A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (8 page)

I ladled the tomatoes out of the boiling water and shifted them into the ice, their skins now a bright orange red. I worked mechanically, my mind scurrying from one point to the next, always returning to the same place: If Pete had two bags, one of them heavy, somebody at the party had given him the means to his death. Was it a careless act of intended kindness, or something much more sinister? When Pete said he knew things, were those words the rambling of an incoherent drunk, or did they hold real significance? I shook my head and put the last of the tomatoes into the ice water to cool. And then a thought took hold of me, wrapping itself around me like the tough old grapevines in the garden.

“I’ll be right back, guys,” I said, and raced out the back door. In the parking lot, I tried to retrace Pete’s steps as I remembered them, rounding the corner to the front of the restaurant. I stood with my hands on my hips, studying our striped awnings and gold-lettered sign.

Where had Pete gone? Had he doubled back, and had that been when someone supplied him with the wine? My eye strayed to the alley that separated our building from the hair salon next door. Trash and debris from the storm made it hard to navigate the narrow space, and I picked my way through it slowly. On our side was a door that led to our basement, but it was one we rarely used. I jiggled the knob, finding it locked as I expected. Past the door, the alleyway narrowed and darkened, with climbing plants covering the brick exteriors. I stood against the wall of our building and slid down, my legs bent in front of me. Plenty of room for someone to sit. Plenty of room for someone desperate for a drink to stop and have one. And it had the added benefit of keeping him out of the wind. I hugged my knees, my chin resting on my crossed arms, staring at the assortment of trash all around me. Even in the dim light, I noticed a splash of red near the other building. It wasn’t blood, but the sight of it set my heart racing anyway.

I crossed the alley, dropped to my knees, saw the glint of glass half-hidden by a piece of torn cardboard. I lifted it and stared at the object I’d known was there all along. Resting on a wet and dirty red-and-white-checked napkin was a wine bottle that bore a familiar label: Frank’s Thursday Chianti.

I
got up stiffly and brushed the dirt and grit from my black pants, surveying the scene. Except for the doorknob, I hadn’t touched or moved a thing. That bottle was evidence, as was the napkin. The bottle alone was damning enough, but if there was any doubt where it came from, that checked napkin dispelled it. I dropped my head in my hands. I knew what I had to do, and it meant involving the restaurant in Pete’s death, and possibly incriminating my father. My doting, charming, life-loving dad, who’d never intentionally hurt a soul. I lifted my face, hoping that by some act of fate the bottle had disappeared. But fate wasn’t on my side today, and that bottle and dirty napkin stared back at me in reproach. I took my phone out of my apron pocket and called my brother, knowing exactly what I was setting in motion.

*   *   *

As the uncooperative Fates would have it, the Oceanside PD showed up at exactly the moment my dad’s silver Lexus pulled into the parking lot. My mom got out first, holding the door for my grandmother. My father followed, and all three stood rooted to the pavement when they spotted the police cars. I ran to meet them.

“It’s okay, guys,” I said. “No one’s hurt, I promise.”

My mother’s face drained of color, with only two bright spots of blush on her cheeks. “Honey, why are they here?”

“I found something in the alley and I thought—”

“That’s enough, Vic,” Danny said. “They might have to make formal statements.” His eyes were apologetic, but his expression was grim. “So please don’t say anything else.” He led them back to the restaurant, but all three of their faces were turned my way—my mother’s a study in concern, my dad’s full of confusion, and in my grandmother’s, a fury so cold I needed a sweater. I followed them back inside at a respectable distance and watched as my brother took my dad aside. Danny’s look was serious, questioning. My dad’s eyes widened and he shook his head vehemently. I could guess the conversation:
Pop, did you give Pete a bottle of wine? Absolutely not, son, no way.

But somebody at the party had handed Stinky Pete at least one bottle of wine with a napkin from the dining room. Someone who either knew where the wine was kept or made a good guess at it. But I kept those thoughts to myself when the officers had questioned me, providing only the information for which they’d asked, and no more. Danny, of course, was not part of the investigation—it would be a conflict of interest for him. But he stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, his mouth a tight line of discontent. When I caught his eye, he nodded, his only gesture of encouragement, and a glance that said,
It’s okay, sis, but I’m still not happy
.

In the end, the police didn’t talk to any of us. They milled about outside while I watched the clock anxiously. Dinner service was scheduled to start at five thirty, and police or no police, my grandmother would make sure the food got out on time. And judging from the line of patrons forming outside our doors, even the presence of two police cruisers didn’t dissuade the hungry and powerless, many of whom were carrying their phone chargers and computers.

But they parted easily for my brother, who beckoned me from the doorway. “Listen, sis, you were right to call. And we confiscated the bottle. But I don’t think this is going anywhere. So Pop doesn’t have to worry and neither do you,” he said, emphasizing that last word.

“But, Danny, I think somebody wanted Pete drunk enough to hurt himself or maybe worse—”

He held up a warning hand. “Enough,” he said softly. “And be glad Pop’s not getting dragged into this.” He left through the kitchen, and soon after, we opened our doors to the crowd outside.

After that, the work never let up. Jason called in sick at the last minute, so we had no busboy, causing Flo to grumble long and loud about selfish kids who only thought about themselves. But I was happy to lose myself in the tasks of talking about the specials, taking orders, and serving people who couldn’t cook for themselves. From time to time I’d glance over at the rest of the waitstaff, wondering if they were mentally calling me names, with Tattletale and Goody Two-shoes among the kindest. If I’d had even a second to myself during dinner service, I’d have called Sofia, the one person I knew would wholeheartedly support me. Though Lori seemed sympathetic, she had trouble meeting my eye, and I was feeling more foolish by the minute. My parents were thankfully busy out at the bar, and unsure what he might say to me, I stayed away from Tim. Between tables, I busied myself at the coffee station, readying the cappuccino maker and filling the hot water carafe for tea. Flo appeared at my elbow.

“That tea water hot yet?” she said without looking at me.

“I just filled it; probably a couple of minutes, Flo.”

“That’s just great,” she said, letting out a loud huff. “I got a nasty customer back there who don’t want to wait.”

We stood in silence while the water heated; when it was finally ready, Flo took a cup with shaking hands. Hot water spilled into the saucer and she let out a curse that would have gotten her fired if my grandmother had been in earshot.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

“Oh, I’m just ducky,” she hissed. “The place is crawling with cops; I run my ass off for crappy tips in a place where I have to bus my own tables, and people have a habit of dropping dead when they leave.” She set the teacup on her tray and turned to me, her hostility washing over me like an ocean wave. “In fact, I don’t need this. I don’t need any of this. Consider this my notice, Victoria. After tonight I’m done with the Casa Lido, so take me off the damn schedule.”

She pointed her finger at me, and I noticed her chipped nail polish and bitten cuticles. “And while you’re at it, you can say buh-bye to that crazy grandmother of yours for me.” She narrowed her eyes at me, malice written all over her heavily made-up face. “By the way,” she said, “when I was in high school, we had a name for people like you:
narc
. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

I cringed as though she’d hit me, but before I could answer, she stalked away, hiking up her skirt as she went. So now we were down a waitress, and that was my fault, too.

I better tell Mom and Dad now,
I thought as I headed back to the office.
Let them tell my so-called
crazy grandmother
. Unfortunately, said grandmother was waiting for me in the hallway. Instead of her typical scowl, her expression was as tight and smooth as Italian marble. But there was no masking the anger in her eyes.

She leaned in close to me, her voice harsh. “What were you doing out in that alley, Victoria?”

I looked at her steadily, determined not to flinch. “Though I’m tempted to, I won’t lie to you, Nonna. Nando told me that when Pete left the party, he was carrying a shopping bag that looked heavy. I wondered if someone gave him something to drink.”

“The only thing I gave him to drink was water!” she rasped.

“I know that, Nonna. But what Nando said got me thinking. I figured if Pete had been given wine, he might have wanted a drink so badly that he wouldn’t wait. That he’d find somewhere to have it right away. So I checked the alley on a hunch.”

“A
hunch
,” she said, her disgust evident. “You think you are a detective, miss, but you are not. So Pete stole a bottle of wine and got drunk. For that you call the police? Do you know the trouble you could have brought on us, on my son—your own father!” Then she used the most powerful weapon in her verbal arsenal: “You have no family feeling, Victoria.”

I closed my eyes and took a breath before I answered. “A man is dead, Nonna,” I said. “A man you knew. Isn’t it important to find out the truth about what happened to him?”

“We know what happened to him, and it was an accident!” She stabbed a finger inches from my face. “What’s important is family. Family first, we taught you that.”

I closed my hand around hers. “You also taught me right from wrong. That’s why I called Danny. It was Danny who brought the police here, but I don’t see you ripping into him.”

She pulled her hand from mine and crossed her arms. “
Daniele
was doing his job.”

“Right,” I said, tasting the bitterness on my tongue. “When it’s my brother, it’s okay.”

“What do you care?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “For eight years you stayed away. For eight years you could barely be bothered to visit us. Suddenly, you’re back. Suddenly, you’re interested in the business.”

“You know why I stayed away. I couldn’t bear to be here,” I said, my voice finally breaking.

She shook her head, either in pity or disgust—I couldn’t really tell. “Your father should never have hired him back.” She pointed back to the kitchen doors, behind which Tim was working in the kitchen. “And he’ll hurt you again, Victoria, if you let him. You know he will.”

I swiped my eyes with the backs of my hands, and as I watched her walk away, I thought about a line from a poem I’d read in high school. Was it Robert Frost?
Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.
Well, they’d taken me in. But today the Casa Lido didn’t feel very much like home.

*   *   *

I waited until the last diners had cleared out before sneaking out to the parking lot, trying not to give in to the tears that were threatening to overtake me. In the distance, I could see a figure heading toward me, lifting his hand in greeting. I walked toward him slowly, shoulders sagging, wearing my mortification like a sign.

I looked up at him, blinking back the tears. “Oh my God, Cal, it’s been such a horrible day.”

He folded his arms around me. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?”

So I did, and afterward, let myself have a good cry against Cal’s chest while he stroked my hair. “Better?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks,” I said weakly, still sniffling. “But I’m still embarrassed. And now I got your shirt wet.”

“No matter,
cher
. I’ve had many a worse thing on it.” He took a folded blue bandanna from his back pocket and held it up. “It’s clean, just so’s you know.” He blotted the tears from my face and then handed it to me. “Now give her a good blow.”

I did as he said, wiped my nose, and held the crumpled cloth in my fist. “You’re not getting this back until I wash it.”

He pushed a strand of hair from my face and gripped my shoulders. “Listen to me. You did the right thing, Victoria. Even if it did come to nothin.’ Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”

I nodded, unconvinced, until I saw my dad emerge from the back door. He wasn’t wearing his hat and his face was serious. My stomach sank.

“I heard what Cal said, baby,” he said. “And I agree with him. Course you did the right thing. Mommy thinks so, too.”

“Daddy, I’m so relieved,” I said, letting out a breath. “I’ve been feeling awful all night.”

He put an arm around my shoulders and squeezed me in one of his familiar sideways hugs. “You got nothin’ to feel bad about, sweetheart. And I hope you’re not worried about your old man. I didn’t give Pete that bottle.”

But that doesn’t mean your prints won’t be on it.
“I know you didn’t,” I said.

“And I feel bad about poor old Pete, I really do, but nobody at the restaurant had anything to do with his death. Hey, for all we know, Pete stole that bottle of wine.”

And did he steal a napkin, too? Or was that the work of someone else, someone who didn’t want to leave fingerprints on the bottle?
I glanced at Cal, whose expression was skeptical, but he gave me a quick nod. “You could be right, Dad,” I said. “Let’s hope, huh?”

“Hope’s what I’ve got plenty of, baby,” he said with a wink. “Hope and luck. Now dry those eyes and come back inside.” He motioned for us to follow, but just as we opened the door, the lights in the kitchen flickered.

Tim looked up from scrubbing the sink. “What the—?” Before he could finish his question, the vent fan groaned to a stop, and the loud hum of the walk-in fridge was suddenly stilled.

“Oh no,” I said, just as every light in the kitchen—in fact, the whole restaurant—went dark. That old generator had finally given up, and it appeared the famous Frank Rienzi luck was about to run out.