Murder and Marinara (4 page)

“We won't.” Nonna stared out the front windows, no doubt putting a curse on Parisi. “We will stop him.” She turned back and smiled at a point over my head. “
Ciao
, Calvino.”
Calvino?
I must have heard wrong, because a sure sign of my grandmother's approval was getting christened with an Italian name.

“'Mornin', Giulietta,” he said pleasantly, and nodded to my parents.

I hung on to the nearest table, for surely the floor would now open beneath my feet. At the very least, a thunderbolt would come flying through the front door and strike Cal where he stood. How was this Southern saw-wrangler on a first-name basis with my prickly grandmother?

While I struggled with this new knowledge, Nonna looked back at me, still smiling.
Uh-oh
. “Victoria,” she said, “have you made any progress on your list this morning?”

“The napkins are done.” My voice sounded unnaturally chirpy.

“And the tomatoes?”

“Right, well, it's a little sunny out there now, and I thought you guys might need some help serving the protesters and—”

She nodded her head and spoke calmly. “So you'll do it later.”

It wasn't a request; it was an edict. I sighed. At some point today, I'd be digging in that garden. I wouldn't put it past Nonna to set up a spotlight so I could work all night. “You bet, Nonna,” I said brightly. “But right now, shouldn't we get ready to feed the starving hordes?”

But the “hordes” turned out to be a dozen people, two of whom had made signs, one reading “Not in Our Town” with a big thumb pointing downward; the other said “Pasta-tute,” an epithet suggesting an Italian who was willing to sell out, presumably aimed at Gio Parisi. In the group, I recognized Gale the librarian, our produce man, Mr. Biaggio, and Mr. and Mrs. Pak, who owned the dry cleaners. They marched vigorously in a little circle chanting the slogans on the signs, with my mom pulling up the rear. (It's a little hard to protest in heels.) My father alternated between making short speeches and serving pizza, while Nonna perched on a lawn chair in the shade.

“That display outside,” I said as I walked back into the kitchen, “is at once the bravest and most pathetic thing I have ever seen in my life.”

“God bless 'em,” Tim said. “Want a pizza to take home? We got plenty left.” Since he was cooking, he had a blue bandanna tied around his head. Only Tim could make health code compliance sexy.

“Sure. Who are those for?” I pointed to a stack of foil-wrapped pies.

“I'm gonna bring them over to Father Tom at St. Rose's. A couple families in his parish are having tough times.”

“Oh,” I said. I couldn't imagine the Tim I knew driving out of his way to donate leftover food. “That's really nice.”

He shrugged. “There's a lot of waste in restaurants. But there are health regs regarding perishable food for donation.” He grinned at me. “Father Tom and I get around them. He doesn't ask and I won't tell.”

“Neither will I.” We stood smiling at each other, and a tiny ache tugged at my chest. “Well, I'm off to bring some cold drinks to the righteous,” I told him, determined to stay out of that kitchen for the rest of the day.

Outside, it appeared our little rally was still going strong. A reporter had left the throng on the boardwalk to get some comments from our group. At the moment, my mother was speaking animatedly into a large mike, while behind her rose chants of “Pasta-tute! Pasta-tute!”
Please
, I prayed,
don't let this turn up on the cable news.
Across the street, the boardwalk was packed, the crowds were laughing, and the food stands looked to be doing a brisk business. I walked down to the sidewalk for a better view, only to see our mayor, Anne McCrae, up on the makeshift stage. The crowd cheered as she pumped her fist in unison with the show's stars.

“Oh no,” I said aloud. “This is not good.” There was no doubt that
The Jersey Side
could bring major profits to the businesses in Oceanside, but it might do some real damage as well. And apart from our ragtag little band of protesters, did anyone even care? Would any of us be able to stem the RealTV tide that was threatening to engulf our hometown?

After all the excitement died down and the crowd dispersed, our protesters, including Nonna and my parents, took their signs and went home. I was left alone with Tim, Cal, and the tomatoes, wondering which I should most avoid, when a customer appeared at the door and I got my first real look at the villain of the piece.

Gio Parisi was a good-looking man, if your taste ran to dissolute Roman emperors. His heavy-lidded eyes were dark and hard, the kind of eyes that missed nothing. But everything about him suggested the words “well kept.” His thick silver-streaked black hair was artfully cut, and his firm tan face owed more to artistry than nature. His clothes were expensive, from his hand-tailored shirt to his Italian silk tie and designer suit, not to mention his pricey two-toned black–and-cordovan oxfords, polished to a mirrorlike shine.

“Table for one,” he said, crossing his arms in a clear signal.

“Uh, Mr. Parisi, we're not doing a regular luncheon service today, and we don't serve dinner for an hour and a half—”

“‘Luncheon service,' is it?” He looked pointedly around at the Casa Lido's interior. “Please. As if you can't find me something to eat in this glorified pizza joint.”

I gripped a luncheon menu tightly. “We offer grilled pizza as a summer dish. We are
not
a—”

He held up a large palm. “Spare me the details.” He stalked past me and took a seat at a table for six. “I'd like a house salad with grilled chicken. And not some soggy piece of meat you pull out of the fridge. Cooked to order.” He smiled and crossed his arms again. “I'll wait.”

A sound from the bar caught my attention, and Cal jerked his head in Parisi's direction. I frowned and shook my head, hoping he wouldn't feel the need to leap over the counter and protect me. I'd handled worse customers than Gio Parisi. Frankly, I was more afraid of what my grandmother might do if she came back and found him eating in her restaurant.

“Oh, and, miss?” Parisi said. “You can also bring me a bottle of San Pellegrino and hot water for tea. And that I
don't
want to wait for,” he said softly.

“I'll bring that right out.
Sir
.”

“And I want that chicken well-done,” he called after me. “And the dressing on the side!”

In the kitchen, Tim had dinner prep well under way. I watched his skilled hands slicing and trimming veal for the special, and I hated to break his concentration. “Hey, Tim, can you throw some chicken on the grill?”

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and scowled at me. It was a look I remembered well. “What for? I just cleaned it.”

“Listen, Gio Parisi's out there. He's insisting we serve him. Just make the chicken. He wants it well-done. I'll throw the salad together.”

“Forget it.” He slammed his knife down on the count-er. “I'm not feeding him. No way.”

“
Chi
?” Mr. Biaggio came through the door with a large cardboard box filled to the top with lettuce and other assorted greens. He set the box down with a grunt and grinned broadly. “Who are you refusing to feed, Timoteo?”

I couldn't help smiling at his accent and at his efforts to make Tim's Irish name Italian. “Hi, Mr. Biaggio,” I said. “Gio Parisi is out in the dining room.”

“No!” He lowered his thick brows, and his face reddened. “That
cafone
, the nerve he has to come here.” He shook his fist high in the air. “Victoria, I will be happy to throw him out for you, just like the garbage that he is!”

“I appreciate that—I really do, Mr. B—but I don't want any trouble. That's the last thing the Casa Lido needs.” I filled a kettle and set it on the stove to boil, sliced some bread, and pulled a San Pellegrino from the drinks cooler. “Tim, please. Let's just give him lunch and get him the hell out of here before Nonna comes back.”

“Oh, I'll give him lunch, all right.” He struggled to jerk open the door of the heavy refrigerator, then threw a pack of chicken on the counter and scrubbed his hands with a fury. “I'll make the damn salad.”

“Okay, but don't dress it.”

“Got it. And by the way, tell Lockhart to stay the hell out of my kitchen.”

Oh, it's
your
kitchen now, is it?
I thought, and backed out of the doors, holding the water bottle and bread basket, stopping at the coffee station to ready a plate and a tea bag. It was a little frightening how easily I'd fallen back into my old routine.

I set the water and bread down in front of my customer. “Here you go. Hot water's coming up.”

Parisi waved his hand. “No bread.” Then he looked up at me with a sly grin. “How does it feel to be serving a ‘pasta-tute'? Bet they don't come in here every day.”

Do not engage, Vic
. “We take good care of all our customers, Mr. Parisi.” I picked up the basket and turned to go.

“Then maybe you can bring me my hot water, Ms. Reed,” he said from behind me.

I fought the temptation to answer him and headed back to the kitchen, where I filled a metal tea carafe with shaking hands.

When I brought the tea things back to his table, he emptied a packet of sweetener into his cup and pointed. “Water, please.” As I poured his hot water, he winked at me. “Surprised you there, didn't I,
Vick Reed
? Though I don't know why you should be—your mug's on the back of all your books.” He dunked his tea bag vigorously. “I do read, you know.”

“I'm sure you do.” I held up the carafe. “Would you like me to leave this?”

“Nah, you can take it. Where's that salad?”

“It'll be right up,” I said through my teeth.

“Hey, it's a shame about that HBO deal!” he yelled to my retreating back.

Back in the kitchen, I took a deep breath and washed my hands. Neither Mr. Biaggio nor my temperamental chef was anywhere to be found. But there was a telltale smell of burning chicken and smoke drifting inside the open door. Apparently, Tim defined well done as “charred.” But the salad was ready on the counter, so I took a small gravy boat and filled it with house dressing. While I waited for the chicken, I peeked through the kitchen doors at our guest, who was occupied with his phone. I pulled my head back inside before he could see me.
C'mon, Tim. Bring me the chicken already. This guy's not the patient type.
A few minutes later, Tim walked in; without a word, he dumped the blackened chicken pieces on top of the salad.

“Thanks, chef!” I called as he slammed out the back door.

I looked down at the unappetizing sight, but when I brought it out to Parisi, he dug right in.

“Is there anything else?” I asked.

“Not at the moment.” He shoveled a load of salad into his mouth, his thick lips glistening with dressing, then followed that up with a loud slurp of tea. If I stood there any longer, I'd be in danger of losing those two pieces of pizza I'd had for lunch. “By the way,” he said, shaking his fork at me and talking through a mouthful of food, “I don't know what you people are so damn upset about. Your mayor's on board, and I think your town council will be, too. You might as well get used to the idea that we'll be filming here.” He opened his water bottle and poured a full glass. “You know the amount of business my show would bring you?” When I didn't answer, he tried another tack. “Or . . . the amount of business it could
cost
you?”

“I don't know what you mean.” But I was pretty sure I did.

“Well, all it would take is for one of the kids to say—on camera, of course—how bad the food is here.” He took another sip of tea and grimaced. After another sip, he folded his hands on the table and looked up at me. “How busy do you think you'd be after that?”

“That would depend on the season, Mr. Parisi. Now, if you'll excuse me.” I wheeled around blindly, my fists clenched at my sides. The guy was scum, threatening us like some two-bit mobster. At the coffee station, I set up the two machines, one for American coffee and one for espresso, keeping Parisi in the edge of my vision and willing him to finish that darn salad.

My concentration was interrupted by a female shriek. “Vic!” Lori Jamison yelled. Then she threw her arms around me and stepped back. “Look at you, you skinny thing.”

I looked down at her round, freckled face, and suddenly I was back in high school, when the two of us waited tables during the lunch shift every summer. But after I left, Lori stayed on.

Now married with a young son, she was our primary waitress and as much a part of the family as Danny or I was.

“It's so good to see you again, Lori. I could use some moral support around here.”

“Why? Is Nonna around?” She grinned broadly, and I couldn't help smiling back.

“Not yet. But we've got kind of a tricky customer out there. Maybe you passed him on your way in?”

“I came in the back, hon. The only person I saw was Dreamboat in the kitchen.”

“Right.” Strangely, my cheeks grew warm, and I couldn't meet my old friend's eye.

“You gonna be able to work with him?”

I shrugged. “I have to, don't I?”

“So your mom tells me you're here to work on a new book. That's exciting, huh?”

“Neat change of subject there, LJ.” I gave her a thumbs-up. “Well played.”

She tucked a fresh order pad into the pocket of her apron. “Listen, don't let your nonna or Dreamboat back there get to you.” She shook her pen at me. “Or get in the way of that new book. We're all so proud of you, Vic.”

“Thanks, kiddo. Listen, would you mind checking on that customer at Table Five? See if he's ready for his bill.”