Penne Dreadful

by Catherine Bruns

  Yeah, okay. I gripped the ball of dough tightly between my hands. “Slice must seem small after running your own restaurant in New York City.”

  His head jerked up, and dark, dangerous eyes met mine. “How did you know about that?”

  “Someone mentioned to me that your place closed recently. What was the name of it again?” Already, I could tell that my questions were not welcome.

  “Oh, really?” Storm clouds brewed behind his eyes. “Did they also mention why my restaurant closed? Are you afraid to work with someone who doesn’t do everything by the book…like your husband so obviously did?”

  His tone was sharp, and I bristled at the comment. “No, of course not.” I turned away from him and slid the metal pizza peel underneath the dough. Did this guy have a major chip on his shoulder or what? And why was he bringing Dylan into it?

  Vince rang up a customer who had come in for takeout. Anthony emerged from the office and placed an order slip in front of his brother, then handed me a menu. “Are you familiar with our dinners, Tessa? We have more than pizza here. Customers can get chicken or eggplant parmigiana, lasagna, or spaghetti and meatballs. Vince prepares a certain number of dinners every day, and if they don’t all get used, we freeze the rest.”

  I scanned the laminated menu. “What about garlic bread?”

  “It comes with all the dinners,” Anthony said. “We don’t sell it separately.”

  I added sauce, pepperoni, and cheese and placed the pie into the oven. It slid easily off the peel, which I then brought back to the table to start another pizza. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing quite like massaging one’s fingers through the lumpy dough and feeling the texture change from the softness of a warm marshmallow to a tacky and slick final product. Perfect for pizza crust. “Have you ever thought about featuring stromboli on the menu?” I asked.

  Anthony merely shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t say I ever did.” He looked at Vince, who had turned back into the kitchen. “Do you know how to make stromboli?”

  “Of course I can make it.” Vince’s tone was snippy and accusatory. “No one’s ever asked for it though.”

  I wiggled my fingers. “I make a pretty mean one if I do say so myself. How about adding a couple of penne dishes to the menu? Penne is so much more attractive looking than linguini or spaghetti. I have a great shrimp alfredo recipe you could use. Or maybe penne with a lemon garlic sauce for a healthier option?”

  Anthony leaned forward, his eyes as round as pepperoni slices. “Those are great ideas, Tessa. Say, after you finish that pizza, could you make up a pot of your tomato sauce? I think I’d like to feature it with all the dinners from now on.”

  I smiled graciously. “Of course. I’d be happy to.”

  Anthony pointed at the utility cabinet on the other side of the kitchen. “There are stainless-steel pots inside and a couple more in the oven. You should find all the ingredients you need for the sauce in the cabinet as well—unless you’ve got a secret one that I need to run out and pick up?”

  I smiled but said nothing. He wanted to know what was in my sauce—that much was certain. Too bad for him I wasn’t sharing.

  Anthony went on. “Leave the sauce in the pot, and I’ll take care of freezing it.” He turned to his brother. “What do you think about adding stromboli to the menu?”

  “Sure.” Vince sounded bored as he watched me brush the dough with olive oil and ladle the rich tomato sauce over it. I reached into the prep table and grabbed fresh mozzarella cheese, sprinkling it liberally on top. For a finishing touch, I added several pieces of sausage and a pinch of oregano, the spicy smell permeating my nose. “Little Miss Penne seems to have all the answers to making your business a success, Anthony.”

  My eyebrows rose in confusion. “I was only saying—”

  He cut me off. “Hey, maybe when it’s slow later, you can make up a batch of your healthy lemon penne with a side of stromboli for us to sample.” He elbowed Anthony in the side and laughed. “But for now, do as the boss says and get the sauce cooking, sweetheart.”

  Heat rose through my face. I didn’t appreciate Vince’s attempt to mock me. I’d obviously made him angry when I brought up his former place. My intention was to find out more about the restaurant, why it had closed, and if Dylan had something to do with it. From his rude comment and the information Carlita had given me, it was obvious he hadn’t liked Dylan, but why? Vince also seemed to think he could run circles around me in the kitchen. Well, he was wrong, and I would prove it.

  “You should let me make up a few loaves. I get complimented on my stromboli all the time.” I addressed Anthony but watched Vince out of the corner of my eye to see how he’d react to my next statement. “It was Dylan’s favorite.”

  At the mention of Dylan’s name, Vince removed the peel from my hands and thrust the pizza into the brick oven with remarkable force. I winced inwardly as I watched him.

  A party of six had made their way into the dining room, talking and laughing loudly. Anthony grabbed some menus from their place at the checkout counter and addressed Vince. “Better grab more pepperoni out of the cooler.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll get some more dough for the Penne Princess too,” Vince said sourly as he went into the cooler.

  His rudeness irked me, and I was about to say something snarky in return when the phone rang. Since no one else was around, I made a grab for it. “Slice Pizza.”

  There was a pause. “Bellissimo.” A man with a heavy Italian accent spoke into the phone. “Anthony, you never sounded so good before!”

  “Can I help you? Carryout or delivery?”

  “Sweetheart, it’s Dom. Come on, Isabella, you should know this voice. And how come I didn’t get an invitation to that big shindig wedding of yours? Papa Anthony’s laying out big bucks for it, no?”

  “You don’t understand,” I protested. “I’m not—”

  “Molto bene!” he laughed. “Tell your papa I’ll take the usual. Go heavy on the black olives. Lots of friends coming over to sample it.”

  I scribbled away on an order pad. “So, was this a twelve or twenty-four cut? Any sides with that? We have mozzarella sticks or calamari.”

  A deafening silence met my ears. When Dom spoke again, his tone was more formal and annoyed. “Who the hell is this?”

  I glanced up and saw Anthony headed my way. I placed a hand over the receiver. “Dom’s on the phone. He wants his usual with extra black olives.”

  Anthony nodded and handed me an order slip. “I’ll take care of it, honey. Nothing for you to worry about. Dom’s a regular and kind of fussy about his pizza. Would you mind filling this drink order for me?” He took the phone and cradled it against his ear. “Dom!”

  There were loose cans of soda located in the walk-in cooler. I crossed the room and opened the door. Slice’s kitchen was too cluttered for my taste. I preferred a more orderly place to work, but then again, this wasn’t my restaurant. If this had been my place, the first thing I’d do would be to build some extra shelving along the walls for the empty pizza boxes. I’d also put in a drink dispenser and lose the canned soda. That would save some money for sure. I grabbed two diet colas, one regular, and three orange sodas. As I returned to the kitchen, I laid the cans on the counter and reached for a tray.

  “We don’t have black olives today, buddy.” Anthony made a note on his pad. “Okay, yeah. Green peppers to substitute. I’ll get Butchy to deliver. He’ll be back any minute, and then I’ll send him right over. Yeah. I’m expecting more olives tomorrow.”

  Vince was at the register, ringing up a customer with a takeout order when the back door swung open. Eric entered the kitchen and, without a word to anyone, went directly into the cooler. He came out a minute later, empty-handed, and grabbed the pizza boxes waiting on the table next to me, stuffing them into a warmer bag. His bloodshot eyes connected with mine for a brief second, sendi
ng a chill through my body. Still silent, he made his way over to the back door, wrenched it open, and slammed it behind him.

  Eric’s behavior unnerved me. Why would a delivery driver need to go into the cooler? He hadn’t taken anything, so what was really going on? No one was paying attention to me as I wandered into the cooler and stole a look around, eager to inspect my surroundings.

  A thermometer on the door registered forty degrees. The room itself was about ten by twelve feet with a connecting door at its opposite end that I suspected led to the freezer. Boxes lined the shelves, labeled with ingredients and expiration dates. Scanning the room, my eyes landed on a box near the ceiling with black olives written on it in block lettering. Huh. Hadn’t Anthony said they were out of black olives?

  The wall outside the freezer’s door held another thermometer, and this one read zero degrees. I pushed the door open and looked around. More cardboard boxes occupied the metal shelving along the walls. Some were labeled dough and a few pepperoni, but nothing seemed out of place.

  As I walked back into the cooler, rubbing my arms quickly to get rid of the goose bumps, my name tag fell off my apron, landing underneath the bottom shelf. I probably hadn’t pushed the pin all the way through. I dropped to my knees to grab it and noticed an open cardboard box filled with several empty mason jars. Next to the box, a small plastic baggie sat on the cement floor with a white powdery substance inside. My heart raced at the sight of it. Was that…cocaine? My mind went back to Eric exiting the cooler. Of his bloodshot eyes and the first time we met, and the realization hit me fast—Eric’s doing drugs in Slice. Fingers shaking, I reached down to grab the bag when I heard a high-pitched, squeaky voice from behind me.

  “Who are you?”

  Startled, I straightened and whirled around, afraid the guilt might show on my face A woman in her early twenties stood there, her left hand propped on the door and the other one on her hip. She was wearing a pink lace top and jeans so tight that I wondered how she managed to draw a deep breath without pain. She was about my height, with skin so pale it seemed transparent. This must be the famous Isabella.

  I extended my hand. “Hi, I’m Tessa. I just started work here.” I purposefully left out my last name, Vince and Anthony’s earlier conversation still fresh in my ears.

  Her dark, wide-set eyes studied me for a moment before she reluctantly extended her hand. A glittering diamond the size of a walnut shone on her ring finger, and I remembered Vince’s comment about her fiancé’s wealth.

  “I’m Izzy,” she said. “Anthony’s daughter. Nice to meet ya.” Her accent was a bit on the Bronx side, and I recalled Dylan telling me that Anthony had been born in New York City but had relocated to the Upstate area several years ago. Her eyes flickered down to the floor for a moment but she said nothing. Izzy held the door open for me, and I had no choice but to follow her back into the kitchen, my heart pounding loudly in my chest.

  I crossed back to the granite-topped prep table and started dough for another pizza order that had come in while I was in the cooler. As I formed the pie, I watched with interest as Izzy hung her expensive leather jacket on one of the hooks and grabbed an apron. She placed a pink ball cap over her short, russet-colored hair. Anthony was still on the phone but gave her a warm smile.

  Vince looked up from his pile of receipts and shot Izzy a malicious grin. “Ah, look at this. The queen has arrived.”

  Izzy wrinkled her nose at him, the tiny diamond piercing on one side winking in the bright light from above. “Go to hell,” she snapped.

  “Nice way to talk to your uncle.” Vince’s attractive face creased into a generous frown as he regarded his niece, then he pushed his curls back from his forehead. I noticed a large, angry scar above his left eyebrow.

  The animosity between the two was evident and didn’t sit well with me. I finished the pie, adding green pepper, onion, and sausage, then started to gather the ingredients to make my sauce. I longed to get back into the cooler, but Izzy was now leaning against the door, therefore blocking my path. She folded her arms across her chest, presumably bored with all of us, and examined her French manicure while waiting for her father to get off the phone at the front counter.

  Vince pointed at me. “Have you met our newest employee? This is Tessa.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, I met her. So?”

  “Let me rephrase. That’s Tessa Esposito.” Vince’s eyes lit up as he said the words and waited for her reaction.

  Great. Thanks a lot.

  Izzy roused herself from her slouched position against the wall and stared back at me. Her eyes were cold as she scanned me up and down. “You’re Dylan’s wife?”

  I nodded, not knowing what else to say.

  She continued to watch me. “It’s a terrible shame what happened to your husband. Sorry for your loss.”

  Her mouth quivered into a slight smile before she looked away. Call me crazy, but I suspected Izzy was anything but sorry.

  * * *

  My body was beyond exhausted as I unlocked the front door to my home and made a note to leave a light on next time I worked. I hated coming home to a dark and empty house. It was almost ten o’clock, and all I could think about was curling up in my warm, comfortable bed to snuggle with Luigi and watch a rerun of Seinfeld.

  Izzy had avoided me and thankfully was kept busy waiting on the large party for most of the evening. When I’d finally had a chance to return to the cooler about an hour later, the baggie with the powder was gone. Damn. Had Izzy been the one to remove it? Anthony had gone into the cooler for more dough and then Vince to grab a box of pepperoni. Izzy had even walked back there while on her cell phone, most likely for some privacy. Although she hadn’t spoken to me again, I’d felt those dark eyes glued on me all night. Her behavior made me wonder if it had something to do with Dylan or if she knew I’d seen the baggie.

  Although it was only my first day, I’d already discovered several people whose behavior made them key suspects in my husband’s death. Vince obviously didn’t like Dylan, so they must have had some type of previous relationship. Izzy was angry at him, although I wasn’t sure why. Eric was either doing drugs or selling them at Slice, perhaps both. If Dylan had discovered this, he might have threatened to report the kid, placing him high on Eric’s unfavorable list.

  Despite the friction between the other employees, it had felt wonderful to be back in the kitchen, prepping meals, stirring my sauce, doing what I’d always been meant to do. I thought I’d done fairly well and only burned one pizza, a mistake that I chalked up to the time difference between the brick oven and my gas one at home. It bothered me that there was so much untapped potential in Slice. With some tender love and dough—dough in one’s wallet, that is—Slice could make a wonderful family restaurant.

  All evening, I’d visualized smiling moms, happy dads, and chattering children eating at the restaurant. A gas fireplace warming everyone on cool evenings, and a piano player entertaining the crowded restaurant on Saturday nights.

  Back to reality. I glanced idly at the pile of envelopes I’d collected from my mailbox. Most likely they were bills and advertisements for credit cards that I had no interest in looking at right now. Sighing, I tossed the envelopes on top of the pile already accumulating on my coffee table.

  Luigi appeared at the bottom of the stairs, blinking at me with sleepy, half-opened slits of eyes. He yawned and stretched, then trotted into the kitchen, jumped onto one of the stools at the breakfast counter, and stared at me expectantly.

  I stroked his head. “Did you have a good day?”

  He meowed and lifted a paw in the air. Dylan and I used to joke that this was his attempt to high-five us. I’d been enamored with this cat ever since I’d first laid eyes on him four years ago when Dylan had brought him home as a Christmas present for me. Dylan had often talked about getting Luigi a lady kitty to socialize with, but that was one more thing we had
never gotten around to.

  I stared into the fridge. There was some penne left over from dinner last night, but it didn’t hold much appeal. I looked in the freezer, behind my accumulating bags of sauce, in hopes of finding a frozen cheesecake, but I’d eaten them all. Instead, I went with a cup of raspberry herbal tea. Paired with television, it sounded like a great way to unwind.

  After I changed into my nightgown, I washed my face and got into bed. Luigi wasted no time snuggling up on Dylan’s pillow. I clicked through the channels, but nothing interested me. I put the remote aside and grabbed my steno pad off the nightstand. I always kept one there in case I came across a recipe on the cooking channel I wanted to try. I divided the sheet into two columns, one titled People of Interest and the other, Motive. It seemed a bit amateurish, but hey, I had to start somewhere. I thought of Gabby’s words. “No one is exempt.”

  As much as I hated to, I wrote Anthony’s name down at the top of the page. Motive? I wasn’t sure. Maybe Dylan found an item in his taxes to incriminate him. Could Anthony be hiding something? There must be a connection there.

  Izzy was next. According to Vince and Anthony’s conversation, she’d liked Dylan at first, and then something had happened. Had he done something to anger her? I needed to find out more about the queen of Slice.

  Vince. Did he only know my husband from Slice, or was Dylan the one to turn him in for embezzlement at his previous restaurant? Carlita had mentioned that Vince didn’t seem to care for him, and Eric’s words from the other day came back to me. Not everyone at Slice liked your husband.

  Sam, Butchy. I hadn’t formally met Butchy yet, but he came with a glowing report from my mother. It was difficult to get a read on Sam from the brief encounter I’d had with him the other day.

  Eric. He was definitely the vilest of the three delivery drivers and had hinted that he had information. Plus, I was now convinced he was doing drugs. Was he bluffing about having information?

  I hesitated for a long time before writing down the next name. Matt. I didn’t want to believe Matt had anything to do with Dylan’s death. However, Dylan’s vehicle had been at the Car Doctor for service right before the accident. If the opportunity had presented itself for Matt to knock Dylan off so easily, would he have done it?