A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (6 page)

She swept the clips into a container and held out her palm for the one I was holding. “Give it here. Now answer my question.”

I sighed. “Well, God rest his soul, as Nonna would say. But what I think is immaterial. Your husband is convinced it’s an accident, and it probably is.”

“I think that’s the consensus,” she said. “Have you seen this?” She turned her computer screen for me to see.

Nina LaGuardia, my favorite local news anchor, appeared on the screen as blond, bland, and perfectly coiffed as always. “Thus far there’s only been one known fatality from the storm,” she was saying into a huge mike, carefully angled so as not to block her face. “Mr. Peter Petrocelli of Oceanside Park was found in the carousel house behind me, dead of an apparent drowning. His death is currently under investigation. In other storm news, power is still out in a number of towns along the shore . . .”

Sofia hit
PAUSE
and leaned across the desk, her dark eyes gleaming. “What was Pete doing out there? Seriously: the carousel house? For what possible reason?”

“Shelter, I guess. That’s what Danny thinks.”

She shook her head. “Think about it. Homeless people have places they normally shelter in bad weather. Why wouldn’t he have gone to one of those?”

“We don’t even know what his usual places were. What if the carousel house was somewhere he normally went?”

“During the season, that rides pier is open until eleven every night. If Pete had tried to flop in any of those places, he would have been kicked out. And after it closes, that carousel house is locked up tight.” She grinned. “I know this because we tried to sneak in there once in high school.”

“Of course you did, you scamp. So you think someone asked Pete to meet him or her there?”

“I think it’s possible. It’s a long walk from the restaurant to that rides pier, and there must have been places along the way he could have taken shelter.” She looked up at me, and it was clear that we had the same thought. “Field trip!” she called, and scrambled up from her chair.

We stood outside her studio on the sidewalk, taking turns looking up and down the block. We knew the center of town by heart, and it wasn’t hard to name some of the places Pete might have stopped. Sofia pointed west. “Okay, the restaurant is about six blocks that way. But we can assume he didn’t try to duck in anywhere near the restaurant, right?”

“We shouldn’t rule anything out, but it’s not likely. Our awnings were closed and the hurricane screens were pulled down. There’s an overhang over the kitchen door out back, but we would have seen him there and shooed him away. And if he’d gotten inside, someone would have seen him.”

“Do you know what time he left?”

A good question. What time had Pete made his appearance at the party and how long had he stayed? “We were still out in the garden when he showed up,” I said, frowning from the bright sun and the effort to concentrate. “I remember we were clearing the antipasto plates. We started a little after four, served cocktails and canapés until about five. We took our time with the antipasto, so it was probably after six when he showed up. He was out there only a couple of minutes before Nonna whisked him away. It took her a few minutes to get some food for him, so maybe it was six thirty or so when he left. I watched him round the corner of the building before I went back to work.”

“Dang,” Sofia said. “We should’ve brought paper to start a timeline. Assuming he left the restaurant at six thirty, he would have gone somewhere to eat the dinner Nonna gave him.”

“It wasn’t raining yet, but it was windy. I don’t think he would have gone up to the beach,” I said. “But he could have plopped down anywhere to eat. One of the benches along the sidewalk or even one of the side streets. I guess it would be too convenient to find one of our specially marked food containers right where Pete left it, huh?”

“No such luck.” Sofia pointed to the busy, sweeping figures all around us. “If he left anything to show where he’d been, it’s cleaned up by now.” She shook her head. “Wish we knew the time of death.”

“Well, we can at least estimate the time of discovery of the body. The party was scheduled from four to nine. Do you remember when Danny got his call to go out?”

“I think it was about eight thirty or eight forty.”

“That sounds right. I remember he was worried about the lights going out, and my dad had been fiddling with the generator. I think the lights went out close to nine.”

“That’s easy to check,” Sofia said. “It’s public record. At least we have that to go on. I think Danny came back to tell us about Pete sometime between nine thirty and ten. I can check that with him.”

“Must you? He’s already lectured me once about minding my own business.”

“When?”

“Um, today, down at the carousel house. I stopped on the way to my cottage and the police were there, milling around.”

She curled her lip in disgust. “And you tried to play this off like you think it was an accident. Your first free minute you’re up on the boards snooping around.”

“Okay, you got me. But back to the matter at hand—assuming Pete’s body was found at nine thirty or so, what were his movements in those three hours? Did he speak to anybody?”

“Wait, Vic—I just had a thought. If the power went out around nine, that means the carousel house would have cleared out immediately. It would have to. Imagine the craziness if that merry-go-round was in motion and everything goes dark? There’d be a panic to get your kids and get out of there, right?”

“Hang on—that actually happened once during a bad storm in Seaside when my mom was growing up. The power went out in one of the arcades and kids were on the merry-go-round. It was this really famous story. Now I remember. After that, Oceanside Park put restrictions in place. At the first sign of a storm, the pier shuts down. You wouldn’t want a bunch of people on the Ferris wheel with no way to get them down, would you? Again, Danny would know if they shut the pier down last night and when. But you’ve got me thinking: What if Pete was already in there when they closed up?”

“It’s possible. But then why he was down there in the first place? And if someone killed him, how did the person get into the carousel house if it was locked? And there’s another question we need to consider, Vic: Who would want him dead?”

“And why?” I added. “Why would anybody want to kill an elderly, homeless alcoholic?”

It wasn’t until I was pedaling back to the restaurant that the answer to that question arrived in the form of Stinky Pete’s own words to me not so long ago:
“I have stories to tell.”

S
aturdays during the summer season kept us running: figuratively, as in business is brisk, but also literally, as in sore feet and no time to breathe. And on this particular Saturday, there were already people lined up on the sidewalk outside, some of them carrying computers. I slipped in through the back, where I found my mom and dad going over the lunch menu.

“Hey, guys, what’s with that line outside?”

“Oh, hi, honey,” my mom said without looking up. “There are lots of people without power and some of them had to throw food away, so I think we’ll have a busier day than usual.”

“Yeah,” my dad added, “and since we got power, I let people know they can charge their phones and computers here.”

“Too bad we can’t run an extension cord down to my cottage so I can pump that water out of the basement,” I said.

My dad looked up with a grin. “So you got my present?”

“I did, thank you. Maybe one of these days I can use it.”

“That power will be back on before you know it,” my dad said.

“I hope so. In the meantime, I could use a working outlet.” I hefted my computer from my bag. “Okay if I put this in your office, Mom?”

“Sure, hon. And then would you go help Nando finish prepping? We’re doing a limited cold menu for lunch.” She glanced at her watch. “We’ll be opening our doors in less than a half hour.”

And once those doors opened, I had very little time to contemplate whether Stinky Pete had been murdered or not. I was far too busy shuttling between the kitchen and tables of hungry customers, some of them working on laptops between bites. As long as my dad’s generator was humming, our dining room would be full.

Between my late night and today’s hectic lunch service, I was hazy and tired by the end of my shift. The minute I was done, I poured myself a double espresso. Grabbing a biscotti from Nonna’s secret stash, I backed in through the kitchen doors to find a quiet spot to eat it. Nando had gone, and Tim was just arriving to start the sauces for dinner. I took a seat well out of his way but one that gave me a view of his work. (Not to mention his broad shoulders and well-muscled arms.)

“Hey,” he said, buttoning his chef coat, “how’d lunch go?”

“Busy. People are kind of congregating here, which is nice, but I’m shot. This is the first I’m sitting down all day,” I said with a yawn, and took a fortifying sip of my coffee. “You’ll be hopping tonight, I think. And Chef Massi’s not coming in, is he?”

At that, Tim stood taller, lifted his nose in the air, and tossed his head in imitation of our temperamental head chef. “I find I no longer wish to work on the week
ends
,” he said with an Italian accent.

“Ha! Don’t let him hear you imitating him—he’ll have your head.”

Tim grinned at me over his shoulder. “Or some other vital parts.”

“True. Listen, I’ve got the onion and garlic prepped for you in the bins. They’re in the walk-in fridge.” I dunked my biscotti once—one must not oversoak them—and savored the coffee flavor.

“Thanks,” Tim said as he readied two stock pots. “So I guess your dad’s generator is keeping us going. Hey, did you have any water in your cottage last night?”

“Some, but Frankie left me a sump pump as a gift. Not that I can use it without power.”

Tim appeared to be studying the pots as he asked me the next question. “Did you stay there last night?”

“I did not, as it happened. Not that it—”

“Is any of my business. I know.” He strode past me to the refrigerator and came back bearing the onions and garlic I had so lovingly prepped. He held them up to me. “Good job, by the way. Your knife skills are getting there.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling a rush of warmth that had little to do with the hot coffee or the August afternoon. “When are you going to teach me to make fresh pasta?”

“All in good time, lass. All in good time.”

“So let me ask you, Tim—does Lacey find that Irish brogue of yours charming?”

“Lacey finds everything of mine charming.”

“I guess I set myself up for that one. Did she have a nice time last night?” As I asked the question, I flashed on the image of Tim toweling her hair.
Do not go there,
my subconscious warned me.

“She did. We didn’t have much time to spend together, though.” He shook his head. “My hours here are long. I gotta say, it’s kind of an issue with us.”

I tried to ignore the tiny lift of my heart at the mention of even the merest hint of conflict between Tim and Lacey. But I tried to be gracious. “It’s always hard in the beginning of relationships. But she’s a wedding planner; she must work her share of nights, too.”

“Not as many as I do. I mean, you know what it’s like, restaurant work. You grew up here.” His expression softened and he smiled. “Geez, I remember you in a ponytail following me around when I bused tables.”

“Must I remind you of the rules, Tim? There Shall Be No Reminiscing.” But I couldn’t help smiling at the memory of my thirteen-year-old self, crushing on a gangly, curly-haired busboy.

“I remember the rules, Vic. Believe me. But we can’t unwrite our history.” His words were an echo of my own thoughts. He set the flame going under both pots, and we were both quiet as he waited for them to heat up.

“Now, that’s a surprisingly elegant turn of phrase there, mister,” I finally said.

He turned to me with a grin. “And you think you’re the only writer around here.”

“Speaking of which,” I said as I stood up. “I’ve got to grab my computer and get home and do some work. I’ve got a ton of research I need to do.” I cleared the crumbs from the worktable and set my cup in the dishwasher.

Tim laid a hand on my arm. “Research for your book, right? Not any
other
kind.”

“Yes, for my book.” I gently removed his hand. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“C’mon. Tell me your wheels haven’t been spinning since we found out about Stinky Pete.”

“Maybe a little. I mean, I can’t figure out what he would have been doing in the carousel house, though. And why would anybody want to kill him? Then again—”

“Enough!” Tim held up both palms. “The guy was drunk and probably fell facedown onto a flooded floor. Please, we’ve been through this twice. Do you really want to put yourself in danger
again
?”

“I’m not in any danger! I’m just curious. And what do you care anyway?” I shoved in the chair a bit more forcefully than necessary.

“I’ll always care about what happens to you, Vic.”

My anger dissipating, I rested my hand on his shoulder and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Same here, Tim.”

I
would
always care about Tim. But was that a good or a bad thing? I honestly didn’t know.

*   *   *

By the time I sat down at my desk (I was back upstairs now, taking no chances), I was nearly convinced that Tim and Danny were right about Pete’s death. That his
I have stories to tell
was nothing more than the ramblings of an old man. Sofia was always too quick to jump on the Murder Bandwagon, and I was too ready to climb right up there beside her.
Nope,
I thought,
it’s time to get to work and forget about Pete’s death.

I opened the folder containing my handwritten notes for my historical novel. Set in the nineteenth century, it featured a character named Isabella Rossi, loosely based on my great-grandmother. Isabella was an Italian immigrant who had landed in New York City as a young woman, but that was about as far as I’d gotten her. Eventually, she’d get down to the Jersey shore and into the food business—hence my work at the restaurant—but both my heroine and I had a long way to go. As I sifted through the papers, I came across some scribbled pages from my waitress pad. On them were the notes from my conversation with Nonna about my mysterious great-uncle, Roberto Rienzi:

•
14–15 years older than Grandpa

•
died in Italy/no information about death? Documentation?

•
friends with Alfonso Petrocelli, brother of Stinky Pete

•
“got in with criminals” in Naples

•
Did Pete mean that his “stories” were about his brother and Roberto?

Here was Pete again, just when I thought I’d dismissed him from my mind. What might he have told me about my great-uncle? And I wasn’t sure I’d get much more from my grandmother. I drummed my fingers on my desktop and stared at the blinking cursor on my computer screen. Maybe Nonna wouldn’t talk, but Google was a font of information; I typed in “Roberto Rienzi.”

Judging by the number of hits for his name, I had more Rienzi relatives than I’d anticipated. Facebook alone listed a number of (presumably alive) guys named Roberto Rienzi. But if Zio Roberto had died in Italy, it didn’t make sense to search for him within the United States. I added “Naples” and “deceased” to the search, but after several minutes of scrolling through references in Italian, I gave up. I leafed through my notes again and spied the fictional family tree I’d created for my character of Isabella.

“Yes!” I said aloud. “That’s it.” I logged on to the first ancestry site that offered a free trial and typed in the registration info impatiently, my mind whirling with names and dates. I would concentrate on the Rienzi side, with my focus on Zio Roberto. Judging from what Nonna had said, my grandfather had only one sibling. That would make things easier. Or maybe not. I knew for a fact that my grandfather had immigrated here, so I would probably find him on this site. But if his older brother had died in Italy, shouldn’t I be searching an Italian database?
Before I deal with translating pages,
I thought,
let me at least try
.

My grandfather Francesco Rienzi was well documented. I found census documents, voting records, his draft card, and an address in Oceanside Park, where he attended high school and met my grandmother in the fifties. But his brother, Roberto, was another story—one about which I was growing ever more curious. There were a number of men named Roberto Rienzi who’d lived in Naples, but few fit my uncle’s profile; census documents that listed the people in my grandfather’s family didn’t show an older brother. I let out a loud sigh. This was turning into a waste of writing time. I gathered my notes in front of me, looking again at my bulleted questions, my eye drawn to one of the names: Stinky Pete’s brother, my uncle’s friend Alfonso Petrocelli. I made the birth year 1915, which was likely Roberto’s as well, added Naples as a place he might have lived, and typed in
Pietro Petrocelli
as a family member.

There was a 1932 ship’s manifest from Naples with an “Alfonso Petrocelli” among the passengers. I scanned the “R”s, just in case, squinting at the cramped handwritten lists: Raimondi, Reese, Reo, Rinaldi. No Rienzi.

Well, I would follow Alfonso’s trail and see where it led.
Okay, Alfonso, you’re about seventeen, probably on your own in America. You pick a heck of a time to show up, in the middle of the Great Depression. Jobs are scarce, so how do you make your way?

As I searched more and more documents for Alfonso’s name, my grandmother’s words echoed:
“They got in with criminals
.
”
Might Alfonso have continued his life of petty crime here? And that was when a 1940 census document from Atlantic City popped up on the screen. Atlantic City was home to all sorts of vices and all sorts of criminals, especially in that era.
Okay, now we’re cookin’.

I clicked it open, my enthusiasm dampened by my conscience.
Why are you doing this, Vic? Is it research for your book or for something else entirely?
Ignoring the questions, I read on. The list appeared to come from an apartment building, and the names were grouped by households. By 1940, Alfonso would have been in his mid-twenties, and there he was, along with another Alfonso, an older man, and a Pietro, who was younger—Stinky Pete. At some point, Alfonso must have brought his father and younger brother to America. But there was one more name attached to the Petrocelli household: Robert Riese.

Riese?
Hang on a minute. I clicked back on the ship’s manifest, my excitement growing. An “R. Reese” had traveled from Naples on the same ship as Alfonso. And eight years later, there was a “Robert Riese” living with them. My gut was telling me that
Robert Riese
was an anglicized version of my great-uncle’s name, and the same “R. Reese” on that ship’s manifest. The difference in the two vowels could easily be a spelling or handwriting error.

If my gut was right, Roberto Rienzi didn’t die back in Naples, but in fact, ended up in America. And that raised a looming question: What happened to him?