A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (7 page)

B
ut Robert Riese was elusive. There was little besides the Atlantic City census information that pointed to a Robert Riese whose profile fit that of Roberto Rienzi. If that Riese was indeed our missing great-uncle, I had a whole raft of questions: Why did he change his name? Did he know that his younger brother had also immigrated here? Did he remain in Atlantic City? If so, that would have put him within forty or so miles of his only sibling, a brother who believed that Roberto was dead. Did Roberto fake his death in Italy to come here? Had Stinky Pete’s brother, Alfonso, helped in that deception and how much had Pete known about it? And more to the point—was that information dangerous to somebody?

I let out a breath and stared at my computer screen.
You’re getting way ahead of yourself, Vic,
I told myself.
You don’t even know that Robert Riese is the person you’re looking for.
Worse, I was getting distracted from my writing. Ostensibly, I was researching our long-lost Zio Roberto for that purpose, but his connection to Pete was dangling before my eyes like a bright shiny object, and I just couldn’t look away. But with less than thirty minutes of power left on my laptop, I wouldn’t get very far in my searches.

“Well,” I said as I shut down my computer, “it’s time to do this the old-fashioned way.” I got back on my bike, and in less than fifteen minutes I’d arrived at my destination—the Oceanside Park Public Library.

*   *   *

When I got there, the place was humming. On the west side of town, the library still had power; every computer was occupied, with patrons lined up to wait their turns. One of the tables had been set up as a charging station for phones, laptops, and devices. On another, coffee and water was set out with a sign that said
HELP YOURSELF
.
Library volunteers circulated to help and politely nudge people along. On the children’s side, parents were leaving with arms full of books, perhaps to read by flashlight later on. Gale Spaulding, the library’s director and our recent party guest, waved to me from behind the reference desk.

“I’ve never seen this place so busy,” I said.

“Isn’t it great?” she said, beaming.

“If you like chaos, I suppose. And I notice that every computer is taken.”

“Sorry,” Gale said. “But sign in, and we’ll get you on when we can.”

“Actually, Gale, can you point me to some books on Jersey shore history? I’m particularly interested in Atlantic City history, between the thirties and the fifties.”

Her eyes grew bright behind her wire-framed glasses. “Is this for your book? For the new one, right, not the mysteries?”

“Yes, it’s for the historical. And a little family research as well.”

“Come right this way,” Gale said. “We’ve actually got a display over here.” She led me to a shelf of books and handed me a thick hardcover. “This one’s fun. It’s about famous murders along the shore.”

On the cover was a mug shot of a smirking but dead-eyed killer, a lock of greasy hair across his forehead. “Well, isn’t he attractive?” I said. “But he does look like he’s from the period I’m interested in. Gale, is it okay if I grab a few of these and find a quiet place to read them?”

“Help yourself. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the desk.”

Besides the book about murders, I took another about the history of Atlantic City and a third that focused on immigrant groups at the shore. I doubted I’d find Robert Riese in any of the indexes, but I could at least get a feel for the period. Since the only unoccupied place I could find was in the children’s room, I squeezed into a small chair, feeling like an overgrown Goldilocks. But I forgot my discomfort quickly enough.

Apparently, the Jersey shore had been a hotbed of crime in its day, and the loathsome guy on the hard cover was only one example of some pretty heinous types. Thankfully, Robert Riese wasn’t among them. Setting the murderers aside for a moment, I focused on the book about Atlantic City. Having only my grandmother’s word on it, I was operating under the assumption that Alfonso and Robert/Roberto had carried their nefarious ways into their new country, but if they were small-time criminals, it wasn’t likely their names would end up in the history books. Still, I turned to a chapter on mob activities with hope in my heart.

By the time of the 1940 census in which Alfonso and Robert Riese appeared, “America’s Favorite Playground” was nearing the end of its glory days. Prohibition had ended in 1933, so the lucrative bootlegging that went on in the days of Nucky Johnson were long over. But depending upon when they arrived in Atlantic City, that didn’t mean the two men might not have been involved in the tail end of it or in two of the city’s other favorite pastimes—gambling and prostitution.

Johnson, of course, had been the big crime boss and was still famous enough to be the subject of a cable drama. But the pages devoted to Johnson had no mention of either men, and by 1941, Johnson was in prison. It was more likely that Alfonso and Roberto occupied the fringes of the Atlantic City underworld, making them that much more difficult to find. I sighed and looked at the wall clock; the library would be closing in less than a half hour. Flipping to the center section of the book, I leafed through pages of chronologically arranged photographs, stopping at those taken in the 1940s. Face after face looked the same—menacing, dark-haired, dark-eyed men wearing low-brimmed hats and blank expressions. I was about to give up when my eye was caught by a caption under a group shot:

Leo Barone, a small-time bootlegger who coexisted uneasily with Enoch “Nucky” Johnson, extended his influence to other criminal activities, notably gambling, after Prohibition ended. While not having the high profile of Johnson or later Atlantic City mobsters such as Skinny D’Amato, Barone wielded much influence in the Italian neighborhood of Ducktown in the late forties and early fifties. Shown here are Barone, Alfonse “Alfie” Petrocelli, and three other unidentified men. Barone died in 1958.

The name
Barone
seemed alive on the page, lifting itself from the very sentence it occupied. I stared at the image of the five men, goose bumps prickling up and down my arms. Who were the three unidentified men? Was one of them Robert Riese, aka Roberto Rienzi? The man identified as Alfonso looked to be in his early thirties; Roberto would be his age. I brought the book over to the window and held it up in the light for a better look.

In the grouping of three, the youngest man stood in the middle, wearing a fedora pushed back on his head. Unlike the others, he was grinning, cocky, and familiar.
So familiar
. There was no doubt in my mind that the man in the fedora was a Rienzi, from his crinkly-eyed smile to his taste in haberdashery. Because in the right light, I might have been looking at a picture of my father. Only he wasn’t my father. I knew instinctively that this man was his long-lost, supposedly dead uncle—alive and well in Atlantic City, circa 1948.

Despite the warmth in the children’s room, a chill traveled down my spine as the litany of names spelled themselves out in my head: Robert Riese and Roberto Rienzi. Alfonso and Peter Petrocelli. Leo Barone and Richard Barone. Barone was a common enough name, but there were only so many coincidences I was willing to accept. There was a trail here—a cold one, perhaps, but a trail all the same. And it led straight to Richard Barone.

*   *   *

I left the library clutching the three books like a lifeline, and wobbled down Ocean Avenue on my bike through the late-day shore traffic. Without even thinking about it, I headed back to the restaurant. They’d be busy, but I had to find my dad. I tore through the kitchen, ignoring Tim’s confused look, and headed straight for the basement, where I found my dad turning his wine bottles.

“Oh, you are down here! Good,” I said breathlessly.

“Everything okay, baby?” He stood up and walked toward me, concern on his face.

“Yeah. I . . .” Some impulse made me duck the book behind my back. I’d come charging over here to show my dad the picture and pepper him with questions, but I hadn’t thought it through. For one thing, he told my mother
everything.
And there was no way he’d keep something like this from Nonna, either. If they thought I was snooping into Pete’s death, there’d be a hell to pay that even Dante wouldn’t recognize. So I took my usual cowardly way out—I stalled for time. “So, how’s the latest vintage?”

“Good, I think. People seemed to like it.” He frowned as he looked at the racks. “I guess we went through more of my stock than I thought,” he said. “Pretty soon I’ll need to make another batch.” He rubbed his hands together. “Hey, wanna help me, honey?”

“Sure, Dad,” I lied. “One of these days.” But it wasn’t winemaking I needed to learn about; it was the mysterious Robert Riese. “So, listen, I’ve been doing some research for the new book, and there were some things I was wondering about.”

“Sure, honey. What can I help you with?”

“Family stuff, mostly. Okay, so when Grandpa Francesco came over here, he was young, right?”

My father tilted his head and screwed up his face in thought. “It was near the end of World War Two, so I wanna say he was thirteen, fourteen, maybe.”

“Do you know where he lived before they came to Oceanside?”

“Somewhere in south Jersey, I think. They had a farm down there and sold produce out of a truck.”

“Actually, I remember hearing some of this,” I said. “Because Nonna’s family already had the restaurant, right? So that was probably how they came into contact with each other.”

“Absolutely,” my dad said. “Your great-grandpa and my dad delivered produce all over down here. Even to Atlantic City.”

My hands tightened on the book. “Really? Atlantic City?”

He nodded. “There was a big Italian community down there—place called Ducktown. But a number of them restaurants were owned by some scary guys, if you know what I mean. After a while, my grandfather just stopped delivering to them. It wasn’t worth the risk.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about Ducktown. And some of the, uh, colorful characters who lived there.”
Just a few minutes ago, in fact.
Was it possible that my great-grandfather had crossed paths with the son he thought was dead? Still clutching the book in my now sweaty hand, I asked another question. “Dad, Nonna mentioned that Grandpa had an older brother, Roberto, who died back in Naples. What do you know about him?”

He leaned against the wine shelves, his arms crossed. “Well, I know he was much older than my pop and that he barely remembered him. He mighta been a bit of a wise guy back in the old country, because one day he just up and disappeared. They never talked about him. It was like they were ashamed of him.”

“Nonna said the same thing. I just wish I knew more about him. For the book, I mean,” I added hastily.

“Not much to know, babe,” he said with a shrug. “It’s ancient history.”

Not so ancient as you think, Dad.
“Okay. Well, if you think of anything else about Zio Roberto, let me know, okay?”

“You got it, sweetheart.”

I was halfway up the stairs when I heard him call out to me, “Hang on a minute, Vic. There is one more thing. ’Member I said that they never talked about my uncle? Well, that’s not completely true. My nonna once told me I looked just like Roberto.” He turned to me with a wink. “Musta been a handsome guy, right?”

“I’m sure he was, Dad,” I said, suppressing a shiver as I remembered the bold grin so like my father’s. “I’m sure he was.”

I
sabella set the grocery sack down on the small table in the kitchen that was shared by three other women—her zia Concetta and her two cousins, Theresa and Lucia. As she was the first one home, it was up to her to begin
la cena
, or evening meal. As she carefully sliced the fresh bread, she . . .

She . . . thought about her day? Wondered if she’d ever get out of the garment factory? Cut her finger? I let out a loud sigh.

“What am I going to do with you, Isabella?” I said to the computer screen. “I’ve got to get you out of the city, out of the garment factory, and away from those awful cousins of yours so you can meet Tomasso and start your produce business. And I’ve got about forty minutes left on this battery.”

I sat back against my plush desk chair, a small luxury I’d allowed myself since moving back to Oceanside. In the three months I’d been here, I hadn’t completed nearly enough of the new book. Not to mention that my latest Bernardo Vitali mystery was releasing in little more than a week, and I had a ton of promotion to do. And all the while I had to stop my ears from the siren song of those three library books. I pushed them to the corner of my desk, willing myself not to look at that picture again, at the man I was certain was Zio Roberto.

I’d sat up last night with a flashlight, going back through the books for other mentions of the Barones or Petrocellis, to no avail. Now I only had a few precious minutes left on my computer battery, and I couldn’t waste them on ancestry Web sites or Google searches of Leo Barone. In fact, I had a much better idea.

“Sofe,” I whispered into the phone, “are you alone?”

“Yes, and why are you whispering?”

“Oh, sorry. I was worried Danny might be there.”

“He’s on duty till six.”

“Great. That gives me plenty of time before I have to go to the restaurant at four. I have some stuff to fill you in on, and I’m heading over right after I take a shower. Oh, can I blow-dry my hair there?”

“Only if you let me do it. I’ve seen your version of style.”

“Deal. See you in a few.”

In less than a half hour I was at Sofia’s door, hair dripping wet and a large messenger bag over my shoulder.

“What the heck have you got in here?” Sofia took the bag from me and set it down on her kitchen counter.

“Just a few things. Some books. A notebook. My computer and cord. My phone charger. My hair dryer. My shaver.”

“Your shaver?”

“It’s out of power. I was hoping I could charge it while we talk; you should see my legs. I look like Sasquatch Italian-style.”

She held up her hand. “No, thanks. And I don’t know why you don’t get them waxed like normal people.”

I grinned. “You mean like pretty Italian princesses. Hey, wanna hear another shocker?” I dropped my voice. “I polish my own nails, too.”

“Okay, stop giving me crap and tell me what you came over here for. But get in this chair first so I can fix that mess on your head.”

Over the sound of the blow dryer, I told her about my Internet research and my trip to the library.

“So, do you think you can pick up with the family tree stuff?” I shouted. “I’ll send you a link to the site and we can change the account over.”

Sofia nodded and patted her slightly swelled belly. “I’ve got the perfect excuse.” She widened her eyes in a semblance of innocence. “After all, my baby should know all about his heritage, right?”

“Or
her
heritage,” I said, crossing my fingers in the air. “I’m still holding out for baby Isabella.”

“And I’m still not naming this baby after one of your characters, so don’t hold your breath. And sit still so I can finish this, please.”

After I was smoothly styled, we sat at her table talking while we sipped decaf espressos.

“Vic,” Sofia asked, “are you really convinced that this Riese guy is your great-uncle?”

Instead of answering, I opened the book about Atlantic City, found the photo section, and pointed. Sofia frowned and read the caption aloud, her eyes flicking back to the picture. Her mouth dropped open and she gave a little gasp. “Oh my God,” she said. “It’s your father. Right down to the hat.”

I nodded. “It’s eerie, isn’t it? And when I asked him about his uncle, he said that his grandmother once told him he looked like Roberto.”

She closed the book. “Well, you sold me. But if Roberto was in Atlantic City, he would have been within miles of his parents and younger brother.” Sofia shook her head. “To think they believed he was dead and here he was, right in the same state.”

“Maybe even the same city. My dad said my grandfather and his parents came here near the end of World War Two, so let’s say 1944 or 1945. We know Roberto is already here from the ship’s manifest and the 1940 census. The photo is dated 1948, so they definitely overlapped. But even if Roberto somehow knew his family was nearby, my gut’s telling me he wanted to stay hidden.”

“The name change,” Sofia said. “He and Alfonso came over together, but Alfonso kept his Italian name, so why would Roberto have changed his? Unless he pissed off some seriously scary people back in Naples.”

I nodded. “It makes sense. He gets in trouble there, so he changes his name and takes off for America, letting his whole family think he’s dead.”

“To protect them, I bet!” Sofia’s voice rose in excitement. “The Italian Mafia—they were called the Black Hand, right? They didn’t fool around; they’d go after people’s families for revenge.”

“Absolutely. That has to be why he took off. And don’t forget, it was probably a lot easier to stay hidden in the 1940s, before computers and cell phones. He could blend right in with all the other Italian immigrants in Atlantic City.”

“True. But he was still taking a chance.”

“Look, the guy was reckless,” I said. “He gets here and instead of looking for a legit job, he picks up right where he left off. As Nonna put it,
he got in with criminals
.”

“The Barones,” Sofia said, tapping the cover of the book. “We need to find out more about Leo Barone.”

“It’s Richard Barone I’m more interested in.”

A wicked grin spread across my sister-in-law’s face. “Watch it, or your friend Iris will scratch your eyes out.”

“I didn’t mean
interested
that way. Though he is a good-looking guy, and you’re right: Iris is besotted with him.”

Sofia’s face was blank. “
Besotted
? Is that good?”

“Actually, no. It means you’re so infatuated that your judgment’s impaired.”

“You mean like how Cher is over Nicolas Cage in
Moonstruck
?”

I laughed. “Something like that.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Or how you were about Tim back in the day?”

This one wasn’t so funny. “Okay, yes, I was
besotted
with Tim. But it’s Iris I’m worried about.”

“But what does it matter if she’s crazy about Barone?”

“It matters if he’s a bad guy.”

Sofia pointed with her coffee cup. “All I’ve ever heard about him is that he’s a
good
guy. If I’m following your logic, you think that Pete knew something about Leo Barone—through his brother, Alfonso—that threatened Richard in some way. Am I right?”

“Well, it’s possible, isn’t it? Barone was at the party. And he could be hiding something about his family’s involvement with the mob.”

“But what, Vic? He’s made no bones about his relative’s criminal activities; I read an interview with him once and he was honest about it. Talked about his family’s ‘unfortunate past’ and how it inspired him to do charitable work.”

“Even so, what if there was something he didn’t want coming out? Something that would be too serious and too big to overcome by throwing his money around?”

“Such as?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? I can’t help wondering if Pete had incriminating information about the Barones. You saw that census record. Pete lived with his brother and Robert Riese in Atlantic City; he must have been privy to a lot of stuff.”

“Maybe,” Sofia said. “But without more to go on, it’s a big leap to Richard Barone as a murderer. I just wish we knew more about Robert, Alfonso, and Leo Barone.”

“Me, too, Sofe. But I suspect the one person who had that information is dead.”

*   *   *

When I got to the Casa Lido later that afternoon, both the restaurant and my father’s generator were up and running. Out in the dining room, Lori and Florence were putting clean linens on the tables.

“Hey, girls,” I called. “Want me to make setups?”

“Please, hon,” Florence said. “Everything’s out and ready on the family table.”

“So they’ve got all three of us on tonight,” I said as I carefully folded our red-and-white-checked napkins into pockets for the forks and knives. I’d learned to do this as a little girl, and it was my only claim to fame at the Casa Lido.

“Yup,” Lori said. “I think everyone in town with an electric stove is coming in for dinner.”

“Ya’d think they’d never heard of a grill,” Florence mumbled. “My feet can’t take this.”

“You can go early if it quiets down, Flo,” I said. “I’ll stay.” I looked around the empty dining room. “Do we have any busboys coming in tonight?”

“Just Jason,” Florence said. “For all the good he is.”

“You really don’t like him, do you?” Lori said, snapping a fresh cloth onto the last table.

She shrugged a skinny shoulder. “What’s to like? He’s just another rude teenager. Like that Alyssa—how come she gets the whole weekend off?”

From the corner of my eye I could see that Flo was still frowning at the thought of our sullen busboy and sorority girl waitress. But it struck me that what came across as Jason’s rudeness might have been shyness or insecurity. Whatever it was, he’d better get here soon, or we’d be clearing our own tables tonight.

“Well, girls, these are all done,” I said, getting up from the table. “But those veggies ain’t gonna prep themselves. See you out here for service in an hour.”

In the kitchen, Nando, our line cook, had gotten a start on the vegetables. I watched in wonder as he furiously chopped carrots, turning out perfectly even discs that were all the same size.

“You have mad knife skills, Nando.”

He dipped his head and grinned, his knife still moving at double speed. “Thank you, Miss Victor.”

“Nando, I’ve known you fifteen years—don’t you think it’s time you called me
Victoria
? Or
Vic
? I answer to both.”

He shook his head, his long black braid moving from side to side. “I don’t think so. It would be too . . .
extraño.”

“Too strange? Like calling my grandmother by her first name instead of
senora
?”

“Sì,”
he said, a wide grin on his round face. “Eh-zackly. Oh, she leave you her notes there.”

“I’ll bet she did.” I tied my apron around my waist and pulled the yellow pad closer. Then I groaned. “I have to seed tomatoes? Is she kidding?”

“No, she’s not,” Tim said as he came in the back door. “It’s for my tomato coulis.”

“But it all goes in the blender, Tim.”

“That doesn’t mean I want seeds in it.” He went over to the sink to begin the long process of washing up to his elbows. I’d say this for the guy—he ran a clean kitchen.

“Okay,” I muttered. “Seeding tomatoes is the first order of the day.”

“Nope,” Tim said. He dried his hands and pointed to a basket of garden tomatoes. “Blanching and peeling them is.”

“It’s gonna take me forever,” I said, filling a stock pot with water. The tomatoes had to be gently dropped into boiling water, and then shocked in ice water before they could be peeled. And I couldn’t do too many at once, so I’d be stuck back here for at least an hour. But maybe it wouldn’t be such a waste of time after all. I set the heat on under the pot and covered it, thinking about how to broach the subject that was uppermost in my mind. I filled a bowl with water and ice, trying to keep my tone casual.

“So, that was quite the party on Friday night, huh, guys?”

The only responses were a Spanish-inflected
uh-huh
followed by a grunt I recognized as Tim’s. I tried again. “It’s great that Frankie’s generator is working. It sure kept us going the other night.”

“Still is,” Tim said. “That water boiling yet, Vic?”

Of course it wasn’t, and if Tim thought he was going to distract me, he was dead wrong. “Uh, not yet. So, what did you guys think of Stinky Pete showing up like that? Crazy, huh?”

“God rest his soul,” Nando said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, the poor guy,” I said. “Hey, did either of you talk to him that night?”

“I jus’ tell him he has to go,” Nando said with a shrug.

“When was that, Nando?” I asked.

“After your grandmother give him the food. He was still hanging around.”

For how long?
But before I could ask, Tim was at my shoulder. “Cut it out, Vic,” he said in a low voice. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“Please,” he said, shaking his head. “Listen, I need some sun-dried tomatoes.”

“In the pantry,” I said, knowing he expected me to happily fetch them for him. But I merely pointed the way.

Tim was barely out of the kitchen before I pounced. “So, Nando, did you actually see Pete leave?”

He nodded. “Yes. I see him pass me with the two bags and then he walk toward the boards.”

“The boardwalk, you mean? Hang on—did you say
two
bags?”

“
Sì
, two bags. A white plastic one that has the food in it, and another brown one that has the, you know—” He curled his hand into a fist, lifting it as though holding something.

“You mean handles? Like a shopping bag?”

He nodded, grinning. “Yes,
handles.
”

“Did it look like it was heavy?” I asked.

He tilted his head, as though remembering. “I think so. He was walking like this,” he said, listing to one side.

“Thanks, Nando,” I said, and put a finger to my lips as Tim pushed through the doors. I turned my attention back to the tomatoes, as the water was now boiling. My mind spun as I watched the tomatoes simmer in their hot bath. When I’d seen Pete round the corner of the restaurant, he was only holding the food container—at least that was how it appeared from a distance. When—and where—had he gotten the other bag? More to the point,
who
gave it to him? There had to have been wine in that bag, probably more than one bottle, if he struggled with it—it was the most logical assumption. And whoever had given him that wine had surely contributed to his death.
Please, God, don’t let it have been my dad.