Murdering Mr. Monti: A Merry Little Tale of Sex and Violence Read Online Free PDF Page B

collar and long sleeves. It was by far the brightest item in the Montis’ vast living room, which was decorated entirely in beige and white. Very traditional. Very tasteful. Very damask and velvet. Very beige and white.
    As I often advise my readers, compliments should beprecise, never global. If possible, they should also be genuine. I found, as I looked around the room (so different from our own audaciously eclectic green, brown, gold, and rust interior), that I could sincerely praise the flower arrangements, which ranged from a single white rose set in an exquisite bud vase to masses of white tulips exuberantly bursting from a fat china tub. I also assumed, when I cooed to Mrs. Monti about the beauty of these flower arrangements, that I had embarked on a sweet and safe subject. I was wrong.
    Mommy is great with flowers,” said Gloria, the oldest and most pregnant of the three Monti daughters. “But they’re always white. Look, I’m not saying use every color of the rainbow, but why not red roses, why not yellow tulips? Branch out, live a little, I keep telling her.”
    “And I keep telling her,” said Mrs. Monti, her voice trembling with emotion, “that she’s got her own house to put red roses in. I don’t want them in mine.”
    Annette, the middle and less pregnant of the daughters, shook her head with disgust. “But Mommy, you can’t just keep doing the same white flowers year after year, decade after decade. You’ll . . . you’ll stagnate.”
    “Watch your mouth there, missy,” warned Mr. Monti, as he poured wine into glasses set on an ornate silver tray. “I don’t want to hear any ‘stagnates’ around here.”
    A silence descended upon the room. When Mr. Monti had finished filling the glasses, he walked around handing out the drinks. “I’m only serving wine,” he said, “but you can have whiskey if you want.”
    There were no requests for whiskey.
    Josephine, the youngest and (please, God) the only non-pregnant Monti daughter, roused herself from hercustomary reticence to make her contribution to the great flower debate. “If Mommy likes white, I support her right to white.”
    Father Pezzati who, as I eventually figured out, was not hard of hearing but merely inattentive, now eagerly joined the conversation. “Of course you do, my dear. Of course you do. I presume everyone in this room supports right to life.”
    Without missing a beat, the Monti contingent murmured their assent. Particularly enthusiastic were the sounds coming from the beige-on-beige striped damask couch, upon which languished—like three variations on the Madonna theme—Mrs. Monti and her two pregnant daughters, all built on a heroic scale, with thick black hair, flawless complexions, and magnificently reconstructed (it takes one to know one) noses. It was clear that their capacity for challenge and dissent had completely exhausted itself on the flower issue. They were now eager to return to the familial harmony which, as Wally had told me, was never breached (at least until he came into the picture) on anything more controversial than tulips and roses. Mr. Monti liked his women docile and devout. And while he was willing to tolerate a brief debate on the merits of right to white, right to life was a closed subject in the Monti household.
    But not, needless to say, in the Kovner household. The question was whether integrity required us to state our positions or whether, in the interest of Wally and Josephine’s future happiness, we should keep our mouths shut. Fortunately, the Georgetown professor leaped in with a lecture on when life begins. This, according to him, was not at conception but at the moment that you and your mate decide to conceive. Why this should beso was explained at great length, taking us through our drinks, the announcement that dinner was served, and the first coarse, a hearty cheese-encrusted onion soup. It was obvious, as we moved on to the beef Wellington and scalloped potatoes, that the