdered?” I asked.
    “Damage to her head where it hit the side of the pool,” Carolyn replied. “If she dove from the pool above, wouldn’t she have aimed at the deep end rather than the shallow? And her ankles. There were marks on her ankles. Bruising. How did the bruises get there?”
    “That could be nothing more sinister than the marks left by ankle-strap sandals. My mother-in-law loves them, the higher the heels the better, but as she is older, the straps sometimes