A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (3 page)

Hands on hips and frowning, she called out to him in a harsh tone, “Hey, Jason! Did you light those candles like I asked you to? Is every one of those silver setups neat and straight? Those tables better be perfect, mister!” Jason, his expression blank, merely nodded and went back to his work.

“Go easy on him, Flo,” I said. “I know he’s not the most personable of kids, but he does his best.”

“Yeah, well, his best isn’t good enough,” she muttered.

“So, what do we think, chickadees?” Lori asked, gesturing to the gray sky. “We gonna stay ahead of this storm?”

But before we could answer, the first guests appeared around the corner of the building.

“We’ll find out soon enough, girls,” I said. “Ready or not—it’s showtime.”

A
long with the heavy canapé trays, I carried the fervent wish that my feet would hold out in heels. As I circulated a bit unsteadily among the guests, I came face-to-face with our redoubtable mayor, Anne McCrae.

“Why, hello, Victoria,” she said, wearing her best politician’s smile, a Hillary Clinton pantsuit, and a year-round leathery tan from too many hours on the beach, the tennis court, or her garden. (All three were places where she spent more time than town hall, that was for darn sure.) She’d lived in Oceanside Park her whole life; single and in her mid-forties, she was obsessive about bringing more tourism (read “dollars”) to our town. Anne barely tolerated my family, as we always seemed to be on opposite sides of town issues. And not long ago, when the Casa Lido found itself in some trouble, she swiftly lined up a buyer for the restaurant—one who planned to turn the space into a Starbucks.

But I flashed her my brightest smile and held out the tray of canapés. “Would you like a scallop wrapped in pancetta? Perhaps some prosciutto and melon?”

Her pale gray eyes held a hint of slyness. Was she up to something? “Yes, thank you,” she said, putting two of each on her plate. At least the woman knew good food. “How are you, Victoria? Isn’t the new Vick Reed book releasing soon?”

Darn the woman, she had an elephantine memory. Not long ago, I had made a hasty promise to speak to her book club this fall. But I kept smiling. “Yes, it is, Anne.
Murder Della Casa
comes out the first week in September.”

“Cute title,” she said through a mouthful of melon. “And very appropriate. It means ‘murder in the house,’ right?” She tilted her head in the direction of the blue shed. As if I needed reminding that a corpse had ended up in the Casa Lido garden. “And that timing works nicely with our book club meeting,” she added.

I ignored the jab and went with the lesser of the two evils Anne was setting before me. “I haven’t forgotten,” I said. “I’ll be happy to speak to your club.” It was time to escape, but before I could make a move, Anne put a hand on my arm.

“Before you go, dear—a word to the wise. Would you let your father and grandmother know that I don’t appreciate their rabble-rousing at town meetings?”

“I’m sorry?” I shifted the tray to my other hand, attempting to remain balanced in my heels. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

She gave a short, barking laugh. “Then you’re the only one in town who doesn’t. We’re planning to sell the carousel, and apparently the Rienzi family does not approve.”

“The carousel? But . . . but you can’t be serious,” I sputtered. “It’s a nineteenth-century carousel. It was made in Italy. All those horses are hand-carved. It’s a work of art. And you’re talking about selling it off?”

“Well, we’re hoping of course that we get a buyer who will keep it intact. But it’s too difficult to maintain and doesn’t bring in the revenue it used to.” She ate her last canapé in one bite and swallowed quickly, just the way a snake eats its prey. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Victoria, Richard Barone is over there. And his foundation has
very
deep pockets. Who knows?” she said with a wink. “He may even be in the market for an antique carousel.”

I steadied the tray, taking a deep breath. The Oceanside Park Carousel was something of a historical landmark in our town. We’d ridden it every summer of our lives from the time we could sit on the horses. I’d loved riding in the beautifully decorated chariots; when I waved to my mom and dad in the crowd, I’d felt like a princess in a magical carriage.
Every kid should have that experience,
I thought.
Who is Anne McCrae to take that away?

But I would have to save my righteous indignation for another time. I had a job to do, so I headed for friendlier territory, the corner of the grape arbor where my brother and sister-in-law stood talking, heads bent close together and blissfully unaware of anyone around them. It was good to see them close again; their marriage had had its ups and downs, partially because of Sofia’s involvement in my sleuthing adventures. But now she was newly pregnant, giving off a glow that rivaled the lights on the boardwalk. And my brother was over the moon at the thought of being a dad.

“Hey, guys. I’d kiss you both, but this tray is cramping my style. Anybody hungry?”

Danny’s answer was to put four canapés on his plate. “I’ll take a piece of melon,” my sister-in-law said, “but no meat.” She carefully unwrapped the ham and placed it lovingly in Danny’s mouth.

“You two are kind of disgusting, you know that?”

“But in a good way, right, sis?” My brother grinned. “We got a good turnout. Ma and Pop must be happy.”

I pointed over at the bar, where our parents were providing the guests with generous pours of house wine. “They’re in their element, that’s for sure.” I glanced at the darkening sky. “I just hope we can move this thing along before that storm comes.”

“By the way, Vic,” Sofia said, “where’s your mysterious date? Looks like Mr. Down on the Bayou is nowhere to be found.”

“He’ll be here, don’t worry.”

“Was he away again last week?” my brother asked. “Where does he go when he’s off on these jaunts of his?”

Good question, big brother.
I spread my palms out. “Who knows? He’s a very private guy.”

My brother rubbed his chin, a sure sign that his detective wheels were turning. I held up my hand. “Danny, I hope you’re not thinking of running a check on him.”

He grinned. “Did it already. No priors.”

“That’s comforting. Listen, he and I aren’t serious and I’m not in high school. You don’t have to vet all my boyfriends.”

Sofia unwrapped another piece of melon. “You say that like there are so many.”

“Moving away from my love life,” I said, “do you believe that Anne’s trying to get rid of the carousel?”

“I know,” Danny said. “There’s a big movement to save it. Petitions, even a Facebook page.” He glanced over to where Anne was still deep in conversation with Richard Barone. “I don’t know how much luck they’ll have, though.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t hear about it,” I said.

“You’ve been holed up in your cottage,” Sofia said. “Working on your
magnum opus
. How’s it going, by the way?”

I sighed. I’d come back to the shore to take a break from my mysteries to write a historical novel based on my family. But so far, I hadn’t produced very much. (Mostly because corpses tend to interrupt one’s work.) “Slow. I told my agent I’d have a draft for him to look at in eight or nine months.”

Sofia patted her barely visible bump. “Let’s hope we both deliver on time.”

“Ha!” I said, but my laughter died on my lips when I realized my grandmother had spotted us. Nonna threw up her arms in welcome, kissing my brother on both cheeks. I rarely got even one.
“Daniele!”
My grandmother always called my brother by the Italian version of his name, yet another sign of her favoritism. “Sofia, how are you feeling,
cara
? Are you hungry?” She pointed to my tray. “If you don’t like the appetizers, Victoria will be happy to go into the kitchen and get you something else.”

“Of course she will,” I muttered.

“Now, you two have a good time.” Nonna pointed a gnarled finger at me and frowned. “You, miss, start bringing guests to the tables. The boys will be bringing out the
bagna cauda
and the antipasto platters soon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said through my teeth. “Later, guys.”

After depositing my tray, I made my next round through the garden, attempting to usher people to tables. I was arrested by the sight of a brunette standing with Richard Barone. Both tall and dark, they made an attractive couple. The woman turned and began waving wildly. I blinked.
It can’t be.

“Iris? Iris Harrington?” I moved toward her as fast as my heels allowed and gave her a hug, taking in her familiar patchouli scent. But her perfume was the only thing that hadn’t changed about Iris. I stared at her curly cropped hair and her cocktail dress, patterned with purple irises. “What have you done to yourself, lady? You look amazing. And that’s a statement dress if I’ve ever seen one.”

As the proprietress of the Seaside Apothecary, our natural pharmacy, Iris was a well-known figure in town. But that figure was transformed. Gone was her long graying hair; gone were the hippie clothes and Birkenstock sandals. For years Sofia had threatened to give Iris a makeover, but somebody else had gotten to her first. And he was wearing an expensive designer suit.

“It was time for a change,” she said, her face pink. “Victoria, do you know Richard Barone?”

I reached out a hand. “No, but I know that your foundation does wonderful work in the community.”

“You’re very kind, Victoria,” he said. “It’s so nice to meet you at last.” He clasped my hand. “Iris talks so much about you and about your work as Vick Reed. And I confess I wasn’t a mystery fan until Iris gave me a copy of your latest. Well done.” He smiled, his teeth a flash of white against his dark beard and mustache. My hand was growing warm in his, and I could feel my cheeks follow suit. Barone exhibited a smoothness and charm particular to certain Italian men—Tim had it, and so did my dad. And so, certainly, did Richard Barone. It was easy to see why Iris was smitten and why she’d gotten that dramatic makeover.

“Thank you,” I said. “Listen, I’m supposed to be reminding you that the antipasto course is being served.”

“We’ll go find our seats,” Iris said, taking Richard’s hand.

*   *   *

“Hey, who’s the hottie?” Flo asked from behind me.

“Richard Barone,” I said, “head of the Barone Foundation.”

“Nice,” she said, nodding. “Bet he’s got a buck or two.”

“Yup.”
But he’s a heartbreaker,
I thought. A category of men with which I was a bit too familiar.

As the guests finished their antipasto, Lori, Florence, and I stood near the kitchen door waiting to start the dinner service. “Hey, Lori,” I said. “Are we about ready to serve?”

“If we’re not, we oughtta be,” she said. “That wind is coming in stronger every minute.”

“But your grandmother don’t wanna rush nobody, never mind the weather,” Florence said. “Hey, Bright Eyes,” she barked into the open kitchen window. “That pasta course plated yet?”

Chef Tim, aka “Bright Eyes,” answered with uncharacteristic good humor, “Just about, beautiful. Give us another two minutes, okay?”

“You got it, Chef,” she answered.

Tapping my foot nervously, I wondered where Cal was. Maybe the impending hurricane had kept him away.
Or maybe you’re being stood up?
But I broke into a smile when I saw a man walking across the parking lot. Was my date here at last? I squinted to get a better look at our visitor.

“Oh no,” I said, pointing to the stumbling figure. “And I thought the storm was the worst thing we’d contend with tonight.”

Lori put her hands on her hips and frowned. “You’ve
got
to be kidding me.”

Alyssa joined us, her arms full of dirty plates. “Oh my goodness,” she said, her blue eyes wide.

For there, in all his tattered glory, was Stinky Pete himself, heading straight for us.
“La festa!
La festa!”
he shouted, raising both arms in a celebratory (though shaky) gesture, repeating the phrase until he reached the garden. “Are we all having fun?” he asked no one in particular. As he stumbled among the tables, the guests smiled in a frozen manner or pretended not to see him. And more than one nose wrinkled at his pungent presence.

“Dov’è il vino?”
Pete called out. “Where is the wine? A man must celebrate at
la festa
, no?”

It was only a matter of time before Pete spotted the bar table. I hurried to where my father and grandmother were chatting with guests. My grandmother frowned at the interruption, until I tilted a head in Pete’s direction.

Nonna clasped her hands together. “Oh
Dio
,” she said. “Not tonight, of all nights.”

“Daddy, you have to get rid of him,” I said.

“No.” My grandmother put a restraining hand on his arm. “He sees Frank and he thinks he’s getting some wine. I will speak with him. He’ll listen to me. “

“Are you sure, Ma?” my dad asked.

She nodded. “Poor soul.”

I watched in wonder as my normally harsh and forbidding grandmother suddenly morphed into the Nonna I’d never known. She greeted Pete with a kiss on each cheek and took his hands in hers, speaking quietly to him in Italian. She drew him away from the guests, who’d begun to studiously avoid him, and their relief was palpable. As Nonna talked, she led him out to the parking lot; she disappeared inside the restaurant briefly and returned with a container of food and a bottle of water. He dipped his head, said something to her, and then turned to go. My heart contracted a little as I watched him lurch away.
I hope he has somewhere to sleep tonight
. But he had a meal, at least, and no wine. His shambling figure grew smaller and smaller until he rounded the corner of the restaurant and finally disappeared.

F
or the next hour or so, dinner service went off without a hitch, and we were beginning to think we might just pull it off. I was also beginning to think that I was indeed being stood up, until my date finally appeared. My face broke into a smile and I waved as he walked toward me. A transplant from New Orleans, Cal had a laconic charm that was one part Southern Accent and two parts Hot Cowboy.

“Hey, you,” I said.

“Hey, yourself.” He took both my hands and held out my arms as though we were about to dance. “Well, would ya look at you? Very nice,
cher
.”

As I looked at Cal’s face, it struck me that eyes said a lot about a person. Tim’s, for instance, were a changeable, stormy gray that pretty much summed up his personality. Cal’s, one the other hand, were a peaceful, woodsy green. I looked into them and was immediately comforted.

“Wow,” I said. “You’re quite a surprise tonight.”

“Why? Did you think I wasn’t gonna show up?”

“Oh no, it’s just that I’m not used to seeing you out of your work clothes—”
Victoria, you did not just say that.
One lift of an eyebrow from Cal was enough to set my cheeks burning. “I mean . . . well, you know what I mean.”

He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Sadly, I do. You mean I clean up nice, right?”

“You know you do. And I’ve seen you in dress clothes before. It’s just that tonight you look especially—”
Tasty
was the word that came to mind. But I was still enough of a lady not to say it out loud. “—nice.”

“I could say the same to you.” He stood close to me, putting his lips to my ear. “I like when you wear your hair up. ’Cause then I get to fantasize about takin’ it down.”

Despite dropping temperatures and a gusty wind, I was suddenly feeling very hot. But my mother’s voice provided the cold shower I needed.

“Hello, Cal,” she said coolly. “Thank you for coming.”

“Don’t you look lovely, tonight, Ms. Rienzi,” Cal said.

My mother nodded in a queenly manner, but didn’t answer. In my mother’s mind, Cal was a distant second in the Who’s Right for Victoria Sweepstakes. Tim would always be the front-runner. “Victoria, dear,” she said, “don’t you have some work to do?”

“You sound like Nonna,” I grumbled. “Let me just get Cal a seat, okay?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll catch you later.” He nodded to us. “Ladies.”

I watched him walk away, admiring the set of his shoulders in that suit. Next to me, my mother was about to let loose on the wisdom of getting involved with Cal. “Not. One. Word,” I warned.

“You know my feelings on the subject.”

“Indeed I do, Mother. Need I remind you that Tim is dating Lacey Harrison?”

She sighed. “No. Is she coming tonight?”

“Supposedly. But thus far there’s been no sign of her—” I was interrupted by a sound in the distance, a soft rumbling that boded no good.

My mother’s eyes grew wide. “Was that—?”

Before I could answer, the air reverberated with another soft
boom.
My mother grabbed my hand. “C’mon. We need to get everybody inside.”

In a matter of seconds, the sky darkened and the first fat drops of rain splashed around us. We went from table to table to gather our guests, smiling to mask our nervousness as the wind blew harder. As I watched the empty chairs overturning and the linens on the grape arbor flapping like sails, I was seized with a sudden fear. The wind whipped the trees; the creak of branches presaged the first sharp flash of lightning, followed by a thunder crack that set my heart pounding. The statue of Mary seemed to shiver in the wind, but her serene, sorrowful face betrayed no fear.

Old habits die hard, and as I grabbed chafing dishes and silver, I found myself reciting my own version of the childhood prayer:
Hail Mary, full of grace, please don’t let me be struck by lightning or hit with a branch. Help us get everyone inside safely. Don’t let the restaurant flood. And while you’re at it, make sure the dunes hold.
My little beach cottage would be vulnerable if there were storm surges.

The men heaved tables and stacked chairs; one of our temporary hires, a guy I didn’t recognize, his hair shaved close to his head, was folding tables at double speed. He carried two under each arm, his forearms straining.

“They go in the shed,” I called over the wind.

“Got it,” he said, without looking up. As he passed me, I noticed colorful tattoos on both arms, bright images of animals and leafy vines.
Hmm,
I thought,
bet those sleeves were rolled down and buttoned when he was hired or he wouldn’t have gotten past Nonna.

I followed Lori, Florence, and Alyssa, each carrying stacks of plates, and helped guide diners through the restaurant doors. After insisting that Nonna wait inside, my parents and brother directed it all calmly. There was an almost festive atmosphere as the guests pitched in, scurrying behind the waitresses and laughing as their napkins sailed in the wind.

In all the movement, only one figure was still: Cal. He stood under a tree, staring upward, his arms nailed to his sides as the rain fell on his face. In the next flash of lightning I caught a look at his stricken face; even in profile, I could see the fear.

“Cal!” I yelled over the wind. “Get away from that tree!”

He shook himself out of his daze and pointed toward the restaurant. “Get inside, okay? I’ll meet you there in a minute,” he called.

I kept watching as he joined Jason and a few of the other servers in shifting tables into the shed. What had happened to him under that tree? But my brother was at my elbow. “Inside, sis. Now!”

Once inside, Detective Daniel Rienzi took over, bringing the noisy, confused group to attention with two words. “Excuse me,” he said, and the room quieted. “First of all, thanks for helping us move this party inside, which is the safest place to be right now. We’ll keep you updated on the storm.”

I was surprised at the number of diners who’d opted to stay and ride out the storm with us. But shore people are used to bad weather, and we don’t like to let it get in the way of our fun. I waved across the room to Iris, where she and Richard Barone were sitting with Gale Spaulding, the town librarian. Anne McCrae was also still with us, shaking hands and chatting as though she owned the place.

After putting on a pair of flats, I helped Lori get people settled at tables while Flo and Alyssa started the coffee service; in the meantime, my dad went from table to table pouring anisette and amaretto, making sure the conversational buzz wasn’t the only kind in the room. Apparently, however, I wasn’t moving fast enough, because Nonna gave me the evil eye from the corner of the dining room; it was one of the more charming ways she summoned me.

“Yes, darling Grandmother?” I asked her.

“Don’t be smart, Victoria. Go see what’s taking so long to get the dessert out.”

“We only got people inside five minutes ago—” But she gave me a look that was known to wither tomatoes on the vine. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go move things along.”

I headed down the hallway to the kitchen, but hesitated when I heard voices at the other end. Tim and Lacey. She must have come in through the kitchen. Her light cotton dress was soaked through, providing me with a clear view of her toned, slender body. Tim was leaning over her with a white kitchen towel, smiling, gently drying her hair in so intimate a gesture my breath caught in my throat. But I couldn’t look away.

Tim and I had been apart for a long time. But you can’t undo your history. And standing there watching them, I felt just as I had the night that Tim confessed he loved someone else. As though I’d lost him only a minute ago and not eight years before.

“Hey, guys,” I said, my voice unnatural, my heart thumping. “Uh, sorry to interrupt, but they sent me to see if the desserts have been plated.”

“They’re good to go,” Tim said without looking up.

But Lacey turned around and gave me a warm smile. “Hey, Victoria. Bet they’re keeping you busy tonight. You look great, by the way. That dress is adorable.”

As much I wanted to hate Lacey Harrison, I couldn’t. She was gracious, smart, and frankly, a good catch for any man. When she’d first met Tim, she confessed to me that she’d had a broken engagement, and I found myself worrying about
her
feelings instead of Tim’s.

“Thanks, Lacey. And I am busy—in fact, I’d better get back out there.”

“C’mon, babe,” Tim said, putting his arm around her waist. “I saved you a plate in the kitchen. I know how you love my homemade pasta . . .” His voice trailed off.
In the kitchen,
he said. Tim never invited anyone into the kitchen, and he always made me feel as though I was in the way. As they walked away, I felt a sense of loss so deep that my very bones ached.
Stop it, Vic. Do not do this to yourself. And there’s a very nice man waiting for you out in that dining room.

That man was sitting quietly by himself at the bar. After making the rounds with a coffeepot, I found him sipping a whiskey.

“What’s up, handsome?” I kissed Cal’s cheek, still damp from the rain. “You okay? You looked kind of strange out there under the tree.” I was about to ask if he’d been having flashbacks to his experience in New Orleans, but his shuttered face told me enough.

“I’m fine,” he answered. “Just having a quiet drink here—can you join me?”

“Would that I could. We’re about to serve dessert.”

He briefly rested his hand over mine. “I’ll find you in a few minutes, then.”

I left the bar, and still pondering the mysterious ways of men, I caught sight of Father Tom coming through the restaurant doors.

“Is it bad out there?” I said, taking his wet raincoat and umbrella.

He brushed his hands over his cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “Bad enough,” he said, “but probably not the worst the Lord has thrown at us.”

“Have you had dinner, Father? We’re starting dessert service, but I can get you something from the kitchen.”

“Coffee and dessert is fine, Victoria.” He glanced around the dining room. “Is your brother here? I need to speak with him for a minute.”

“He’s at the corner table with Sofia. Is everything okay?”

“I hope so,” he said with a smile, but I noticed he took my brother aside to speak to him privately. If I knew my sister-in-law, she was burning up with curiosity. Well, we’d find out what was happening one way or the other.

While our guests happily tucked into cannolis, Napoleans, and our special shell-shaped
sfogliatelli
, Chef Massimo circulated among them. Resplendent in his high toque and crisp white chef coat, he shook hands and accepted compliments as though they were his due. Then my dad started the music going with the Other Frank who held a special place at the Casa Lido—Mr. Sinatra. While I hummed along to “Summer Wind,” its namesake was howling outside, accompanied by a driving rain that lashed the windows and beat a tattoo on the roof. I scanned each table to make sure the candles were lit, just to be sure.

“Hey, Vic,” Lori called from the coffee station. “Have you seen Alyssa?”

I shook my head, but Florence answered, “Last I saw her she was helping Jason with busing. Which is
not
her job, by the way,” she said, backing out of the kitchen with a tray of fruit. “I have no idea where they are now. That damn kid is never where he’s supposed to be, anyway.” She shook her head in annoyance. I frowned as I watched her serve the fruit. Why the antipathy for poor Jason? What did she have against him?

The subject of my thoughts emerged from the hallway, wiping his hands on his dark slacks. He’d probably had to use the bathroom.
You better have used soap, kid,
I thought. “Hey, Jason, have you seen Alyssa?”

He looked up and blinked, as though he hadn’t expected to see me. “Naw,” he said. “Dunno where she is.”

“Um, you can probably finish clearing the dessert dishes now.”

“Okay,” he said, and shambled over to pick up a clean tray. I shook my head and jumped at a tap on my shoulder.

“Looking for me?” Alyssa said, smiling, not a blond hair out of place.

“Actually, Lori was.”

“Oh, good. I wanted to ask her how we were splitting tips tonight, because I want to be sure the boys get something. Some of the temps are going home early.”

“That’s sweet of you, Alyssa. You know I don’t get a cut, so maybe share that among the guys. But talk to Lori first.”

“Will do!” she called, her ponytail whipping around behind her.
We sure have an interesting group of summer hires,
I thought. An aging coquette, a sorority girl, and a sullen, silent adolescent. I found myself wishing for September.

*   *   *

By about eight thirty, when the guests were lingering over after-dinner drinks, I saw Danny making the rounds among the crowd. Well-brought-up Italian children are trained to never leave a place without, as my mother put it, “making your good-byes.” Depending on the size of the party or the number of relatives, this process can take anywhere from ten minutes to an hour.

“Did you get a call, Dan?” I asked.

He nodded shortly. “Yeah, we gotta clear the beach.” He shook his head. “God preserve me from storm-watchers. These idiots think it’s fun to stand outside in a hurricane.”

“Please. You used to do it yourself. I remember you and Tim bringing your surfboards down there. Drove Mom crazy.”

“I didn’t know any better.” He glanced at his watch. “In a little while, people are gonna be hot to get out of here; it might be better for them to wait for the eye of the storm, when there’s a lull.”

“We can’t stop them if they want to go, Dan. But it’s raining pretty hard out there. And right now no one seems too concerned.” I gestured to the crowd, many of whom were now dancing to Rosemary Clooney’s infectious version of “Mambo Italiano.” It appeared that while music played and wine flowed, our guests were content to wait out the storm in our cozy dining room.

“Until the lights go out,” he said grimly. “I gotta hit it. Listen, if I don’t get back here, would you and Cal get Sofia home?”

I promised him I would. “Hey,” I called. “What was all that about with Father Tom?”