A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (15 page)

Florence plopped down on the couch next to her son and crossed her arms. “We can’t help ya with that. So you can go now.” Her eyes darted to Jason, who ignored her. He was busy staring at his computer table, clearly itching to get back to it.

“I’ll go after I get some answers.” I looked at Jason, who stared back at me with a bored expression. “By the way, congratulations. MIT on a full scholarship. Well done. Guess you won’t be attending county after all.”

“It’s none of your business where I go to school.”

“Maybe not. But what happens at the restaurant is my business. Which of you gave Pete that wine?”

Jason shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Florence, who remained silent, fidgeted on the couch. She eyed an open cigarette pack on a table next to her but didn’t take one. I wasn’t getting very far with these two, so I took a chance and went with a lie. “By the way, the police know Pete was a petty blackmailer. Did he have something on one of you?”

Florence’s eyes widened and she stood up. “I gave him the wine. Not Jason. It was me.”

“She’s lying,” Jason said. “I was the one who gave him the wine. But it was just to get rid of him, that’s all. He stunk and I didn’t want him around. Last time I checked, it’s not a crime to give an old drunk a bottle of wine.”

“It might be if he dies as a result. So which of you was it?” I asked.

“Me,” they said in unison. Mother and son glared at each other and I sighed.

“Look,” I said, “I’m not trying to make trouble for either of you. But that empty wine bottle in the alley could be damning for the restaurant.” I paused. “Unless of course your prints were lifted from it.”

Florence swallowed audibly, her expression terrified, and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She was clearly protecting her son, but from what? I tried another tack. “You must be proud of him, Florence. He’s really talented. Most kids would . . . give anything to get into a school like MIT.” I’d nearly said
most kids would kill to get into that school.

“You’re damn right,” she said, her bottom lip trembling. “And I’m not gonna let anything get in the way of that. Jason was not involved with—”

“Shut up, Ma!” her son screamed. “What the eff is wrong with you?”

She grabbed his arm. “Don’t talk like that, Jason. Please, honey. It’s gonna be fine, really.” She turned to me, her face a deep red. “You get the hell outta my house now. You stay away from us, do you hear me?”

“I don’t think you meant any harm, Florence,” I said. “You just want the best for your son, right?”

“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out before I kick your skinny ass!”

I held up both hands. “Okay, I’m leaving.” I backed out of the room, unwilling to turn my back on either of them. I hurried down the front steps, but doubled back along the side of the building and stood under an open window where I could hear snatches of conversation. Florence mentioned that they were packed and then I heard something about them leaving tonight. To bring Jason to school, of course. His voice was a deep rumble, but he seemed to be disagreeing with her. Then Florence’s voice rang out clearly:

“. . . guy is gone. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

After that, they moved to another room, and I walked back to my car. Was Stinky Pete “the guy” Florence meant? What did she mean by
Jason was not involved
? Jason was not involved in Pete’s death? Or in something Pete saw and was holding over both their heads?

A
s I headed home, I thought about what I’d learned. The big reveal, of course, was that Florence and Jason were mother and son. A mother and son who were clearly protecting each other when it came to the question of who gave Pete the wine. Then there was the mysterious reference to a guy being gone. It seemed natural to assume she meant Pete, but it still didn’t give me much to go on.

By now Sofia would be at the studio, so I was on my own for a while. Back at my cottage, I sat at my desk upstairs, hesitant to use up the two hours of power I had on my computer. As I looked out at the beach from my tiny bedroom window, I mulled over what we’d found out so far. A dead man with ties to my own family’s past as well as to the Barones. A likely blackmailer who might have had a hold on any number of guests at the Casa Lido party, particularly Barone, Iris, Jason, and Florence. Iris in particular, as she was seen talking to Pete. Where did Alyssa fit in? And who was the tattooed man? Odds were that the man Sofia had seen her kissing was the same guy who’d worked the party. It was time to put in a call to my mom.

“Are you guys keeping busy with the restaurant closed?” I asked her.

“Well,” she answered, “your grandmother is cooking up a storm in preparation for reopening. Your father is busy making wine. And I’m spending time in the garden, harvesting the last of the herbs and tomatoes.” She sighed. “And trying hard to forget that tomorrow is the official start of Labor Day weekend.”

“The power will be back on in time, Mom. Don’t worry.”

“Right. Might as well tell me not to breathe.”

“Well, maybe I can at least distract you. I have a couple of questions about the night of the party.”

“This is about Pete’s death, isn’t it?” she asked, lowering her voice. “What do you need to know?”

“Who were the extra servers for the party? Did you interview them or did Nonna?”

“I interviewed them. There were six. Three of them were Nando’s cousins from Asbury Park—three brothers. We’ve used them before.”

Despite what Sofia had said about everyone being a suspect, Nando’s cousins were from out of town. It seemed likely that if Pete knew something about someone, it would be a person he’d seen around Oceanside. So we could probably rule out the Ortiz relatives.

“What about the other three guys, Mom? Were any of them from town?”

“In fact, they weren’t, but again, we’d used them before.”

“Did any of them have tattoos on their arms?”

My mother sounded puzzled. “Tattoos? No.”

“Are you sure? Because there was a guy in black pants and a black shirt helping stack tables when the storm hit; he had tattoos on both arms. Images of plants and animals. This doesn’t ring a bell?”

“Honey, I think I’d remember somebody with animals tattooed on his arms. And I can tell you unequivocally that we did
not
hire anyone fitting that description. Could he have been a guest who just pitched in to help?”

“Maybe.” My mind turned over the possibilities. A helpful guest wearing the uniform of a server who just happened to be Alyssa’s boyfriend? Had she allowed him to slip in to make some extra money from tips? And then I remembered: She
had
asked me about splitting tips that night.

“Victoria? Are you there, honey?”

“I’m here, Mom. Sorry. Listen, could I have the names of the extra hires?” I probably shouldn’t leave any stone unturned, but I doubted any one of these guys was a murderer. After taking down the info and promising my mother I’d keep her posted, I realized our head waitress might also know something about the extra servers that evening. I shot my friend Lori a text:

Hey, girlfriend, how many extra guys were helping to serve and clear last Friday night?

In less than a minute, she got back to me:

Seven. Does Nonna have you doing payroll now?

So Lori’s count was seven. But my mom had only interviewed six. I absentmindedly sent her back a smiley face, and thought again about the people at the party, particularly the one who seemed to have no good reason for being there: The Guy with the Animal Tattoos.

*   *   *

“I agree,” Sofia was saying, “that we can probably rule out the Ortiz cousins.” We were back in Sofia’s office, red folder at the ready, the desktop computer already powering on.

“But not our parish priest? Or the town librarian?”

“Not just yet. And not Miss Iris, either, now that we know she had contact with Pete that night.” She made herself comfortable in her desk chair and reached into a bag of trail mix on her desk. “But Tattooed Guy—we’ll call him TG for short—interests me. We’ve got him on the scene and we’ve got him with a connection to a Casa Lido employee. Maybe him and that Elle Woods wannabe are in it together.”

“Maybe, but my gut tells me he was using her to get access to the restaurant.”

“In the hopes he could get access to Pete.”

“Exactly. It was pretty well known around town that Pete hung around the Casa Lido.” I stopped to consider an unpleasant thought. “You know what, Sofe? It kind of freaks me out that our party provided an opportunity for someone.”

She shrugged. “If somebody wanted him out of the way, Vic, they would’ve found a way to do it. If we only knew
who
Pete was blackmailing,” she said, her nails tapping the computer keys.

“We don’t even know for sure he
was
a blackmailer or that he was even murdered,” I said. “Everything we’re coming up with is based on circumstantial evidence—Pete’s boasts, an old bankbook, and an empty bottle of wine. Not much to build a case on.” I helped myself to a few almonds from Sofia’s bag.

Sofia poked her head around her screen to look at me. “You’re forgetting something there, SIL. Our instincts. Both of us sense that something is off here.”

“But the police don’t. And we haven’t had any visits from County Prosecutor Sutton.” Twice recently I’d run afoul of Regina Sutton, a woman nearly as formidable as my grandmother. After the discovery of the wine bottle, I’d half expected her to summon me to her office for questioning, but thus far I’d heard nothing. “We need to ask Danny if there’s been an official cause of death yet,” I said. “And when they plan to release the body.”

“I’ve been asking,” she said, “but he hasn’t been answering. I’ll keep working on it, but I want to go back to the conversation you heard outside Florence’s window. Tell me again what you heard.”

“Well, there was some garbled talk, a lot of yelling, and then Florence’s voice came through pretty clearly. She said something like ‘The guy’s gone. You don’t have anything to worry about.’ I assumed
the guy
was Pete. What do you think?”

“Well, that’s the obvious choice,” Sofia said. “And I’ll definitely make a note of it. But I don’t think we should jump to any conclusions.”

“You’re sounding like me,” I said. “But you didn’t see their reactions when I mentioned Pete’s name and asked about the wine bottle.”

Sofia nodded. “No doubt they’re protecting each other. Tell me again how they acted when you accused them of giving Pete the wine.”

“
She
was terrified. But Jason, not so much. He just seemed impatient and angry. You know, I don’t know what to make of that kid.”

“He seems hard to read,” Sofia said. “You’d think he’d be happier, considering he’s got an opportunity most kids would kill for.”

“Funny, I almost slipped and used those exact words when I was talking to him. The question is:
Did
he kill for it?” I paused, straining to remember the conversation I’d had with Florence and Jason. “You know, Sofe,” I said slowly, “as a mother—and probably a single mother, as far as I could tell—Florence would be as heavily invested in her son’s future as he is. She actually said something to the effect of ‘I won’t let anybody stand in his way
.
’ Then she said ‘Jason was not involved.’ With what? I wonder.”

“Pete’s death,” Sofia said promptly. “Or something Pete saw.”

“Exactly.” I thought for a moment. “Florence said the guy was ‘gone.’
Gone
can mean a lot of things.”

“Right. It could mean
gone
like Pete is gone. As in dead,” Sofia explained unnecessarily.

“Yeah, I get that. But it could also mean
gone
as in ‘has left.’ What if they weren’t talking about Pete, but about somebody who’s alive and well?”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it. It’s almost Labor Day. Who leaves here around the first week in September?”

“Summer people,” she answered promptly. “And college kids like Miss Alyssa.”

“Absolutely,” I said, nodding. “If
the guy
isn’t Pete, he could be any number of people. That’s the problem. Without resorting to the needle-in-a-haystack cliché—”

“God forbid the famous writer should lower herself to such depths,” Sofia interrupted. “But I will: You think we don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding the person Florence was talking about.”

“And you
do
?” I shook my head and groaned. “It’s another dead end.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe our focus should be on the
event
itself and not the mysterious guy—whatever it was that Florence insisted Jason wasn’t involved in.”

“Okay,” I said, “but I’m not sure where to start.”

She leaned across her desk and patted my arm. “You’ll figure it out. I have faith in you.” She turned her eyes back to the screen. “In the meantime, I think we need to work on the Barone angle a bit more. We’ve got two names of men who were in Leo Barone’s inner circle back in the day—Bellafante and Domenica. I’m gonna look for relatives; I’ll let you know what I find.”

I said my good-byes and left feeling much less optimistic than my sister-in-law. I didn’t give voice to my doubts: that trying to find out what Jason Connors had gotten himself into would be difficult and identifying the mysterious “guy” nearly impossible. And behind it all was the nagging worry that somebody would end up getting away with murder.

*   *   *

It was already dusk by the time I got back to my cottage that evening. I pulled into my driveway, wondering what I could scrounge from my cabinets for dinner, only to find Tim standing on my porch holding a cooler. He held it out to me with a grin.

“You hungry?”

“This must be my week for visitors,” I said.
And men feeding me
. But I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t want to break Lacey’s confidence, and my relationship with Cal (or lack thereof) wasn’t any of Tim’s business. “Where’s your girlfriend tonight?”

“She’s got a wedding this weekend. Funny, I finally get some time and she gets busy.”

So Lacey was still hanging in there with Tim. I tried to ignore the tiny pang of disappointment that seemed to be tapping at my shoulder for attention. “Ah, I get it, Tim. You’re on your own, so you come and see good ol’ Vic, is that it?”

“Cut it out,” he said good-naturedly. “With the restaurant closed, I have to cook for somebody. Hey, if you’re not interested in hand-cut tagliatelle with my famous Bolognese sauce—”

“You mean Nonna’s Bolognese sauce, don’t you?”

“Okay,” he conceded. “It’s her recipe. But I made it.” He held the cooler close to my face. “It’s still warm. Can’t you smell it? C’mon, you know you want it.”

“I’m no match for a good Bolognese,” I said. “So you might as well come in.” I opened the door, and he followed me into the kitchen. I took down a couple of plates and two wineglasses. “Here,” I said, handing him the plates. “You dish and I’ll pour.”

Tim set the plate in front of me with a flourish, and I stared down at it. If I had to choose my last taste of something before I died, it would be pasta à la Bolognese. Bright dices of carrot studded the pale orange glaze; chunks of fragrant meat nestled among the eggy pasta. I leaned closer and breathed it all in, my olfactory nerves registering each separate ingredient: sweet onion, garden tomatoes, the rich blend of beef, pork, and veal, a touch of cream, and the faint notes of cinnamon and clove. And behind it all were notes of spicy pancetta. “Oh God,” I groaned, my nose practically in the plate.

Tim looked up, startled. My eyes met his, a smoky gray in the candlelight. As we stared, the air seemed charged, and my face reddened. “Sorry,” he said, “it’s just that it sounded like . . .”

I held up my palm. “I know how it sounded. Good food has that effect on me.”

He raised an eyebrow, his voice sly. “I remember.”

“Me, too. But that doesn’t mean we make that trip down Memory Lane.” I held up my wineglass.
“Saluté.”

“Saluté,”
he said, lifting his glass. “Go ahead. Try it. Tell me what you think.”

I took a forkful of pasta, scooped up some of the meat and vegetables, and placed it in my mouth. Then tried not to groan again; it was that good. I followed up with a mouthful of Chianti and my life was complete. “Do not ever breathe this to my grandmother,” I whispered. “But I can’t tell the difference between yours and hers.”

Tim sat back in his chair and smiled broadly. “I knew it.”

I shook my fork at him. “Don’t let it go to your head, Trouvare. Hey, why aren’t you eating?”

“I was savoring your reaction for a minute. It was worth the time I put in for that
ragu
,” he said, using the Italian word for
sauce
. He dug in, and for a while the only sound was the scrape of silverware.

I pushed my empty plate toward him. “More, please.”

He took my plate and filled it and then replenished my wine. After serving me, he took seconds for himself, and we chatted companionably about the possible sale of the boardwalk carousel and the rumor that power would be back on tomorrow. I was tempted to ask him if he remembered the tattooed server at the party, but I wasn’t up for a lecture about amateur murder investigations. When we were finished, Tim cleaned up the dishes and refilled our wineglasses.

“You know,” I said, “I kind of like you waiting on me.”

“Is that so?” He looked down at the table, a stray curl falling over one eye. “I didn’t think you liked much about me these days.”

I put my hand over his. “Hey. Look at me for a minute, will you?”