A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (19 page)

“Even so,” Danny said through his teeth, “it is not your job—or my sister’s—to find those answers.”

“I don’t know,” I said with a sigh. “I’m almost ready to agree with you. Look, I got a little spooked in there; I’m not gonna lie. Right now all I want to do is head to my cottage and curl up in my bed to read, with every light on in the house!”

“You okay to walk?” Danny asked.

“Absolutely. I’d like to clear my head, not to mention settle my stomach. But I have a question, big brother: The guy who operated the carousel—the one with all the tattoos—do you have any idea who he is?”

He glanced back inside the building and frowned. “No, but I can tell you one thing: The guy’s done time. He’s got all the signs. The shaved head. The tats. The jacked arms and chest.”

Goose bumps prickled up and down my arms as I remembered the expression on the tattooed guy’s face. “So you’re saying—”

“I’m saying,” my brother said, “that I know an ex-con when I see one.”

I
n the bright sunshine of the next morning, my night in the carousel house took on a dreamlike quality, and a sense of unreality permeated my thoughts about the case. Pete’s death had been ruled an accident, after all. And it was likely that alcohol would have killed him in the end anyway. But I hadn’t imagined Pete’s own words or his bankbook; I hadn’t dreamed up motives where they didn’t exist, and I hadn’t invented the family history that Sofia and I had uncovered. Or Florence’s fury and fear. There
was
something more to Pete’s death, and I was sure that a visit to Gerry Domenica would tell us more.

After a hasty shower, I threw on my white blouse and black pants and biked over to the restaurant. Now that all of Oceanside had power, the town was humming with beachgoers. We would have a busy day at the Casa Lido, and I wondered how I would escape in time to meet Sofia for our trip to find Gerry Domenica.

But when I got to work, my frazzled-looking mother greeted me at the back door, took my arm, and steered me straight to her office. She pointed to her desktop computer, which showed only a dark blue screen and a blinking cursor.

“I thought it was updating,” she said. “Then I got the blue screen—you know, the one that indicates your computer has crashed—so I tried to restart it, but this is what I keep getting. I can’t access any of my files, including the payroll spread sheets.” She shook her head. “This is the last thing we need today, Victoria.”

My heart sank. How would I ever get out of here now? “Try turning it off and on.”

“I tried that,” she said with a sigh. “And so did Nando.”

“And he’s better with computers than I am. But everything’s backed up, right?”

She nodded. “But it’s on an external hard drive at home.” She looked at me hopefully. “I don’t suppose you have your laptop?”

“Sorry, Mom.”

“S’cuse me, Mrs. R?” Nando appeared at the office door, his face worried. “The software on the register isn’t working. I keep getting a black screen.”

Not long ago, my parents had switched over to a software program that allowed us to have digital floor diagrams, menus, records of food tickets, and just about every other kind of information that you need to run a restaurant. Without it, we’d be forced to go back to the chalkboard and scraps of paper. And of course the timing couldn’t be worse—this was the busiest weekend of our summer.

Nando turned to go and then looked back at us. “Is too bad Jason is gone. He is good with computers.”

Jason
. My mouth dropped open and I felt a small shiver. Maybe he wasn’t gone. Maybe he was the one who’d gotten in here and messed with our system as a warning to me. But at least I knew he hadn’t left for school yet, that he was still lurking around town.
The spiteful little sneak,
I thought. He was smart enough not to have crashed the whole system, but he’d certainly done some damage. Dealing with customers all weekend with nothing but paper and pencil would make our work much harder.

“Thanks for trying, Nando,” my mom said. “It must be some kind of glitch in the whole system.”

Yeah, a glitch named Jason Connors
. But I held off sharing my theory with my mother. “We can still take credit cards, though, right?” I asked.

My mom held up her smartphone. “I have the card reader attachment.” She smiled. “Your father, the least techy guy on earth, actually bought one for me.”

“Frankie saves the day again,” I said. “My basement’s nice and dry thanks to his sump pump.”

“We can always count on your dad.” Her smile faded as she glanced out at the hallway. “He’s gone to pick up Nonna. I dread telling them about this.”

“Nonna ran this place for years without computers. We’ll muddle through. Hey, do we still have that stand with the big pin in it? We used to stick the food tickets on it.”

“No, we do
not
,” she said with a frown. “I used to worry that you or Daniel would get hurt on that thing.” She stood up and pushed in her chair. “We’ll use a binder clip for the tickets and I’ll keep paper records until we can have somebody come in and look at the system. Grab your apron, honey. There’s a lot to do.”

“Um, could I talk to you about that, Mom?” I followed her out to the dining room.

“Sure, hon.” But her face was already in the reservation book, which I suspected was pretty full.

“Listen, I’ll stay and prep all morning and serve for most of lunch. But would you mind very much if I took off for a little while in the lull between lunch and dinner? I’ll come back and do the whole dinner shift and even help the guys with cleanup. I’ll close, in fact.”

She sighed. “I assume you have a good reason for asking?”

“Actually, I’m doing what you asked of me. I’m going to talk to somebody who might know something about Pete’s death.”

She snapped the book closed. “Yes, I asked you to look into it, but that was before his death was officially ruled an accident.” Her voice was terse, and her face held the same disapproving expression I’d come to know quite well in my teens.

“Listen, Mom—Dad and Nonna will be here any minute. Can you please cover for me on this? I’ll slip out after the lunch rush and be back for dinner service.” I took her hand. “I’m not doing anything dangerous, I promise. At the very least, I might find out more about Zio Roberto.” I grinned at her. “Now, this is where you let out a great big Nicolina sigh and say
yes
.”

“Don’t be smart, young lady. If I have to wait a few tables this afternoon, so be it.” Her eyes narrowed. “But you owe me.” Her mouth curved in a manner that did not suggest mirth. “And we’ll see how much you like closing up at eleven tonight.”

She went back to her office and I made a beeline for the espresso pot. It was going to be a long day. And an even longer night.

*   *   *

“Whose idea was it to travel south on the Garden State Parkway on Saturday of Labor Day weekend?” I asked my sister-in-law, who was happily ignoring me from the passenger seat of my car. She was scrolling through baby names in her phone, impervious to the traffic all around us.

“What do you think of
Marietta
if it’s a girl?” she asked.

“Here’s what I think: At this rate, Marietta will arrive well before we get to that club.” Sofia’s digging had led us to the Atlantic City Country Club, where Domenica worked.

“Now, don’t be cranky, Auntie Vic.”

Auntie Vic?
I didn’t want to hurt Sofia’s feelings, but that appellation made me feel about sixty years old. “Hey, could we maybe come up with something else for the baby to call me? At least
Aunt Victoria
has a dignified sound.”

“I don’t know. That’s a mouthful for a little kid.”

I glared at her. “She’ll learn. Which is more than I can say for her mother or her aunt sitting here in this traffic. I hope we can catch this guy.”

She nodded. “We will. He should be there until four.”

“Wait, did you call him directly?”

“Heck no. I just called the club to confirm he worked there.”

“So we’re showing up unannounced?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“And our excuse for seeing him?”

She tucked her phone into her purse and looked at me with impatience. “Haven’t we been over this? We’re doing what you always say to do—we’re sticking as close to the truth as possible. We show up, we make nice and blind him with our charm. Then we mention your long-lost uncle and ask if he or his father knew him. And we get some answers. Simple.”

“Sofe, it’s never simple. What if he gets suspicious?”

She opened her palms and shrugged. “So what? We only want some information.”

“Right,” I said. “So we come right out and ask the guy if his father was mobbed up and if he knew my drug addict uncle—”

“Your drug addict
great-
uncle. Get it straight, Vic.”

I stared over the top of my steering wheel at the endless line of cars in front of us. “Well, at least we have time to plan what we’re going to say. And I’ve got the Atlantic City book from the library; I’d like to show him the picture and gauge his reaction. I’m just not sure what we’re going to learn from this, though. I don’t think Domenica will want to talk about his father’s involvement with Leo Barone. He carries his father’s name; he’s probably been trying to live it down all this years, don’t you think?”

“You never know,” Sofia said, shaking her head. “Some of these guys wear the mob thing like a badge of honor.”

“Not Richard Barone,” I said. “It makes me wonder to what lengths he’d go to distance himself from his family’s criminal past.”

Sofia looked across at me, her face thoughtful. “Why do you think he made such a point of singling you out last night?”

“I’m not sure. Iris might have told him about my visit to the store. She saw right through my questions. Maybe he’s warning me. You know,
I’ve got my eye on you, so don’t mess
.”

“Ha!” She let out a snort. “And here we are, messin’ anyway.”

“True,” I said with a sigh. “And we still don’t know much about Tattoo Guy. Except for the Alyssa connection and Danny’s hunch that he’s served time.”

“Even if he did, it doesn’t seem fair to judge him for that, Vic.”

I looked over at her and grinned. “Listen to you. Since when are you so softhearted? Have we suddenly reversed roles or something?”

“God forbid,” she said. “I just think we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions about the guy because he’s got some ink on his arms.”

“But it’s more than that, Sofe, and you know it. What was he doing with Alyssa, a kid ten years younger than he is? And why did he show up at the party and masquerade as a server? More significantly, was he in the carousel house the night Pete stumbled in?”

“I thought we established that it was closed the night of the storm.”

“But think about it: If he worked the rides out on the pier, he might have had access to the carousel house. We’ve been wondering all along how Pete got in, and I think the answer’s pretty clear. It had to be Tattoo Guy.”

“Maybe. But we have other people to consider, Vic, including Barone, Florence, and Jason. Especially after what you told me about the computer crash at the restaurant. And let’s not leave out Crazy Iris.”

“Actually, we need the answer to a pretty basic question: past or present? Is Pete’s death tied to something he did a year ago or fifty years ago?”

Sofia nodded. “Or maybe both.” She fished her phone back out of her purse and checked the screen. “The club’s off Exit 36, and we just passed the exit for Long Beach Island. Less than thirty miles to go. With any luck, we’ll be there in a half hour.”

As it turned out, our luck held, and we got to the Atlantic City Country Club by three.

“Wow,” I said, taking in the velvety greens and stately clubhouse. “Will you look at this place?”

“Almost makes me want to take up golf,” Sofia said. “My dad played here, and apparently lots of famous people played here. It’s old school, but cool.”

We found Gerry Domenica behind the counter at the pro shop. At first I had wondered at an eighty-year-old who was still working, but one look at Domenica told me he was hale and healthy. Though he was no more than five-six, he had the broad shoulders and compact frame of a much younger man. He still had a head full of silver hair, slicked back in a style of two generations earlier. As we approached him, I picked up the distinct scent of Old Spice.

“Can I help you girls?” he asked with a smile, and I tried not to bristle.
He’s of another
era,
I told myself.
So to him we’re girls.

Sofia trained her most blinding smile at him. “Mr. Domenica, we’re sorry to bother you at work, but we’re doing some family research and thought you might be able to help us.” She held out her hand. “I’m Sofia Rienzi, and this is my sister-in-law, Victoria. We’re trying to track down a Rienzi relative of my husband’s, and we think it’s possible your father might have known him back in Atlantic City.”

“That so?” he asked. He was still smiling, but there was wariness in his voice. “I’m not sure I can help, but I’ll try.” He tapped the side of his head. “The memory’s not what it used to be.”

Ha,
I thought.
You’re still sharp as a tack, Gerry Domenica. And for some reason you’re on your guard.
I reached out my hand. “Nice to meet you, sir. I appreciate your seeing us.”

“Why don’t you girls come and sit down out on the terrace for a minute? I’ll bring us some nice lemonade.” He led us to a table in a shady spot outside the clubhouse, and the two of us sat down.

“Does he seem suspicious to you?” I asked as soon as he was gone.

Sofia rolled her eyes. “I met him, like, a minute ago. And by
suspicious
, do you mean is he sketchy?”

“More like does he suspect
us
?”

“Probably. We need to disarm him.”

“I’ll leave that to you, Miss Congeniality,” I said. “Here he comes.”

Domenica set a tray of drinks down on the table. “Help yourselves, please.” He sat across from us, resting his elbows on the table, his hands clasped. “How can I help you?”

I told him what I had learned about Zio Roberto, both my family’s version and what I’d been able to piece together about Robert Riese or Reese. When I was finished, I opened the book to the photo of Barone, Domenica, Alfonso, and the unidentified Robert Riese. When Domenica reached for the book, his shirtsleeve hiked up, revealing an old tattoo in faded blue ink. He pointed to the picture and grinned as I tried not to stare at his left arm.

“There’s my dad,” he said. “
Gerry Sunday
, they called him. Man, they knew how to dress in them days, didn’t they?” He traced his finger across the page. “And there’s Mr. Leo.” He looked up at us. “That’s how I always referred to him. He was my godfather.” He smiled broadly, providing a glimpse of a gold tooth. “For real, I mean. He christened me.”

“Do you know the other men in the picture?” Sofia asked, turning on a high-watt smile.

“Sure,” he said. “That’s Alfie. I don’t remember his last name.” He pointed to the man who bore such a marked resemblance to my father. “And that’s Robbie. Sometimes we called him Roberto. I tell ya, he was a pistol.” He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “He’s the guy in your family you’re tryin’ to track down, right?”