You Cannoli Die Once (23 page)

The next moment I heard hands grip the handle and start to raise the metal door, which was the only thing that stood between us and calamity. Peeking out from my hiding place, I saw Mark’s boots and jeans in the faint glow of the streetlights. I was petrified. The metal door scraped noisily up its tracks as Mark heaved it higher, and I saw Eloise turn and start up the driveway. The door was all the way open now, and Mark blocked the only way out.

Just as he stepped into the pod, holding the Coleman lantern, Joe sprang out from behind the tall crates.

“Hey!” Mark cried, dropping the lantern.

Joe whipped back his right arm and dropped Mark with a single punch to the face.

As Joe stood over him he yelled at me to call the police, but just then I noticed Eloise. She took two shocked steps toward her fallen beau, then thought better of it and set off at a run. I dashed past Joe and the unconscious Mark and chased Eloise across half a dozen front yards, getting closer and closer. With a final effort, I surged forward and launched a flying tackle.

She went down with a thud, the wind knocked out of her. I was so blanked by the night’s strange mix of kisses and loot and abject terror that as I held her down with a knee, all I could think to scream was, “No open garbage cans in the kitchen!”

*

Detective Sally turned up with a uniformed cop a few minutes later. While the cop handcuffed Eloise and loaded her into the patrol car, Sally took charge of Mark and the pod, calling for backup. By this time doors were popping open all along Callowhill Street, and curious neighbors stood in the glow of their porch lights.

Joe came over to where I sat, trembling, on the front lawn of someone who had offered me some iced tea. I had accepted it, then started crying

Joe slipped an arm around me without saying a thing.

“That was some punch,” I managed finally.

“That was some tackle.”

“Thanks.” Then I got practical. “What did you tell Sally?”

Joe grinned. “I was vague. And she was glad I was vague. Oh,” he added, “you might want to disappear the padlock.” My hand flew to the bulging pocket of my pants.

While another patrol car, lights flashing, stopped nose to nose with the one holding Eloise, Joe went on to tell me that Sally and Ted were going to look into Metcalf’s background and see if they could connect him either to Arlen Mather or Max Scotti. I shivered. How could I have been so completely wrong about somebody?

Another uniformed cop strode past us to the pod, his radio crackling.

“You okay?” said Joe, his gaze roving my face.

I nodded. “When can I get my opera memorabilia back?”

“Not for a few days. She’ll make it as fast as she can.”

I noticed two distant figures running toward us from the street connecting Callowhill to Market Square.

Just then, the cops walked the handcuffed Mark Metcalf past us to the waiting patrol car. Nose broken and bloody, groggy and stumbling like he was hungover, he looked like some smalltime slime who had gotten caught. He didn’t even look my way.

I scrambled to my feet. “Why my stuff?” I yelled after him angrily. “Why would anyone want Rosa Ponselle’s corset?”

Mark half turned his bruised face toward me. “The money’s in the demo record,” he slurred. “The other crap?” He shrugged. “Habit.” And the cops shoved him into the police cruiser, where he was pummeled by Eloise.

The two runners were now heading straight for us, and I squinted at them. It was Landon and Choo Choo, still in their chef jackets, their feet slapping hard on the sidewalk.
“Cara!”
they shouted.

I let out a cry. In that moment all I wanted was the safety of my passionate family, and I ran toward them, forgetting all about Joe.

*

Aside from some scratches and aches, I was doing pretty well. Still, once they got me back to Miracolo, I let Landon pull some fresh clothes for me out of the office closet and the Lost and Found, while Choo Choo set down a shot of Laphroaig. Part of me really wanted the attention, I won’t lie.

Landon likes to think of himself as a calming presence, but as he flung garments at me over the Oriental screen in the corner, Bootsie the cat’s histrionics when I landed on her tail had nothing on his. His hysterics are just a measure of his love, though, so I accepted the three-quarter-length silver-and-gold kimono, black spandex bike shorts, and low leopard-print boots. Then he handed me a warm, wet cloth to clean the kohl off my face in between slow sips of the peaty Scotch. Sunday night we close early, so by 10:30 the staff was trailing out into the night. Paulette had declared that I needed my sleep and they’d hear all about it tomorrow, so I set out for the Volvo dressed like a crazy person.

On the way home, I tried to take my lawyer’s advice about disappearing the pod’s padlock so no suspicion could fall to us. I even slowed the car as I crossed a brook, and slowed it even more as I passed a couple of empty lots. But I couldn’t bring myself to toss the lock out the window. In a crazy way, it was a trophy from the night’s adventures. I’d drop it in the Dumpster behind the hardware store tomorrow.

Monday

By the following afternoon, the news was definitely mixed.

Choo Choo reported that Maria Pia was languishing.

Alma Toscano reported that Airplane Hangers had sold two pairs of Toscano’s Tootsies.

Ted reported that Mark Metcalf—whose real name was Shlomo Gertz—had a police record, and that they liked him for a string of thefts in southern New Jersey.

Shlomo Gertz?

Paulette reported that Li Wei’s visa status was actually okay (we all cheered), but that the jury was still out on That Other Matter. With that, she eyed Giancarlo, who was polishing a martini shaker.

Sally reported that they could ascertain no prior connection between Shlomo Gertz and either Arlen Mather or Max Scotti. Good news for Gertz, but bad news for the murder investigation.

Dana reported with alarm that Le Chien Rouge was closed indefinitely, and could she pretty please have her job back? By way of persuasion, Patrick Cahill sent flowers, delivered to me personally by James Beck. All totally unnecessary, because I told Dana with a big smooch that Miracolo had missed her—okay,
I
had missed her—then we stood around for a while with our arms over each other’s shoulders.

Landon reported with barely contained glee that (a) he was prepared to demonstrate how to make homemade pasta today for early patrons as part of Miracolo’s Festa, and that (b) yesterday’s suit shopping had determined that Jonathan’s shoulders were even broader than one would think. This second point he delivered to me privately.

Ted reported that Shlomo had an unassailable alibi for the time of the murder: a root canal in the Logan Building, which took particularly long because he was being a baby about the shots.

We all agreed that there went the number one suspect in the Mather murder, which meant the killer was still at large.

Mrs. Crawford—resplendent in green and white tulle, complete with red snood, all for Italy—sat composed and inscrutable, taking it all in.

I reported that
calamari con pomodoro
was the entrée special on Festa della Repubblica, because today we were upgrading Tuscany to Honorary Northern Italy, and that Landon Angelotta was being promoted temporarily from sous chef. Gasps and cheers ensued.

Joe Beck made no report, because he wasn’t there. Where’s a good lawyer when you really need one?

*

A bit behind the clock, Landon and I were speed-slicing the tomatoes for the
pomodoro
sauce when Choo Choo stepped into the kitchen. “Vera found this in the foyer,” he explained, handing me a pale violet envelope addressed to Eve Angelotta. “It was slipped under the front door.”

I wiped my hands on my apron as Choo Choo returned to the dining room. Landon cranked up the original Broadway cast recording of
Wicked
while I sliced open the envelope.

The front of the card featured some colorful, stylized pansies. Inside was a note in a very neat script:
Meet me in Providence Park. I’ll be waiting for you after 7 p.m. I may have important information. A. T.

When it came to melodrama, the mysterious “A. T.” was giving Dana a run for her money. Yet another witness to my poor nonna’s presence at Miracolo on the morning of the murder? With expectations high and time short for the Festa della Repubblica, I tossed the note into a corner of the counter, turned back to my tomatoes, and promptly forgot about it.

By the time we opened, Choo Choo and Vera had taken down two tables and moved them to the storeroom, and crowded the others to make room for the tarantella. In their costumes, the wait staff looked like a
National Geographic
piece on the Italians That Time Forgot. I was wearing a black jersey off-the-shoulder and above-the-knee dress with enough spandex in it to cling demurely. Tonight, my toque and jacket were white. The calamari were behaving themselves nicely, and at 6:30, Landon cued the tarantella music. Streamers fluttered, tambourines got rattled and whapped, and the customers clapped in time to the music. I snapped a bunch of pictures on my phone.

Drinks were served extravagantly, which probably accounted for the Festa being such a big hit. Landon had done two homemade pasta-making demonstrations with some surprisingly funny patter he’d worked out with Mrs. Crawford, who backed him up with the cheesiest Italian songs ever. The irony went over the customers’ heads, apparently, and I could swear some were crying. “O Sole Mio” and the circulating scent of the
pomodoro
sauce were the closest we had ever come to pure Italian cliché.

Dana turned up in costume to show the right spirit, but when it came time for the next tarantella show, she didn’t have a partner. Before I could say “That’s Amore,” Landon got me out of my chef jacket and toque, Jonathan was tying an apron around me, Paulette jammed a beribboned comb into my hair, and Vera handed me a tambourine.

So much for the slinky black dress.

Dana took one look at the troupe, and tried to get Landon to switch her to Jonathan as the most attractive male (she kept this reason to herself, but I knew it was what she was thinking). Landon said if
he
couldn’t dance with him, neither could she (he kept this reason to himself but I knew it was what
he
was thinking). So Dana and I were stuck with each other, which was just the sort of thing good friends totally understand.

Then Landon cued the music, and I plunked my right fist on my hip and raised my tambourine arm, heading into the tarantella step. Habit made me want to get into character, so I tried imagining I had been bitten by a deadly tarantula and was dancing away the effects of the poison. Considering my life over the past few days, this was not so far-fetched, and I got into it.

As we launched into the tarantella do-si-do, we switched partners. Dana ended up with Choo Choo, who was very light on his feet, and I ended up with Alma, who was not. I started to study her footwork to understand what she didn’t get about the rhythm. “Left foot, Alma, left foot,” I whispered, and she performed some unintentionally impressive steps to catch up.

Someone should have told her to wear normal shoes tonight, not the latest pair of Art for Your Feet. But then I realized I’d seen this pair before. They were low heels with little red spangles, and enough silver studs and glitter to cause an overdose. But something was wrong. The last time she had worn them, you couldn’t see the beige canvas beneath the “art.”

Now one of the shoes looked like a dog with mange, with bald spots where the glue had failed. How had Alma missed that? I felt troubled, but couldn’t figure out why.

At the end of the dance, customers started pushing the tables into one long table, like you find in VFW halls. As they launched into “When the moon hits your eye like a bigga pizza pie, that’s
amore,
” I went back into my kitchen to check on the extra help we’d hired for the evening and give the
pomodoro
sauce and the
milanese
sauce a few good stirs.

Li Wei gazed longingly into the dining room and I gave him a little nudge. “Go ahead, get in the next round of tarantella. Go on.” There had to be some extra tambourines and sashes somewhere. Out he flew with a grateful look.

While I plated an order of the calamari special, Choo Choo stuck his flushed face through the doors. “You’ve been requested,
cara
,” he called. “Special.” He explained that the addition of Li Wei threw the numbers off, but a guy at the bar said he could dance with me “just to even it up.”

I set down my spoons with bad grace, blew the hair out of my face, and flipped the streamers back with my hand. So now I’m supposed to be the entertainment?

The crowd was now pounding their long table and yelling, “Eve! Eve!” to the sounds of Mrs. Crawford’s lusty arpeggios.

I knew a cue when I heard one. I adjusted my off-the-shoulder dress, raked my hair, and stepped back out into the dining room, where our normally respectable patrons were standing on their chairs and knocking back grappas. A couple were harmonizing “Funiculì, funiculà, funiculì, funicu-LAH! Joy is everywhere—”

When the crowd saw me, you’d swear it was an appearance by Lady Gaga. People actually started flicking lighters. The wait staff dancers were now so full of themselves, you’d think no tarantula could fell them. Vera was twirling, Jonathan was doing some
Saturday Night Fever
moves, Landon was swooning, and Choo Choo was conducting the choir through their funiculis.

Then Landon cued the tarantella music and everybody partnered up, looking like Musical Chairs at a third-grade birthday party. I couldn’t help laughing when Dana ended up with Li Wei, whose sash was wound mummylike around his skinny middle.

Which left me to look for the guy at the bar who apparently knew the tarantella and had asked for me, special. And then I saw him, dressed in a tailored black shirt and gray pants, coming toward me through the crowd, his hand extended.

It was Joe Beck.