by Maria DiRico
She stepped into the lobby and pulled the door shut, coughing as her senses were assailed with the smell of disinfectant. A cleaning crew was scrubbing down Belle View’s interior. She jumped out of the way as a guy pushed a floor waxing machine past her into the Marina Ballroom. Cammie Dianopolis waved to her from the office hallway. “Morning. I got the crew out here to get rid of the police stink.”
“Thank you for that.”
Cammie beckoned to her. “Come to my office. I’ll fill you in on a couple of things, and then take off for the day.”
“It’s not even eleven o’clock.”
Cammie ignored her. Mia walked down the hall and joined her co-worker—if Cammie could even be called that—in her office. “Shut the door,” Cammie said, pointing to it with a sparkly pink lacquered fingernail enhanced with a rhinestone surrounded by the intricate illustration of a rose.
“Nice manicure.”
“Spa Castle does good work.”
Mia shut the office door. Since the folding chairs had been relocated to her own office, there was nowhere to sit, so she leaned against a wall. “You got another office chair.”
“This was your broken one. Pete fixed it for me. And while he was here, I got a little dirt out of him. The chick who was murdered? The medical examiner puts the time of death between six and nine P.M.”
“That’s not much help.”
“The coroner can only offer a three-hour window.”
Mia released a frustrated groan. “Between prepping the two parties and running them, that was the busiest time of the night. Pretty much everyone was here at some point during that block of time.”
“True. Pete said it didn’t allow them to establish alibis for too many people.”
Mia twisted a lock of hair around her finger, a nervous habit since childhood. “A reporter hit me with questions outside.” She twisted the lock tighter. Her index finger began to pulse.
Cammie nodded. “Teri Fuoco. Triborough Trib. Picking up where her father left off.”
“Huh? Explain, please.”
“Jerry Fuoco. He was a Trib reporter, too. Made a lot of noise about the Boldano family about twenty years ago.”
“Ah,” Mia said, nodding. “That’s why her last name sounded familiar.”
“Yup. He kept throwing spaghetti at the wall to see what would stick, but nothing did. Donny made sure of that, which ticked off my Pete, let me tell you. He was on Team Fuoco. Anyway, the Trib finally stopped being obsessed with the Family and Fuoco faded away. But now it’s nex-gen Fuoco, as in his daughter.”
“Here’s hoping she meets the same fate as her father.” Mia caught herself. “Which wasn’t . . .”
“Deadly? No. He just got moved to another beat on the paper.”
Mia released the finger held captive by her hair twirling. “I need to give Pete a call. I have an idea I want to run by him.”
“I can do you one better.” Cammie tapped out a text with her beautifully manicured nails. “I told him my chair’s a little wobbly. Money says he’ll be here in ten minutes. Or less.”
“In the meantime . . .” Mia leaned her chin on her hand as she thought. “Adam managed a restaurant in Palm Beach.”
“Your presumed-dead-husband-that-we-hate Adam?”
“Yes, that Adam.” Mia wrinkled her nose like she’d bumped up against a bad smell. Then, feeling guilty, she said, “Am I a terrible person for never defending him? Like, for not saying he had a good side?”
“Did he?” Cammie asked, skeptical.
Mia looked down at the room’s faded carpet. “You know what’s sad? I can’t say yes for sure. Maybe he was always playing a game with me. The kind where the minute I committed to him, he started to get bored and antsy. He’d won, but the game was over. I can’t just blame him, though. I’m not a victim. I’m an adult who made a choice. A dumb choice but one I gotta own.”
Mia swallowed and blinked back tears. The two women were quiet for a moment. “You were saying about managing a restaurant,” Cammie gently prompted.
Mia snapped back from her depressing side trip. “Right. I remember some of the waiters at Tutta Pasta joking that a lot of guests assumed they were invisible, so they overheard some great gossip that way. I wonder if our waitstaff brought anything back to the kitchen. I have to talk to Guadalupe and Evans.”
“They’re here.”
“Really? Why? We don’t have an event for a couple of days.”
“What can I say? You have a dedicated staff. Except for me, of course.”
Mia shook her head, amused. “I’ll be right back.”
She left Cammie for the kitchen, stopping to adjust a few photos in the hallway knocked askew by the vibration of an airplane on approach to LaGuardia. She pushed through the kitchen’s swinging double doors. Guadalupe was rearranging her massive collection of pots while Evans perched on a stool, thumbing through a book of recipes. “Thanks for coming in, guys. And Guadalupe, sorry for sticking you with the police’s inventory request last night.”
“No worries,” Guadalupe said, effortlessly transferring a pasta pot half the size of Mia from one shelf to another as she talked. “By the way, I told the police our equipment is so disorganized that I have no idea how many knives we have, so I can’t tell them if anything is missing.”
“Is that true?”
“It is now.” Guadalupe pulled out a drawer and turned it upside down. An assortment of kitchen utensils clattered onto the stainless-steel countertop. “In case they don’t believe me and want to look for themselves.”
“Great,” Mia said, relieved. “A million thanks.” She turned her attention to Evans. The sous chef was so engrossed in his recipe book that he hadn’t even looked up when the utensils made a racket. “Whatcha got there, Evans?”
He held up the book. “The World’s Great Desserts.”
“Yum. Count me in for sampling whatever you make.”
“He wants to be a dessert and pastry chef,” Guadalupe said. “We’re just a stop on the way.”
“Or . . . we’re his final destination because we have the best dessert and pastry chef in Queens.”
This earned a smile from the laconic man. “I like that.”
Mia gave herself an imaginary pat on the back for good management, then focused on what brought her into the kitchen. “I was wondering, did the waitstaff happen to bring any stories from the parties back into the kitchen? I know they sometimes hear things and then discuss them.”
“You mean pick up dirt and gossip about it,” Guadalupe said.
“Well . . . yes.”
Guadalupe and Evans stopped what they were doing to think for a moment. “Nothing really from the anniversary party,” he said. “That was pretty much your standard old folks and family event. But there was talk about the bachelor party.”
“You know, like, who hit on some of the waitresses, who was crazy drunk,” Guadalupe said. “Who cracked jokes, who seemed nervous or scared—”
Mia held up her hand. Here was a road to a possible suspect. “Okay, that. Who was nervous or scared?”
“Missy was going on about the groom and this one friend of his, this guy who kept throwing up. She said he was sweating like crazy, too. Went through a couple of napkins.”
“I remember she didn’t want to bus his table,” Evans added. “Said he was gross.”
It has to be Chris Drinker, I mean Tinker. “Thank you,” Mia said. “This is really helpful. If you remember anything else, let me know. And Evans, make whatever’s on the cover of that book.”
He closed the book and examined the cover. “Pavlova. From New Zealand. Will do.”
As Mia returned to her office, her phone pinged a text from Cammie: Pete’s in my office. Made it in less than five minutes.
She found the detective on the floor under Cammie’s chair, tightening the wheels with a screwdriver. “You should be good now.” He rose to his feet with much creaking and groaning, taking a minute to smooth down his hair. “Oh,” he said,
noticing Mia and not looking very happy about it, “you’re here.”
“Am I interrupting something?”
Pete opened his mouth to reply, but Cammie got out a “No, it’s all good” before he could say anything.
“Pete, I have a scenario I want to run by you.”
He checked his watch. “Sorry, I have to—”
“Listen to what she has to say, Peter.”
The tone in Cammie’s voice was enough to make the detective quickly respond, “Okay, shoot.”
“We have a body. We have a check.” Mia paced as she talked, then stopped for dramatic effect. “What if the killer and the person who left the check are two different people? Person A killed Angie. But Person B found the body and grabbed a chance to get my father in trouble. In which case, you’re looking for a murder and a . . . get-someone-in-trouble-er. I don’t know what the criminal name for that is.”
“False incrimination, obstruction of justice. Maybe a few others. But I gotta say, that seems far-fetched to me.”
Mia was about to retort that the only reason it seemed “far-fetched” to the detective was his vendetta against his perceived competitor for Cammie’s affections when Cammie stepped in again. “In case I haven’t made it clear to you, Pete, I have zero interest in Ravello. I do not find him even remotely attractive, not the teeniest, weensiest, tiniest bit—”
“Okay, that’s a little extreme,” Mia said, feeling compelled to defend her father.
“I’m trying to get my point across to my ex here. If the universe said to me, you have to date Ravello Carina, or you’ll never see another tube of Frosty Pink Passion lipstick again . . . I would say good-bye to the lipstick.”
Pete gaped at Cammie. “Wow. You’d say good-bye to Frosty Pink Passion? That is some serious stuff there.” He turned to Mia. “Your scenario isn’t terrible. I’ll look into it.”
She released a breath. “Thank you.” Pete bent down to tie his shoe and she mouthed a “thank you” to Cammie, then blew her a kiss. Cammie winked at her. The sound of conversation wafted in from the foyer. Cammie glanced in that direction. “The groupers are here.”
“The who-pers?”
“I forgot to tell you, the place came with some preexisting clients. Groups that use the bridal lounge for meetings. I think it was a way for the old owner to squeeze a few bucks out of a room that sits empty a lot.”
“What kind of groups?”
“A.A., Debtors Anonymous—pretty ironic, considering how Ravello got the place off a bad bet. I guess the owner didn’t bother to drop in on those meetings.” Cammie checked a calendar on her wall. “Right now, a pet grief support group’s got the room.”
“Those are all non-profit groups. They shouldn’t have to pay rent.”
“They’ll love you for that. Usually they collect it in an old coffee can. I once had to roll two hundred pennies.”
Mia left Cammie’s office for the first-floor bridal lounge. She had an idea and detoured to the kitchen, where she removed the large white boxes of Danish meant for the relocated Rotary Club meeting. “Evans, would you mind putting out a coffee and tea setup in the downstairs bridal lounge?”
“No problem.” Evans put down his book and got to work.
Mia carried the boxes into the bridal lounge. Around ten men and women of assorted ages were sitting on folding chairs arranged in a circle. More than a few were red-eyed and clutched tissues. “Gerald, did you want to share?” a slim woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses asked an older man in a gentle voice. Mia assumed she was the group leader.
Gerald hesitated and looked toward Mia. The others followed suit.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Mia said. “We had these pastries for an event that didn’t happen, and I thought you might like them. We’re also setting up some coffee and tea for you.”
“That’s so nice,” a girl about Mia’s age said, then burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Mia said, feeling terrible. “Here, have a chocolate croissant.” She handed the girl the croissant, then the whole box. “Why don’t you pass that around, along with the napkins?”
The box went around the circle and returned to Mia empty. Evans came in pushing a cart with carafes and coffee cups. He helped Mia distribute beverages, departing to the sound of profuse thanks from the meeting attendees. “Everyone here has suffered a loss, so a little comfort and kindness goes a long way,” the group leader explained to Mia.
“Of course. And by the way, you don’t have to pay rent for the room anymore, either.”
Three more people joined the young girl in weeping. Even the group leader’s eyes misted up. “Thank you for that, too,” she said, her voice husky. “By the way, I’m Vivien T.”
“Mia Ca—Mia C. And I can sympathize with all of you.” She noticed an empty chair and sat down. “I have a beautiful cat, Doorstop. I call him that because he’s so lazy he might as well be one. I adopted him from a shelter, so who knows what kind of life he had before I got him. I figure he’s earned a rest.”
“Adopt, don’t shop,” Vivien T. said with approval.
“But I also have—had—a parakeet.” Mia’s own eyes grew misty. “Pizzazz. She was a pistol, let me tell you. Chirped out songs, bossed around Doorstop.”
“Did she cross the Rainbow Bridge?” Vivien asked, her voice soft, her tone caring.
“No. When I was moving back here, someone jostled me, her cage door opened, she got frightened, and flew away.” Mia couldn’t restrain herself any longer and burst into tears. “My poor, sweet baby.”
Vivien put her arm around Mia’s shoulder. “It’s all right. You’re with people who understand.”
“I know.” Mia gulped and sobbed, “Not one of you said, ‘It’s just a bird.’”
* * *
Mia emerged an hour later with ten new friends and a commitment to join the group. “I’m gonna call all my friends in Florida,” Betty, a large woman in her sixties, promised. “I know a ton of people who retired there. We’ll get the word out about Pizzazz all over the state, honey.”
“Thanks, Betty,” Mia sniffled, accepting Betty’s hug.
The pet bereavement group left. Mia was drying her eyes with a napkin when Cammie, dressed in a workout outfit, a gym bag slung over her shoulder, appeared in the foyer. “I’m off,” she said. “I’m a little worried that if I don’t leave now, I’ll end up clocking in a full day of work.”
Mia waved her off. “Go. You got Pete to listen to me. You’ve earned your keep today.”
Cammie was about to leave when the glass doors that fronted Belle View Banquet Manor flew open. A tall, zaftig woman dressed in a black pantsuit flecked with gold, dripping with jewelry that might or might not be costume, strode into the room. With her teased black hair and cat’s-eye black eyeliner, she resembled an upscale witch. “I’m Barbara Grazio, mother of John Grazio,” she announced in the gravelly register of a heavy smoker. “Which one of you is handling his wedding?”
“She is,” Cammie said, and then literally raced out the door, leaving Mia face-to-face with the dreaded mother of the groom.
“He-he-hello,” she stammered. “Welcome to Belle View. How can I help you?”
John Grazio’s mother, a head taller than Mia—and probably half a head taller than her own son—bent down so that the two women were eye level. Mia could feel hot breath on her face. “We need to talk,” the woman said, her tone ominous. “Now.”
Chapter Eight
Don’t let her scare you, Mia thought to herself. She held the woman’s glance. “Of course. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Grazio. Why don’t we talk in my office?”
Mia tried to make small talk as they walked, but the imposing woman wasn’t interested, responding either monosyllabically or with grunts. The news about the bachelor party debacle had obviously reached her. Mia made a mental list of the ammunition she’d need to defuse the tension—apologies, refunds, cases of the Boldano Family wines. They reached her office and sh
e sat down behind the desk. “Mrs. Grazio, I can’t tell you how sorry my father and I are about the . . . incident at your son’s bachelor party.”
“Oh, you mean the murder? Pfft, old news.” The woman put her hands on the desk and leaned in toward Mia. “I heard a rumor that the bride’s family is gonna arrive by boat, but not the groom’s.”
“Oh,” Mia said, a little disconcerted, but relieved that a deceased call girl wasn’t Barbara’s biggest problem. “Alice and John only booked one boat.”
“Book another.”
“I’ll have to run the cost by the bride and groom.”
“No, you won’t.” Barbara Grazio reached into her designer purse, pulled out a top-of-the-line credit card, and slapped it on Mia’s desk. “I want a boat. A big one. On that boat, I want some guys with trumpets playing announcement music—”
“A fanfare.”
“Whatever. And I want a big corsage, one that covers my shoulder.” She gestured to said shoulder. “And I want it in this color.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a fabric swatch in the brightest shade of blue Mia had ever seen. “It’s from the dress we buried my mother-in-law in. The dress was hideous, but I loved the color, so I snipped a swatch before they closed the coffin.”
“It’s . . . stunning. But it might overwhelm the bride’s color scheme of peach and pearl.”
“You say that like it’s a problem.”
“I’m also a little concerned that this color doesn’t exist anywhere in nature.”
“That’s what the Web is for. It’s in the name: double-u, double-u. Worldwide. So go out in the world and find it.”
