by Maria DiRico
“Sadly, all of it does.”
Jamie brought the car to a stop. Mia looked out the window. “This isn’t my house. It’s your dad’s bar.”
“One of my dad’s bars. I’m guessing you haven’t eaten. Piero, the bartender, also happens to be a great cook.”
“It’s so late. Don’t bars in New York still close at four?”
“They do. Except for my dad’s bars.”
Jamie jumped out of the car and opened Mia’s door. He took her hand, and she felt a surge of emotion and desire. Put a lid on it, she told herself. It’s only because it’s been such a long, horrible night. Jamie helped her jump over a puddle on the sidewalk, then dropped her hand. He opened the door to the bar, and she stepped inside. It was a timeless place of dark wood and red Naugahyde, the scent of cigarette smoke still hanging in the air despite an almost-twenty-year ban on smoking in buildings. A group of men populated one table. She knew them all and responded in kind to their warm greetings and welcome homes.
“Ciao, buddy.” The bartender, a middle-aged bald man Mia assumed was Piero, waved to Jamie with a rag he was using to dry a glass. His was the only unfamiliar face in the room.
“Hey, Piero, this is my friend, Mia.”
“Ravello’s daughter?” Piero’s craggy face broke into a smile. He gave a slight bow in her direction. “It’s an honor.”
“What’ve you got tonight?” Jamie asked.
“I kept it simple. Baked manicotti. Pasta’s homemade, but I gotta warn you, the gravy’s out of a jar.”
“Bring it, mio amico.”
“Va bene. You got it.”
As Piero headed into the bar’s kitchen, Mia noticed that his right leg was gone, replaced by a prothesis. She threw a questioning glance at Jamie, who had gone behind the bar and was pouring them each a shot of bourbon. “Piero was my dad’s last driver,” he said, picking up on her look. “Then he lost his driving leg to bone cancer, so my dad set him up here.” He handed her a shot glass and they relocated to a table near the kitchen.
“That was nice of your dad,” she said.
“When Piero couldn’t drive anymore, my dad tapped into another skill of his. Mixing drinks. The cooking’s just a bonus.” Jamie knocked back his shot. “My dad’s smart that way. He could run a company.”
He sounded sad. Mia sympathized. She felt the same way about Ravello. He and Donny were smart men who, for whatever reason they’d never share with their children, had chosen “the life.” Belle View Banquet Manor at least offered her father a chance to use his intelligence in a legitimate way, and Mia was determined to make the career change stick.
The kitchen door swung open and Piero came out. He deposited a basket of warm Italian bread on Mia’s and Jamie’s table, then returned to the kitchen. Mia helped herself to a chunk of the bread. The outside was hard and crusty, the inside so soft it almost melted in her mouth. “This is delicious.”
“Piero makes it himself. He makes his own breadsticks, too. I used to bring them to the kids at my school. They always pretended to fence with them, like we did when we were kids. Some behavior is timeless, I guess.”
Mia finished eating her thick chunk of bread, then reached for a breadstick. It made a snappy, satisfying crunch when she bit into it. “Jamie . . . why did you stop teaching? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I just wondered.”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind answering. After five years of it, I figured out that a lot of my students would benefit more from a good school psychologist than an okay fifth grade teacher. I could get my master’s faster if I went to school full-time instead of at night, so rather than keep teaching during the day, I quit to focus on school.”
“A master’s. Wow. I barely made it out of high school.”
“That’s only because you had to spend so much time fighting off all the guys who wanted to date you.”
“Hah. Hardly.”
“It’s true. Come on, Tony Brunetti and Sean Fallows got suspended for going at each other in the hallway when they both tried to ask you out to prom at the same time.”
Mia covered her face with her hands. “OMG, it was so embarrassing. They’d both seen the same picture on the Internet where someone spelled out ‘Prom Me’ in pepperoni on a pizza.”
“Who hit who with their pizza box first? Do you remember?”
“No. I blocked the whole thing out. Thanks a lot for making me relive it. I didn’t want to go with either of them.” I wanted to go with you, Mia managed not to say. But instead of asking her, Jamie, being the gentleman that he was, had taken his ex-girlfriend so she wouldn’t miss the prom.
Jamie chuckled. “Sorry. But it’s hard to forget when two guys are beating on each other and pepperoni pizza’s flying everywhere. Salambini’s pizza, too. Good stuff.” There was an awkward pause. “So,” he said, changing the subject, “are there any real suspects in the murder?”
Mia threw up her hands. “There were a ton of people at Belle View, there could be a ton of suspects. But I can point a finger at two. John Grazio and Chris Tinker.”
She filled Jamie in on the men’s suspicious behavior. He pondered what she shared. “I took a criminal psychology class last year. I thought it would be interesting and maybe give me some insight into my family. Unfortunately, it was only one of those things—interesting.” He sat back in his chair. “I learned that murders are usually motivated by passion, profit, or ego, meaning someone has suffered a humiliation so wounding it drives them to kill. So that’s the motive. Then you have to factor in means and opportunity.”
“So, all I have to do is figure out which of the hundred people at the event—make that more, because I shouldn’t rule out the staff, I don’t know any of them that well—had a motive, as well as means and opportunity.”
“It’s not up to you, it’s up to the police.”
“Two words, remember? Pete Dianopolis.”
“Oh, right. Then it is up to you. With me helping.”
“No.” Mia shook her head vehemently. “I’m not dragging you into this. You’re doing such a great job of making your own life, Jamie. I don’t want anything getting in the way of that.”
“But I don’t want you doing anything dangerous.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got a lot of people looking out for me. A whole Family.” She gestured to the table of men off in a corner of the restaurant. They smiled and waved at her.
“Be careful, okay?” Jamie took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “And thank you.”
“For what?”
“Believing in me. That I can do what you said. Make my own life.”
“Of course.”
Mia squeezed Jamie’s hand back. They shared a bond that few others could understand or relate to. Holidays spent without fathers because Ravello or Donny was in jail. Classmates pointing and whispering to each other, or worse, forming a friendship with one of them only so they could brag about being “connected.” Siblings who followed in their parents’ dubious footsteps. But Mia and Jamie always had each other, at least as friends. There was no denying that Jamie was cute, with his hazel eyes, chestnut hair, and light smattering of freckles across a surprisingly straight nose, considering the sturdy Italian honkers on both of his parents. Mia was beginning to second-guess her second-guessing about the relationship. Maybe it was time to let it move out of the friend zone into a sexier space.
The energy surging between the couple was interrupted by Piero’s arrival. He held up two plates of steaming baked manicotti. “Ecco, you two. Straight from the oven.”
Mia inhaled the rich aroma of tomatoes, meat ragu, and herbs. “I had no idea how hungry I am. Don’t judge me if I lick the plate.”
Jamie laughed. “I’ve had Piero’s manicotti. I may join you.” He held up his empty shot glass. “To your health. Alla tua salute.”
“Alla tua salute.”
The two clinked glasses, then dug into their food.
* * *
By the time J
amie dropped Mia off, it was six A.M. Elisabetta, wearing a purple track suit with gold trim, greeted her at the door. Hero, still wary of her, greeted Mia with a half bark, half growl. “Ravello called and told me what happened,” she said, planting her fists on her hips in a gesture that had earned her the secret family nickname of Little Mussolini. “Nobody’s arresting my son under false pretenses.” Elisabetta yelled this into the street as if the words would carry to the local precinct and stop the police in their tracks.
“Don’t worry, Nonna, I’m gonna do everything I can to keep Dad from being framed for what happened.”
“That’s my girl.” Elisabetta hugged Mia and pinched her cheeks hard enough to leave red marks. “Go get some sleep. You’ll need it TO FIGHT THE LIES!” She hurled this comment into the ether as well, following it with a loud sneeze.
“You okay?” Mia asked, concerned.
Elisabetta waved her hands dismissively. “I’m fine. I got a little cold. I’ll live. Go. Sleep. Va dormire.”
She pushed her granddaughter through the vestibule to the door that led to the second-floor staircase. Mia, feeling the all-nighter she’d pulled, didn’t need any additional prompting. She dragged herself up the stairs, maneuvered around the boxes still crowding the apartment living room, and fell onto the carved and gilded bed she’d inherited from Rose Caniglia. A bird chirped a morning greeting outside her window, reminding Mia of her missing parakeet. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and checked for messages. There were none responding to the flyers she’d posted about Pizzazz. “I’ll make some calls later,” she mumbled into her pillow before falling asleep.
Mia woke up several hours later feeling, if not refreshed, at least functional. She checked her schedule and made an executive decision to move the Rotary Club monthly meeting, scheduled for the Bay Ballroom, to a new location. She had no idea if the police had left Belle View in operational condition and didn’t want to take the chance that they hadn’t. She put a call in to Ravello’s favorite hangout, Roberto’s Trattoria, and the manager said yes before she even finished asking for the favor. He even offered to pick up the tab. Whether or not he would have done this for a patron who wasn’t connected didn’t matter to Mia. It was one less financial burden to carry, even if it left her with two boxes of pre-ordered Danish.
After alerting the Rotary Club president to the change in venue, she called a few of her old Palm Beach neighbors to see if any had spotted Pizzazz. None had, which left Mia feeling dispirited. She missed waking up to the little bird’s cheerful chirps. “You packed a ton of personality into your tiny little body,” she said to the empty cage. “Pack, not packed,” she corrected, refusing to consider that Pizzazz might be gone forever.
Mia showered and put on a casual outfit of tapered black pants, a silk purple T-shirt, and black ballet flats. There were no appointments on her calendar, so she was free to dress casually. As she applied a light touch of makeup, she heard her grandmother talking to someone. Curious, she went downstairs. To her displeasure, she found Elisabetta in the middle of a conversation with rapacious real estate agent Felicity Stewart Forbes. Hero was by Elisabetta’s side, on the alert, ready to protect his human. The agent wore a Chanel jacket—again, a knockoff—over a cream silk top with a pussy bow, and dark camel slacks.
“Ask your friends. They swear by my homemade chicken soup,” Forbes said, handing Elisabetta a small plastic container. Hero growled and barked at her and she recoiled, catching herself before she tumbled backward down the stairs. “Good doggy. What a cutie pie, huh? Anyway, drink that soup. You don’t want that cold turning into pneumonia.”
“It won’t,” Elisabetta said. “I had the shot.”
“Yay.” Forbes fist-pumped the air. “Good for you,” she said with all the sincerity of a beauty pageant first-runner-up congratulating the winner. “I taped my card to the top of the container, which you are welcome to keep.”
Elisabetta examined the container. “Your picture is on this.” She held the container up. The front was plastered with a label featuring Forbes making her signature “Number One” gesture.
“Yes, the label has my photo, so you don’t forget who I am, along with my contact information in case you lose the card.” Forbes stuck her finger in the air, mimicking the pose on the label. She noticed Mia. “Hello,” she said in a tone that defined the word perfunctory.
“Hi,” Mia said. “We met last night.” Forbes gave her a blank look. “At Belle View Banquet Manor.”
“Of course. Now I remember,” the agent said with a wide smile she must have assumed would hide her obvious lie.
“Mia’s my granddaughter,” Elisabetta said. “She moved in upstairs.”
“Really? Well, isn’t that wonderful for you. You won’t be alone and lonely.” Forbes did her best to mask her disappointment.
“Or need to sell,” Elisabetta said. “Thank you for the soup.”
Elisabetta closed the door on Forbes. She took the lid off the soup, smelled it, then poured the container into the potted flax plant next to the vestibule radiator. “Witch. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doctored up that soup. Here’s hoping it doesn’t kill my plant. But if it does,” she added darkly, “we’ll know.”
Elisabetta marched into her first-floor apartment with Mia right behind her. “Che strega, mi piacerebbe portarla su una scopa e mandarla a volare fuori da Astoria.”
Mia translated her grandmother’s diatribe in her head. “I know you’d like to shove her on a broomstick and send her flying out of Astoria, but since you can’t actually do that, how about ignoring her?”
“No!” Her grandmother shook a fist in the air. “I’m not gonna ignore the woman who’s ruining my neighborhood. Capisce?”
“Yes. I understand.”
The women made their way to Elisabetta’s kitchen. She pulled out a chair from her 1950s-era dinette set. “Sit,” she ordered her granddaughter. Mia sat. Elisabetta placed a plate loaded with eggs, peppers, and sweet Italian sausage in front of Mia, then assumed her Little Mussolini pose. “Eat.”
Mia ate.
After breakfast, she decided to bike to work. Mia had barely been home a week and her pants were already feeling tight. Riding a bicycle was one of her favorite activities. It was easy in Florida, where a hill wasn’t to be found for miles, but a little less easy in Queens, where the terrain, while hardly rugged, was more varied. Still, for Mia, there was nothing like pumping up a steep road and then flying down the other side of it as the wind whipped her hair away from her face. She passed homes and shops familiar to her from the rides of her childhood. The trip brought back memories, particularly of trying to talk Posi into riding bikes instead of stealing them. He’d pimp the stolen bikes with streamers and decorative paint jobs, then sell them back to their original owners for the price of his supplies. While the parents might complain—but mostly didn’t because they feared the Family—kids loved Posi’s handiwork, and the Carinas often found bikes in their front yard from kids hoping Posi would work his design magic on them.
Mia slowed down when she reached flatter ground. It was a gorgeous early spring day, the kind where the air was soft and the leaves the bright green of new growth. As Mia pedaled toward Belle View, she reviewed the previous night’s events. Angie’s body in the fake cake, John’s and Chris’s mysterious reactions, that stupid million-dollar check.
Mia slammed on her bike brakes to avoid hitting a parked car as a thought about the check occurred to her. Who better to frame for murder than a mob capo with a rap sheet? But what if it hadn’t been placed in the pop-out cake by the killer? What if someone saw what happened and took advantage of it to get Ravello Carina in trouble? A killer . . . and a possible witness. Instead of merely protesting that her father was innocent, she finally had a theory she could share with Pete Dianopolis.
Encouraged by this potential new investigative path, Mia soared up one last hill and coasted down it. When she reached Belle View, she chained her bicycle to the gazebo and walked towa
rd the facility. Something stuck to her shoe. She reached down and peeled off a piece of police tape. She stood up and let out a startled cry. A young woman stood directly in front of her. The woman held her cell phone a few inches from Mia’s face. Mia saw that the voice memo app was open.
“Hi, I’m Teri Fuoco, investigative journalist for the Triborough Tribune,” she said. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the recent murder at Belle View.”
Chapter Seven
The press. Great. Mia muttered a few vulgarities in her head, then plastered on a polite smile. “No comment.”
She threw back her shoulders and strolled toward Belle View, suppressing the urge to race inside and lock all the doors. The reporter followed on her heels, which was no surprise. She was an “investigative journalist.” Translation: a dog with a bone, the bone being “reputed crime figure, Ravello Carina”—the first three words being the description that generally preceded her father’s name in the unwanted press coverage he received. The concept of names triggered a buzz in Mia’s names. Fuoco, she mused. Fuoco. Why does that sound so familiar?
“Was the victim known to your father?” Mia ignored Fuoco and walked faster.
The reporter followed, shooting a rat-a-tat-tat of questions at her. “Is her death related to the acquisition of Belle View by the Boldano Family? Was it ordered by Donny Boldano? The family claims Belle View is a legal enterprise, but did the victim know differently? Was her death part of a cover-up operation?”
Mia halted her walk and turned to face her adversary. Not expecting this, Fuoco bumped into Mia and stumbled. Mia scrutinized the reporter as the woman regained her balance. Age-wise, the two appeared to be in the same ballpark. Physically, they parted ways. Fuoco’s body type leaned toward lumpy while Mia’s bordered on skinny. The reporter’s dirty blond hair hung to her shoulders in no discernible style. She was clad in a pink polo shirt and khaki pants, giving her the look of a 1980s preppy or a young Connecticut housewife. “You know I’m not gonna answer one single question you throw at me,” Mia said. “So save us both a lot of wasted time and go away. Far, far away.” She opened the door to the Belle View lobby. “Follow me in here and I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”
