A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (2 page)

“Nicolina Rienzi, you never fail to amaze me.”

My mother patted my cheek. “Thank you, darling.” She looked over at the old grape arbor, now draped with white linen and decorated with tiny lights. “Thank goodness your grandmother didn’t want a tent—imagine us trying to take
that
down in a storm.”

“I shudder to think.” Scanning the group, I saw our head waitress and my old friend, Lori Jamison, who was carefully decorating the slate board that would feature tomorrow night’s menu. A number of our summer hires were out here, too, as well as Florence DeCarlo, a career waitress who called everyone
hon
or
babe.
Flo was a favorite among the five o’clock crowd, the group we privately called the Hungry Silverhairs. She gave us a cheery wave from across the garden, which I returned, but my mother did not.

“What was that about?”

My mom gave a small sniff. “Nothing. I don’t particularly like Florence.”

“I know why,” I said grinning, “because she’s always showing her cleavage.” Florence wasn’t particularly well endowed, but made a habit of leaning over the male diners in a manner that probably brought her good tips in her younger days. “And she’s always talking to Daddy,” I added.

“Oh, stop it. Daddy is a very sociable man, hon. If I had to worry about every woman who—”

“Nicolina! Victoria! You have nothing to do but stand out here and talk?” The voice of She Who Appeared When Least Expected made us both jump. But before we could answer, my attention was drawn to a male figure in the parking lot.

Walking toward us was Father Tom Figaro, pastor of St. Rose’s Church, family friend, and occasional member of my father’s Rat Pack poker games. I’d known Father Tom for most of my life, ever since he’d arrived in Oceanside as a young priest. He’d confirmed me and coached Danny in the church basketball league. He was a man of contradictions—a Golden Gloves boxer in his youth in north Jersey, he exuded a tough guy air. But he was also an opera buff, one of the most well-read people I knew, and a connoisseur of all things Italian. He was a regular patron of the restaurant, and from time to time Tim Trouvare, our sous-chef (and my ex-boyfriend), slipped him extra food for needy families in our parish.

I turned back to my mom. “What’s Father Tom doing here?”

My mother’s eyes darted toward the blue garden shed and then to my grandmother, who crossed her arms and tightened her lips. I looked back at Father Tom, who was carrying a mallet-shaped object I’d rarely seen outside Mass. “And why does he have that . . . that holy water thing he uses in church?”

My grandmother’s nostrils flared; my mother just looked nervous. “It’s called an aspergillum, Victoria,” my mom said. “It’s for—”

“You never mind what it’s for,” Nonna snapped.

My mother took a deep breath, her bosom heaving like that of a middle-aged romance heroine. “You see, darling, Nonna thinks that we should bless the garden.”

“I don’t get it.” I gestured to the rows of ripe vegetables and bushy herbs. “The garden’s doing fine.” I pointed to the chipped stone statue of Mary that stood forlornly in the corner of the field. “And you’ve already got the Holy Mother looking after it, right?” I said, smiling.

My grandmother did not smile back. Still participating in her own version of
omerta
, she remained silent. Mom tilted her head ever so slightly back to the blue shed, her curls bobbing. The garden shed. Of course. The place I’d found the body of the dead television producer. And then the light dawned like sunrise over the ocean.

“Hang on a minute: Are you telling me you want Father Tom to
exorcise
the garden?”

“Zitte!”
Nonna put a finger to her lips. “Don’t say such things!”

“Oh, honey, no,” my mother said with an artificial laugh. “We’re just . . .
cleansing
it.”

I frowned. “It’s not like that weird thing you guys do with the hair and olive oil for the evil eye, is it?”

“Again!” my grandmother said, making the sign of the horns with both hands. “Why must you tempt the Fates by mentioning such a thing?”

“Sorry,” I said, and with no other option before me, I made a hasty sign of the cross. I could never quite understand the Italian inclination to conflate religion and superstition, but conflate it they did. Father Tom’s “blessing” of the garden was just the Catholic version of keeping evil spirits away. But as I glanced at the blue garden shed, I couldn’t help suppressing a shiver. The discovery of a dead body in one of my books was only a pale imitation of the real experience. And I’d been nowhere near as brave as my fictional detective, Bernardo Vitali, who’d solved eight mysteries with confidence and aplomb. My real-life experience had left me decidedly jumpy, so a few prayers and some holy water certainly couldn’t hurt. And if they brought some comfort to my eighty-year-old grandmother, who was I to judge?

“Gather round, everyone,” Nonna called out, and clapped her hands loudly for attention. Servers, chefs, and anyone else in the garden froze in place; then one by one made their reluctant way to where my grandmother and Father Tom waited, hands clasped behind his back.

“What’s she doing?” I hissed to my mother.

“She’s calling everyone together, hon. For the blessing,” she added helpfully.

“Wait—are you telling me I have to participate in this weird ritual?”

“You won’t be alone.” She gestured to the back door of the restaurant, where Tim, our line cook, Nando Ortiz, and our head chef, Massimo Fabri, were filing slowly out the back door, looking like a group of errant schoolboys about to face the principal. The three men took their places at the back of the crowd—Nando respectful, Chef Massi annoyed, and Tim cranky. (I knew Tim’s cranky face very well; it was one he wore in the kitchen most of the time.)

Father Tom bowed his head and we all followed suit. “Dear Lord,” he said, “please bless this place of bounty and labor. Bless those whose hands till its soil and harvest its gifts. Protect it—and us—from the forces of darkness that gather around the unwary.”

Forces of darkness?
Sheesh, Father Tom. Laying it on a little thick, no?

“Lord,” he continued, “remember us in this undertaking, as we prepare to feed the multitudes.”

My grandmother was nodding, whether in agreement with the blessing or in hopes of “multitudes” showing up tomorrow, I wasn’t sure. As Father Tom concluded his prayer, he shook the holy water over our heads, and I blinked as the water hit my face. I couldn’t help thinking that this tiny shower was a harbinger of a much larger one to come.

“Maybe he should have added some prayers to hold off that storm,” I said quietly to my mother. But Nonna’s sharp ears picked up every word.

“There is
not
going to be any storm, Victoria. Those weather people are never right. My whole life I’ve lived on this coast. That hurricane will blow out to sea, you mark my words.”

Oh, I marked them, all right. For all the good it did me.

T
he next day dawned bright and sunny, and I began to think that Nonna had taken Mother Nature in the first round. I stood outside admiring the handiwork of our staff—the grape arbor forming the centerpiece for ten circular tables set with white linens and jars of fresh flowers. A long table covered in a red-checked tablecloth was set up as a bar—my dad’s domain. I smiled as he lined up the stem glasses and turned every wine bottle so that the labels faced the same way. When he saw me, he smiled and waved me over.

“Hey, Vic, did you see my latest wine labels?” He held out a bottle for me to inspect.

“Frank’s Thursday Chianti,” I read aloud.

My dad pointed to the label. “You know it’s the old joke about homemade wine, right?
When was it bottled?
Thursday!
Get it?”

“I get it, Dad. It’s funny. And the printer did a nice job on these. I like the gold lettering and the little grapevine. Very classy.”

“Thanks, hon.” He looked back at the bar. “You know what? I think we need a few more whites.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” I said, and patted his arm. “I have to finish setting.”

As I placed votive candles down on each table, I tried to ignore the insistent breeze that lifted the corners of the tablecloths and sent the tomato plants swaying. I was deliberating about looking at my weather app again when a familiar number appeared on my phone.

“Hey, stranger,” I said. Cal Lockhart was renovating our antique wooden bar, and we’d been casually dating for the last month or so. But he’d been away on one of his mysterious errands for the last week, which tended to get in the way of our relationship. “What’s cookin’?” I asked.

But he didn’t respond with a joke or his usual
How are you this fine mornin’, Victoria?
In fact, his voice was tense. “Is your family still plannin’ to go ahead with the party tonight?”

“Of course. You know Nonna.”

“You’ve seen the weather report, right?” he asked, his voice growing louder with each word. “That hurricane’s heading this way,
cher.
It’s on a straight course; there’s no avoidin’ it. Tell them to cancel. Or at the very least, bring it inside.”

The man on the other end of the line sounded nothing like the laconic, soft-spoken guy I knew. But I understood the reason for the panicky edge in his tone. “Listen to me, okay?” I lowered my voice in the hopes that he would do the same. “It’s already been downgraded from a category three to a two—”

“Even a category two can wreak all kinds of havoc,” he interrupted. “Dangerous winds. Flooding. I don’t have to tell you that, do I? You grew up on a coast.”

“And you lived through Katrina,” I said. “And that’s your point of reference. I can’t even imagine how terrible and terrifying that must have been, but this storm is nothing like that. By the time it hits us it’ll just be a good old-fashioned summer thunderstorm,” I added, sounding more confident than I felt.

“You don’t know that, Victoria. And I sure hope you don’t have to find it out the hard way.” There was a momentary silence and then I heard him sigh. “Will they at least have it in the restaurant?”

“At the first raindrop or gust of wind, we’ll move indoors—I promise. In fact, they’re setting up the dining room right now, just in case.”

“Okay. I’m heading back in a little bit.”

Cal was off on one of his mysterious errands, and while it was a little early in the relationship to press for details of his comings and goings, that didn’t stop me from wondering. “You’re still my date for tonight, right?” I asked.

“You bet,” he said, sounding more like his old self. “But I’m not sure how much of a date it’s gonna be. If I know Giulietta, she’ll be putting you to work, girl.”

Cal was the only person I knew who got away with calling my grandmother by her first name. Perhaps she’d fallen for his Southern charm, but more likely it was that her granddaughter was involved with someone
other
than Tim. “You’re right about that,” I said. “And speaking of work, I’ve got to get back to it. I’ll see you later. And try not to worry, okay?”

“Easier said than done,
cher
,” he said.

I finished up some of the other details outside and took a last look around the garden and then up the sky. The first clouds were rolling in.

*   *   *

Back inside the Casa Lido, all hands were on deck in the kitchen, including mine. I was at my usual place, the vegetable and salad station, where I was chopping fresh arugula by hand. Heaven forfend I should use the food processor and bruise the precious produce. Nando was carefully slicing pancetta, and Tim was at work on his specialty, homemade pasta. And all the while Chef Massimo bellowed orders at us in a confusing mixture of Italian, Spanish, and English.

I looked up to find Tim at my elbow, and he pointed out the window that overlooked the garden. “It doesn’t look good out there,” he said, shaking his head. “And by four it will only get worse. Having this party today is a bad idea, Vic.”

“You sound like Cal.”

He made a face. “You mean there’s something Lockhart and I agree on?”

“Besides me, you mean? Apparently.”

“Funny. I still say we should have postponed it.”

“Who’s ‘we,’ Trouvare? The Rienzis own this place. You just work here, remember?” I said it with a smile, but sometimes my ex needed reminding that he was still a sous-chef, and that he’d only been hired back last year because of my parents’ forgiving natures. As I watched Tim work, head bent, a loose curl over his forehead and wearing that work frown I knew so well, eight years seemed to roll away. It didn’t seem that long ago that we were young and in love, making plans for a life together that included taking over the restaurant someday. But Tim broke my heart and lost his job at the restaurant. So I took myself, most of my belongings, and my unused business degree and ran away to the big city, where to my shock and surprise, I ended up writing mysteries.

“Ah, lass,” he said in his favorite Irish brogue, “I remember it all.”

So do I,
I thought but didn’t say. “Regarding the weather, though,” I said, “I think we’re stuck going through with this. We can just bring everything inside at the first sign of the storm.”

He jerked a thumb back at the window. “The first signs are already out there.”

It was clearly time for a change of subject. “What are you working on, by the way?”

“The
bagna cauda
.” He added a bunch of peeled garlic cloves (courtesy of me) to the food processor, then one by one, some drained anchovies. It was the base for a spicy dipping sauce that literally means “cold bath.” He lifted the top of the processor, about to stick his finger into the pungent mixture.

“Uh, uh, uh. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“What are you talking about? I can’t make it without tasting it.”

“Well, you do what you have to do, but do you really want to breathe all over Lacey after tasting raw garlic and anchovies? She’s coming tonight, right?” Of course she was—she’d been glued to his side for about a month now.

Tim’s expression softened and he grinned in a way that used to (okay, maybe still did) reduce me to the consistency of cannoli cream.
Note to self: Remind Lacey of the dangers of Irish-Italian men.

“Yeah, she is,” he said. “She’s really looking forward to it.”

“Will she stay for the whole thing?” I asked innocently. “I mean, isn’t ten past her bedtime?”

He shot me a look of disgust. “She’s not that young, Vic. She’s twenty-eight, for Chrissakes—”

“Tim,” Chef Massi interrupted, “the seafood delivery is here. We need to get it on ice as quickly as possible.” He clapped his hands. “
Subito
, Chef!”

Ugh. Much as I loved shrimp, I had a pretty good idea who would be cleaning it and deveining it. I’d come back to the Casa Lido to learn how to cook and do research for a new book, but thus far my training had only extended to the dirty work. Literally. I glanced at the kitchen clock; it was already nearing eleven. Five hours seemed like very little time to finish the prepping and cooking. I squinted at the menu, written in Chef Massi’s typically European hand, full of loops and flourishes:

Scallops with pancetta

Proscuitto and cantaloupe

Antipasto alla Casa Lido

Bagna cauda with celery for dipping

Shrimp cocktail

Fusilli with fresh chopped tomato sauce

Beef carpaccio

Grilled watermelon with salata ricotta cheese

Assorted pastries and seasonal fruit

I was so lost in thought I didn’t hear the kitchen door open and didn’t see our busboy until he was right at my side. Jason Connors, one of our summer hires, was a local kid who’d just graduated from Oceanside High. A dark, silent boy with an acne-scarred face, he barely spoke to the rest of the staff, though he sometimes exchanged a word or two in Spanish with Nando. But we kept him around for a simple reason: He worked hard. He stood silently next to me, holding a black bin against one hip.

“Oh . . . Jason, hi. I didn’t see you there.”

He blinked, looked at a spot somewhere above my head, and gave me the universal greeting of teenagers everywhere. “Hey.”

“Um, hey. Do you need something?”

“Yeah.” His face was impassive, difficult to read, and I wondered how his parents dealt with him. “Your grandmother told me to get the silverware from the dishwasher and wipe it down.”

I gestured to the dishwasher door. “Help yourself.”

The only sound in the kitchen was the crash of silver in the bin. As always, when there was an awkward silence, I felt compelled to fill it.

“So Jason,” I said in a hearty tone, “where’re you headed in the fall?”

“County,” he said without looking up, continuing to throw forks, knives, and spoons into the bin.

He probably meant county college, and not jail, but with this kid, who could be sure? “It’s good to get those required courses out of the way,” I said. “You do a good two-year program and you can pretty much go wherever you want.”

“I guess.” He straightened up, shifted the bin to both hands, and eyed the door. “D’ya have a towel?”

“Oh, for the silver, sure. Here you go.”

Were all teenagers this hard to read? I thought as he left the kitchen. Or just our silent busboy?

*   *   *

By three thirty there was a steady wind blowing in from the ocean, with the sun hidden behind masses of gray clouds that looked like tufts of unappetizing cotton candy. Nonna was still adamant about having the party outside, so I decided to appeal to my dad. I found him out near the Dumpsters, frowning down at an ancient generator.

“Hey, Daddio,” I said brightly, then decided to plunge right in. “Listen, I’m here to plead my case for moving this party inside.”

My dad tugged nervously at his straw fedora and shook his head, whether at me or the metal monstrosity at his feet, I couldn’t tell. I waved my hand in front of his eyes. “Hello, Frank Rienzi? Come in, Frank.”

“Sorry, baby,” he said with a sigh. “I can’t seem to get this thing going. I already tried the choke twice. And if the weather gets bad—”

“Our power might go out. That settles it, Dad. We need to move the party into the dining room. I’ll stand out in the garden greeting people and then usher them inside. Then we don’t have to worry.”

“Oh yes, we do, baby.” He pushed his hat back on his head and grinned, looking a whole lot like my brother, Danny; they had the same tanned, square features and hazel eyes. “I’d rather take my chances with a hurricane than cross your nonna,” he said.

I sighed. How could one old woman instill such fear in those around her? “But you’ve seen the weather reports, right?”

His face brightened. “Yeah, I did. In fact, now they’re saying there’s a twenty percent chance it’ll head out to sea.”

Ah, Frank,
I thought,
it’s just like you to back the long shot.
“If you say so, Dad.” But his attention was back to the paint-chipped cylinder at his feet. He fiddled with a lever, hesitated, and then gave the generator a swift kick. When he pressed the button, the thing suddenly roared into life. “See that?” my dad yelled over the noise. “We’re good to go!”

“I hope so!” I yelled back. I glanced at my watch—3:37—almost time to get my derriere moving. The first brave guests would be arriving soon.

I ducked into the restroom for quick once-over in front of the mirror. In lieu of our usual white blouses and black slacks, we were all wearing stylish black shirtdresses. I’d turned up the collar on mine and pushed the sleeves to my elbows, added a string of pearls, a silver belt, and a pair of black pumps. And in an attempt to channel my inner Audrey Hepburn, I wore my hair up. If I had to work, at least I’d do it in style. But whether that style would hold in the wind that was whipping up was another matter entirely.

As I approached the three waitresses outside, it struck me that despite the similar outfits, each woman had dressed in a way that revealed her personality. Our head waitress and my oldest friend, Lori Jamison, was wearing her dress in typical Lori fashion—which is to say, no fashion at all. It was buttoned up to the neck and accessorized with a pair of black kitchen clogs. Flo, on the other hand, had a few too many buttons undone and had hiked her dress above her skinny knees; her dyed black hair was styled in a beehive that was so out of date it was fashionable. Alyssa Madison, our newest hire, looked like a sorority girl on a job interview. Her blond ponytail was immaculate, her dress starched and crisp, her black ballet flats polished to a high shine.

“You look great, Vic,” Lori said. “I like your hair that way.” She scrutinized my dark blond hair more closely. “Did you get highlights?”

“Maybe. Okay, yes. My mother strong-armed me.”

She raised an eyebrow, a knowing look on her round, freckled face. “I don’t suppose it has anything to do with your new boyfriend?”

At that, a look and a smile passed between Flo and Alyssa.
The perils of dating within the workplace,
I thought.
Everybody knows about it.
“No,” I said. “And yes, before you ask, he’s coming.” I pointed to the busboys putting the finishing touches on the setup. “I can’t believe how quick these guys are working.” In their black shirts and slacks, they swarmed the tables like a colony of oversized ants. Only one of them stood alone, and he happened to catch Flo’s eye.