A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (5 page)

“Thank God,” I said. “I think we’re through the worst of it. And up north all they’ll get is a thunderstorm.”

“You still can’t be too careful with hurricanes,” he said quietly.

I stared down at my glass and took another sip for courage. “Was it terrible?” I rested my hand on top of his.

He turned up his palm, linked his fingers in mine. “
Was it terrible?
you’re asking me.
Terrible
don’t begin to describe it,
cher
.” He shook his head slowly, back and forth twice, as though he still couldn’t believe what he had seen. “The panic. The smells. People dyin’ in their own homes. All those ‘X’s painted on houses to show where there were bodies.” He stared down at his glass. “And me, I lost everything. My woodworkin’ business, my house, and then my wife and—yet I’m one of the lucky ones. ’Cause I got outta there alive. And what y’all saw up here on the news? That wasn’t the half of it.”

I tightened my grip on his hand. “Tonight in our garden, when you were under that tree—was that like a flashback of some kind?”

“Guess you could say that, yeah.”

“But here we are, safe and sound. Back in Oceanside the most we’ll have to deal with is some water in basements and spoiled food.”

Cal stood up and pushed in his chair. “A man’s dead, Victoria. We didn’t escape unscathed.”

“No, I guess we didn’t. Thanks for talking with me. And thanks for rescuing me and my computer from the storm.” I stepped into his arms and rested my cheek against his chest. “It’s been a long night,” I said through a yawn.

He hugged me a little closer and kissed the top of my head. “It sure has. And you need to get some sleep.” He lifted my chin and pressed a light, quick kiss on my mouth that ended any wondering I might have had about how the evening would play out.

I followed him down a short hallway (also painted white) where two bedrooms sat across from each other. He gestured to the smaller of the two.

“You’ll be in here. Just give me a minute to tidy it, okay?” He slipped inside, leaving the door open a crack and giving me a glimpse of yellow walls.
So not everything in the place is white.
I glanced across the hall at the closed door of his room. What would Cal’s room be like?
You can find out,
a little voice said.
One quick turn of the knob before he comes back. Go ahead, take a peek,
it urged. I took three baby steps across the hall, close enough to reach the door, but just as I reached out my hand, Cal swung open the door of the smaller bedroom.

“Oh, hey,” I said, my heart pounding, “you all done?”

“Yup.” His smile looked strained; he had a bag tucked under one arm and seemed in a hurry to take it across the hall. “You go ahead and put your things in there. Let me just get this stuff out of the way.”

The room was small but cozy, its yellow walls trimmed in white. A patchwork quilt done in bright primary colors covered the narrow bed. There was even a white throw pillow propped against the wooden headboard. Then a thought pricked itself under my skin and lodged there like a splinter:
This room looks feminine.
Just how many guests did Cal entertain here?

“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall, by the way. I left towels for you.” Cal stood in the doorway but made no move to come into the room. The mood between us had shifted from a friendly warmth to a polite coolness. “So, y’all set?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks. And I appreciate this, Cal.”

“Not at all. Good night, Victoria.” He backed out, closing the door with a soft click.

“Good night,” I said to the closed door. “And what was that about?”

After washing up and brushing my teeth, I crept back down the hallway, stopping at Cal’s door. A sliver of light shone from underneath it; he was still awake. I lifted my hand to knock and then let it fall. What would I say?
Why do you have a yellow guest room tricked out with a homey quilt and curtains in the middle of this white refrigerator you call an apartment?
We didn’t know each other well enough for that.

Back in “my” room, I settled under the covers and grabbed a paperback I kept in my bag for emergencies—my favorite Agatha Christie,
Sleeping Murder.
But I had trouble concentrating on the plight of the heroine, as my eyes were drawn to that closet door. I threw off the blanket and tiptoed across the room. I turned the knob as slowly as I could and pulled open the door to reveal . . . an empty closet with a deep shelf that was bare.
Turn off your writer’s imagination, Vic, and go to sleep.
I looked around again. There was no dresser; there was no anything. Certainly no evidence of someone using this room on a permanent basis.

But there
was
one more place to look. I dropped to my knees to peek under the bed and spied a small, shadowy mass. Flat on my belly, I reached out my hand, straining to reach the object. My fingertips brushed something soft; I pinched the fabric with two fingers and pulled out a stuffed animal, a replica of the Velveteen Rabbit. I sat up and stroked its tiny head and stared into its button eyes.

“I wonder who it is you belong to,” I said softly. “You look well used.”
Real
, as the horse in the story explained.

I dropped the toy back under the bed, leaned back against the small white pillow, took in the yellow walls and white curtains. Despite its bare walls and empty closet, Cal hadn’t succeeded in wiping every trace from this room. And this was not a room decorated for a woman, but for a little girl.

There was really only one logical conclusion: Cal Lockhart had a child.

C
al and I were both quiet on the ride back to Oceanside Park the next morning. Did he regret inviting me to his home? The yellow room rose in my memory—a nearly empty yellow room with little in it but a child’s toy. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed his serious expression. His hair was still wet from the shower, tucked behind his ears. He wore it a little long, giving him a youthful air, in pleasing contrast to the lines around his eyes. What could I learn from his face that I couldn’t from Cal? There was humor there, and warmth. Loyalty to those he cared about. A trace of loss and sadness. But something else, too. A wariness that said
don’t get too close
. Unthinking, I shook my head.

“What?” Cal asked.

“Oh,” I said. “Just going over everything I have to do today. Wondering if I’ve got power in the cottage. Hoping my dad’s generator holds out.”

“You expected at the restaurant?”

“What do you think? I’m on lunch service, though, so maybe I can get some writing in later today.”

“How’s the new book comin’?”

“Well, I’ve gotten Isabella to America. She’s looking for work at the moment. But she hasn’t met Tomasso yet.”

“Who’s Tomasso?”

“
Who’s Tomasso?
you ask! Only the love of her life. A blue-eyed boy that she’ll fall in love with at first sight.”

“Sounds romantic,” he said wryly. “But I’m not sure about those things in real life.”

“What, love at first sight? Italians even have a name for it:
un culpo de fulmine.
The lightning strike. One look and boom, it’s all over.”

“
Un culpo de fulmine
, huh? I kinda like that.”

“Hey, your accent’s not bad.”

“You forget my mama’s half Italian.”

At this opening, I decided to plunge in. “Are your parents still living?”

“My mom’s still in Louisiana. My father died when I was in high school.”

“Oh, sorry. That’s a tough age to lose somebody.”

He shrugged. “He wasn’t the best guy. Mama and I did all right on our own.” He turned his attention to the road, and it was clear I wouldn’t learn anything else.

But my questions nagged at me:
How did you meet your wife? Why did you break up? Why do you live like a monk, without a picture or a knickknack? Do you have any children? And if not, who belongs to the Velveteen Rabbit?

But we were turning onto Ocean Avenue, and even if I’d gotten the courage to ask, I was nearly home. We were just past the restaurant when I had a thought.

“Hey, Cal? Do you mind dropping me on the next corner—right there at the boardwalk ramp? I’d like to check out the damage and see what’s going on.”

He frowned. “You sure? It’s a long walk to your cottage from here.”

“I’m used to it. I can walk off all that pancetta I ate last night.” He pulled over and I gathered my things. Maybe Cal
was
holding himself back from me, but despite his own fear and misgivings, the guy had driven in a hurricane to save my computer and put me up for the night. I kissed him on the cheek and thanked him again.

“My pleasure,
cher
,” he said. “Any time you need rescuin’ you give me a call.”

“You got it.” I slung the bag over my shoulder and closed the truck door. “You’re not coming in to the restaurant to work today, are you?”

“Nope,” he called through the window. “Saturday’s my day off.”

And what do you do on your days off, Mr. Lockhart?
I thought as he drove away. Just one more question to which I didn’t have an answer.

*   *   *

Out on Ocean Avenue, the public works guys were already picking up branches and debris from the storm. I strolled the nearly empty boardwalk, noting a few brave souls out on the beach. The water was likely to be rough, and probably cold, but that wouldn’t deter a weekender who was determined to squeeze out some vacation time, storm or no storm. It was, in fact, a perfect beach day: The sun was shining and there were only the gentlest of breezes blowing across the sand.

But once those beachgoers wanted to eat lunch or take their kids on a boardwalk ride, that was where their fun would end. The entire eastern end of Oceanside Park was still without power, including the rides pier. Those with food stands were already packing up or throwing away their perishable stock. The T-shirt stores and souvenir shops had their metal gates down. The arcade was dark; inside, people milled about sweeping debris and wiping down the machines. Two men wearing green sanitation uniforms and matching caps stood outside, leaning on their brooms and talking. The taller of the two said something in the shorter man’s ear, who threw back his head and laughed so hard his gold tooth glinted in the sunlight.

“I’m glad they’re amused,” I muttered to myself. “God knows what there is to laugh about today.”

I kept heading east, toward my cottage and the rides pier. At one point, the red beach trolley chugged past me, and I waved to the driver. The trolley up and running was a good sign, even if there weren’t any passengers at the moment. In the distance I could see the roof of the carousel house and the top of the Ferris wheel, unmoving.

As I got closer, I saw the yellow police tape around the carousel house, an elaborate nineteenth-century structure, its copper roof now an oxidized green. The building’s circular form was decorated with small windows framed in neoclassical designs of vines and leaves. Over each window was a mythical face, whose stark expressions frightened me as a child. It was jarring to see that tape. The carousel house wasn’t a place for death; it was a place of magic and history. And it struck me that Mayor McCrae would now have a perfect excuse to sell the carousel. Who would bring their children to a place where a man had died?

I walked over to where my brother and a few other cops were milling around. He stepped away from them, his face grim. Possibly he wasn’t thrilled that I was here.

I pointed to the tape. “Does that mean it’s a crime scene?”

“No, it means nosy people should keep out.”

“C’mon, Danny—spill. Do they think Pete’s death is suspicious or not?”

“You know the answer to that, sis. We won’t know anything until—”

“The autopsy results come in,” I said. “Right. I know the drill. But that doesn’t mean that you boys in blue might not have some theories.”

“Vic, he was a drunk. He was elderly and unsteady on his feet even when he was sober. There’s nothing to suggest that his death was anything but an accident.”

“So, what do
you
think happened to him, Detective?”

“I think he drank too much and passed out, and either hit his head or drowned in shallow water. Hey, he might have had a heart attack, for all we know.”

“But what was he doing here in the first place?”

“Probably for shelter. Somewhere to get out of the storm.” He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at me. “Don’t you have a book to write or something?”

I held up my hands in surrender. “I’m going. I need to check on the cottage anyway. I had some water in the basement. Hey, is Sofia in the studio today?”

Danny pushed his cap back and stuck his face close to mine. “Why? What do you need Sofia for?”

“Geez, can’t a girl visit her sister-in-law without inviting suspicion? I want to let her know about the water in the basement of the cottage.”

Danny smirked in a way that had annoyed me since I was eight and he was eleven. “Right,” he said. “And Pop’s horse is gonna come in at Monmouth later today.”

“Stranger things have happened, brother,” I called over my shoulder. I took a last look at the carousel house. Too bad I couldn’t get in there to look around. But what would I expect to find that the police hadn’t? Any evidence was already bagged, noted, and safely stowed away at the station.
Stop spinning tales, Vic,
I told myself.
Or at least save them for your books
. Poor Stinky Pete shouldn’t have been out in that storm, period, and his death was likely an accident.

In another ten minutes I was at my cottage, where the first thing I did was throw open the windows for some sea air. While I never minded the musty smell of the shore, it was on the strong side this morning, and there were still a couple of inches of water in my basement. But sitting in a dry corner was a shiny new sump pump; taped to its side was a note in my dad’s handwriting:
Who loves ya, baby?
I smiled at the thought of my ever-optimistic dad buying me a sump pump I couldn’t use without electricity. But I guess it was the thought that counted.

Luckily, my stove and hot water were fueled by gas. I’d have warm showers and I could heat restaurant leftovers, assuming that old generator would hold out and the restaurant could still serve food. If I charged my laptop at the Casa Lido, I’d have a couple of hours of writing time when I came home.
I can deal with this,
I thought,
as long as I can blow-dry my hair somewhere.

After a quick shower (thank you, natural gas) I hopped on the beat-up Schwinn I used to get around town. I wasn’t the best of bike riders anyway, and the weight of my laptop in the basket made it hard to balance. Making my wobbly way down Ocean Avenue, I waved to store owners as they cleaned up their sidewalks. I stopped at the Seaside Apothecary, where Iris had put a
WE’RE STILL OPEN
sign in her window. The old-fashioned bell over the door tinkled when I pushed it open.

Iris, in skinny jeans and a white T-shirt, stepped out from behind the counter with a smile. “Hey, Victoria.”

“Hi, Iris.” I motioned to the dry floor and neatly stacked shelves. “Looks like you did okay in the storm. The store looks perfect.”

She nodded. “I was lucky. The basement’s a little damp, and that’s it. Of course, without power I don’t have my register, but I can still do cash transactions.” She held up an old cigar box with a grin.

“I hope you get customers. This whole end of the street is without power, and we need to get it back before next weekend.”

“I can’t believe Labor Day is around the corner,” she said. “But you’re right. A lot of us do our best business Labor Day weekend.” She pointed out the window. “It’s the boardwalk stands who will be hurt the most, I think. But at least the Casa Lido managed to celebrate its anniversary.”

“Nonna wouldn’t have it any other way, storm or no storm. And thanks for coming last night, and for sticking around in all the craziness.” I looked her up and down. “Gosh, you look great. I’m still getting used to this new look of yours.”

She dipped her head modestly. “Thanks. And we had a lovely time. The food was amazing, as always. Richard was very impressed.” With the mention of Richard Barone, Iris’s face glowed.

“He’s quite the dish, by the way,” I said. “That Italian charm will get you every time.”

“I do like him,” she said in a tone that gave it all away. It was clear she had it bad, and I hoped that Richard felt the same way about her.

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“Just a couple of months. His divorce is fairly recent, so we’re taking it slow.”

He is, at least
. “That’s good,” I said. “I imagine his foundation takes a lot of his time.”

“Yes, unfortunately. But his family’s been in the shore area for generations, and he really cares about the communities down here. In fact, he’s in the office today, generating help for storm cleanup and putting the pressure on the power company to get us back online.”

I held up both hands with crossed fingers. “May he be successful. Well, my friend, I have to hit it. I want to stop at Sofia’s before I go down to the restaurant. And I’ll tell everybody you’re still open.”

“Wait, before you go,” she said, “you heard about poor Stinky Pete, right?”

“I did. Danny stopped back at the restaurant to tell us. Nonna was friendly with him.”

Iris shook her head. “It’s such a shame. I felt so sorry for him when he came into the party. But your grandmother took care of things nicely.”

“She’s good at taking care of things,” I said as I turned to go. “Bye, Iris.”

“Bye, Victoria! See you soon.”

It wasn’t until I was pedaling away that I had the sinking realization that yet again, someone had left the Casa Lido and ended up dead.

*   *   *

Sofia’s dance studio was another business along Ocean Avenue that seemed to be prospering despite the lack of power. There was a class going on when I got there, and it was a pleasure to watch Sofia, ever graceful despite her baby bump, execute
pliés
and
pas de chat
. Afterward we sat in her office, which twice now had served as our base of sleuthing operations.

“So, are you here to report, SIL?” she asked, using our personal abbreviation for
sister-in-law
.

Had she spoken to Danny? Did she know I’d already been up to the boardwalk? “About . . . ?” I asked.

“Your night with Mr. Down on the Bayou, of course. Tell me everything.” She dropped her voice suggestively. “And I do mean
everything
.”

“There’s not much to tell. Well, actually there is.” I gave her a description of Cal’s place, right down to the yellow “guest room” and what I found there.

Sofia sat straight up in her desk chair. “Wow. You think he’s got a kid?”

“Quite possibly. But I suppose the bunny could belong to a niece or nephew, though he’s never mentioned any siblings.”

“Or it could belong to the child of somebody he dated,” she said with a knowing look.

I winced a little at that one. “I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “But I can tell you this, Sofe. Until I know more about Cal and his past, I don’t plan to get any more deeply involved with him.”

One side of her mouth lifted in a grin. “And by
getting more deeply involved
, you mean . . .”

“You know exactly what I mean, lady.”

“I guess I do. But I also know you have trouble resisting his charms. But enough talk about pleasure—we need to move on to business. What do you think about Stinky Pete?”

“What about him?” I toyed with the paper clips on Sofia’s desk, organizing them in little piles by color.