ACCIDENTAL DETECTIVE

January 7th - Murder at the W.T.C.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

An unexpected voice replaces the sound of my alarm.

"Good morning to you, Lucrezia. Did you sleep well?"

I look at her, smiling, with her head resting on the pillow.

"Yes, I slept very well. Yesterday's wedding was fabulous. I don't know how many toasts we made."

"Yes, I think we drank a lot. Thank you for inviting me over for the night. I might have ended up sleeping on the street."

Lucrezia's invitation was unexpected, just as unexpected as how the evening turned out. And now, here we are, lying in her bed.

"You were really tipsy. You talked and laughed, laughed and talked, and then you fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow."

"Sorry," I say to her, embarrassed. In fact, I only now realize that I have not even taken off my clothes. She, on the other hand, is wearing a nice warm fleece pyjama set.

"If you want to take a shower, the bathroom is over there. It's almost 10:00, and you have to go to the restaurant."

I look at the clock. I jump out of bed and rush to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, I come out wearing the same sweaty and wrinkled wedding clothes.

"I guess I'll be a very elegant chef today."

I laugh awkwardly, thinking back to the foolish figure I must have cut that night. I can already imagine myself, completely drunk, being escorted by Lucrezia to her home. She helps me sit on the bed, and I collapse into a deep sleep without even realizing that, for the first time in years, I am spending the night in the company of a woman. We hurry out and get into the car. After forty-five minutes of silence, we are in front of the restaurant.

"Thanks for giving me a ride, and sorry for showing you the worst of me last night."

"Don't worry, no problem. I was quite tipsy too last night. Good luck at work, see you soon."

She drives away, and only then do I realize I left my bag in her room.

"Damn. The journal is in there. And idiot that I am, I did not even ask for her mobile number. I do not even remember where she lives. Let's hope Joel doesn't need my help."

With some anxiety, I go to change into my work clothes, while a few colleagues make jokes about my outfit.

"Giorgio, did you party all night? Didn't even make it home?"

"Who knows what kind of celebration you had after leaving with your friend."

"You must have continued the party in style."

I laugh at their jokes, and, like all men, I bask in the teasing as if I had done something remarkable. But I just slept! I do not care what they say, I do not even care about work. All I care about is the bag. I hope Lucrezia notices it and brings it back to me before something happens.

"Giorgio, there's a call for you," says Anna, the owner. I go to the phone and answer.

"Hello."

"Hi, Giorgio, it's Lucrezia. I just saw your bag here. If you want, you can come by tonight to pick it up."

"Yes, thanks, Lucrezia. I will stop by tonight but... I don't remember your address, sorry."

She laughs heartily.

"Of course you don't remember. You were so drunk you could barely stand." My embarrassment is clear as my sweaty hands grip the phone.

"I live at 70 Po Street, in Chivasso."