by Maria DiRico
“Morning.” Cammie sauntered by, holding a large coffee.
“Cammie, what do you know about Evans?”
“Is this gonna be a long conversation because I have to leave in twenty minutes for a belly dance class.” She pulled a hot-pink belly dance scarf out of her purse and shook it, making the small silver coins jingle. “My personal trainer says nothing works the abs like belly dancing. It’s sexy too, so it’s another thing to torture Pete with.” She put the scarf back in her purse. “Why are you asking about Evans?”
“Because,” she said, leaning forward, “I know why he discovered the fire. He’s been crashing here at night. Evans has been sleeping at Belle View.”
“Really? Here?” Cammie looked stunned, then skeptical. “That’s kind of hard to buy.”
“It’s a perfect location. Think about it. There’s always some kind of food in the fridges. We’ve got showers and big comfy couches in the bridal lounges.” Cammie still looked dubious. “I bet I can prove it. Come with me.”
Mia led Cammie up the stairs to the second-floor bridal lounge. The room looked pristine. “I don’t know, Mia,” Cammie said. “I don’t see anything telling me someone was here.”
“Let’s look in the bathroom.”
The women stepped inside. “There!” Mia pointed inside the shower. Drops of water clung to the drain, others to the shower door. “Someone used this shower very recently.”
“It is a little steamy in here,” Cammie had to admit. “Wait, are you thinking that Evans is the murderer?”
“Maybe.”
“He can’t be. He’s such a good cook.”
“What does that have to with anything?” Mia asked. “Especially being a killer. It makes him more of a suspect because he’s good with knives.”
Cammie wrinkled her nose with distaste. “Yuck.”
“You have to admit, Evans is nice but he’s a strange guy. We uncovered a secret. Maybe there are others we haven’t sussed out yet.”
“Or maybe he’s homeless and doesn’t want us to know.”
“Oh,” Mia said, deflated. “I didn’t even think about that.”
“I’ve known him longer than you. He’s got a lot of pride. Still . . .” Cammie looked around. “I have to admit, I’m a little creeped out. I’m not sorry I have to leave. I’ll be back later. Maybe.”
Cammie turned to go. Mia grabbed her arm. “I need you to help me spy on Evans. He’s working the Koller party next Saturday night, so it’ll be a different environment, not a place he’s used to. He won’t be as comfortable, and he might let a clue leak. Come to the party. Follow him around and see if you pick up anything hinky. I’ll be too busy doing party stuff.”
Cammie considered this. “Hmm . . . Pete would hate the thought of me putting myself in a potentially dangerous situation. I’ll do it!”
“Great. There’ll be a lot of suspects at the party. The Koller brothers, probably Sofeea Sloan, the sketchy madam, John Grazio—who, even if he’s not the killer, knows more about his pal Chris than he’s letting on—even Dee, and now Evans. If the murders were about real estate, there could be suspects there I haven’t even mentioned.”
Cammie held up a perfectly manicured index finger—peach with a tiny white rosebud painted over the primary color. “Back up. Who’s Dee?”
“The DJ for the party. He did the bachelor party and is kind of famous, but since he was at Belle View the night of Angie’s murder, I don’t want to rule him out just because he’s really good-looking and I had the best time hanging out with him and his friends last night.”
Cammie grabbed Mia by her upper arms and shook her. “Listen to you! Listen! You are so terrified of getting into another relationship that you’d rather have a hot guy being a murder suspect than a possible new boyfriend.”
The truth of Cammie’s blunt statement so shook Mia that she burst into tears. Cammie replaced shaking with a hug. “I know,” Mia sobbed. “I’m a total headcase. It was one thing when Jamie and I were kind of flirting, but then I heard he had a girlfriend and I got upset in a way I didn’t expect. Then Dee seemed interested, and he’s being really cool and taking it slow, and last night felt so different and good, like I was getting my personal life back. But I’m scared. What if I mess it up again? Like I did with Adam?”
Cammie looked upward, held a fist in the air, and let fly a string of Greek four-letter words. “I curse you, Adam Grosso! I curse you to the grave and beyond!” She lowered her fist. “You think the Boldano Family would have made itself useful and taken him out.”
“We don’t know that they didn’t.”
“True. Mia, sweetie, you’re not the first person to have a starter marriage.” Cammie said this with affection. “And God knows you won’t be the last. There’s probably a divorce in America every five minutes. Look at me and Pete.”
“But you know you’re getting back together.”
“Probably, but do not tell him that. He’ll cut off all the perks I get from making him try to woo me back. Forget about me and Pete. My point is, stop beating yourself up for making a bad choice and start focusing on making a good one.”
“Posi said the same thing. I hear you both here.” Mia tapped her head. “It’s just not coming through here.” She sniffled and tapped her heart.
“It will, agapiménos. My little sweetheart.” Cammie gave Mia a kiss on the cheek. “Now, let’s talk about that spying thing. Do I get to wear a disguise? I’m down with that. Except for a wig or a hat. Nothing to mess up the ’do.” Cammie patted her 1980s coif.
Mia dabbed her eyes with the bottom of her sweater and managed a smile. “No costume. We need to look like we’re there for only one reason: to throw a party that will make all of Cimmanin’s friends incredibly jealous and want to hire us to throw even better parties.”
“Cimmanin? Funny, that’s how I say cimm-cimm—the brown spice. See? I can never say it right.”
* * *
Mia thought the days preceding Cimmanin’s party would drag on slowly, but instead they rocketed by. She took the subway into Manhattan to meet up with Cimmanin, who gave her a tour of the Koller penthouse where the birthday party would take place. It was a sleek, all-white space with breathtaking views from three walls of floor-to-ceiling glass. Bathrooms, elevators, service rooms, and a kitchen off a long hallway made up the fourth wall, but a double glass door at the east end of the hall led to a glass-walled outdoor terrace with another spectacular view. There was no salmon-colored marble to be found anywhere in the penthouse. Mia assumed the contractor ran out by the time he reached the top of the building.
Mia also managed to rein in the groom’smother-zilla. Lin sent a sample blue rose that was breathtaking enough to make Mother Nature jealous and Barbara Grazio almost happy. “It’s close,” the curmudgeonly woman said. “If that’s the best you can do, I guess I’ll have to live with it.” Mia got her secret revenge by pitching the shade of “Barbara Grazio Blue,” as she now called it, to Cimmanin as her party’s color scheme.
Throughout the week, Jamie Boldano called and texted to check in with her. She put him off by blaming a heavy workload, which wasn’t a full-on lie. Between booking new events and working on upcoming ones, she was almost as busy as she claimed to be. Jamie got the hint and left her alone, which Mia forced herself to accept as for the best. She hired staff for Cimmanin’s party and went over the menu with Guadalupe, making any adjustments necessitated by the fact they weren’t cooking on site. “If I can feed a tent of soldiers with chafing dishes and Sterno cans during a rocket attack and not hear any complaints, I think I can take care of a group of skinny white girls and boys,” the Dominican chef said. “Right, Evans?”
“Don’t talk to me, I’m trying to get these cookie cups right.” In addition to asking him to come up with a special dessert for the party, Mia had put Evans in charge of liquor for the event’s several bars. He’d chosen to combine the two tasks by making chocolate chip, snickerdoodle, and oatmeal cookie “cups” that would be
filled with the booze of a guest’s choice at the party.
Mia watched as Evans, brow furrowed, placed balls of dough into a pan for mini muffins, then used a muddler to press down and create a small crater. She knew he was still spending his nights at Belle View. Mia had shared this disconcerting discovery with Ravello. She also told her father something Guadalupe had told her in confidence. The chef was missing one of her favorite knives—a carving knife, exactly like the one found in Angie. “We’ll keep an eye on Evans,” Ravello said. “Be vigilant, cara mia. Chi dorme non piglia pesci. Those who sleep don’t catch any fish.” It wasn’t one of her father’s best Italian sayings, but it sort of made sense.
The day of Cimmanin’s party finally arrived. The staff, full-time and part-time, showed up at Belle View hours before the event to load up a van with food and supplies. Ravello was already in Manhattan; he’d taken on the task of managing the centerpieces, which Mia knew was an excuse to spend time wooing Lin Yeung.
Guadalupe and Evans drove the van while the others rode on the minibus Mia rented to shuttle them to and from the party. “I have to admit,” she said to Cammie as they strapped themselves in, “it’s nice working a party where someone says, ‘I don’t care what it costs, make it happen. ’”
“You learn to love the clients with deep pockets,” Cammie said. “Any updates on Evans?”
Mia twirled a lock of hair around her finger and shook her head. “No. Nothing new.” Mia’s anxiety level soared as the minibus drove over the Queensboro Bridge. She was battling a bad case of nerves, brought on by the stress of pulling off Cimmanin’s party while also spying on the various suspects who’d be attending.
“Well,” Cammie said, “maybe we’ll get lucky and find a clue that points to someone besides him tonight.”
“I hope so. I love his cookie cups. I sampled an oatmeal filled with a shot of rum, and it was to die for.”
Without weekday traffic to slow it down, the Belle View caravan made good time. The van pulled into the Koller Properties loading dock and the minibus parked on the street in front of the company’s building. The bus passengers disembarked. “I’m in the city, I’m in the city,” Missy, hired to cater-waiter the party, squealed, jumping up and down. “And don’t tell me Queens is the city, Mia. This is the real city.”
“No time to argue,” Mia said.
She noticed John Grazio talking to a security detail. All wore gray turtlenecks and blazers featuring the Koller Properties logo, as well as headsets. Grazio saw her and excused himself from the group. He walked over to Mia and after they exchanged greetings, said, “I have to confirm everyone in your group is approved and then distribute badges.”
Mia produced a paper from her jeans pocket. “I printed out my list of who’s working tonight. You can match it up against yours.”
Grazio walked off with her list. A knot of paparazzi and reporters had gathered on the sidewalk behind a temporary barrier. Mia noticed Teri Fuoco among them. She looked away, but it was too late—they’d already made eye contact. Mia marched over to her adversary. “I hate to disappoint you but all that’s going on here is Belle View is catering a party. There’s no story.”
“I’m on a break from all things Boldano,” Teri retorted. “My boss wanted me to cover the party. With a bunch of obnoxious rich jerks getting wasted, odds are pretty good someone will do something stupid I can write about. And I don’t mind getting out of Queens and into Manhattan for a change.”
Mia stared at her. “You didn’t say ‘into the city.’”
“Huh?” Teri said, confused.
“You said ‘into Manhattan,’ not ‘into the city.’”
“Well, duh,” Teri said. “Queens is the city. Jeez, show our borough a little respect.”
A photographer nudged Teri. “Is she anyone?”
“Depends on your definition of anyone,” Teri said with a shrug. “She’s Ravello Carina’s daughter.”
“That counts.”
“Oh, so not happening,” Mia said. The photographer tried to take her picture, but she thwarted him by covering her face with my hand while using the other to shoot the bird at both him and Teri.
John Grazio approached Mia. He held up her list. “Your gang checks out. You’re good to go.”
Her group approved and vetted, Mia put the Belle View employees to work, instructing them to help Guadalupe and Evans unload everything from the van onto a freight elevator. The crew formed an assembly line, passing food, beverages, and serving equipment onto a capacious elevator. Then they all squeezed into a second elevator and traveled up to the Koller penthouse.
“Whoa,” Missy said when the elevator door opened, and she stepped into the penthouse. Her fellow cater-waiters, all “bridge and tunnel” kids who rarely got into Manhattan, if ever, were equally awestruck. They ran to the various windows and gaped at the view. “I can see the Empire State Building,” Missy called out, excited. “And the Statue of Liberty.”
“I can see Queens from this window,” said Jeremy, a lunchtime waiter at Roberto’s who Mia had brought on to replace the late Giorgio. “Almost to my house.”
“I got a great view of Central Park and all the buildings I wanna live in someday.” This came from Elena, a sultry aspiring singer in her mid-twenties. “Who do I have to sleep with to get a place like this?”
Kevin Koller emerged from a passenger elevator in time to hear Elena’s question, which Mia knew to be a genuine inquiry and not a joke. “That would be me or my brother, but we’re taken,” Kevin quipped. Mia was struck by this flash of humor. Relieved of the shadow cast by his domineering older brother, the younger Koller seemed relaxed and almost jovial. He crooked a finger at her. “I want to show you something.”
Mia followed him to a utility room next to the service elevators. A pop-out cake took up half of it. She shuddered at the sight, which brought back unpleasant memories of finding Angie’s lifeless body. “What’s the cake for? Cimmanin and I never talked about renting one. Is it from another party?”
“Nope.” Koller looked pleased with himself. “I’ve got a big surprise for Cimmanin. I hired Brianna to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her.”
Mia’s eyes widened. “Brianna?” she repeated. “The Brianna?”
“Uh, yeah. What, you think I’d hire some celebrity impersonator?”
“No, it’s just . . .” There was no singer in the world more famous than Brianna, at least that week. Mia didn’t have time to keep up with pop culture, so for her to know that the multitalented performer currently had four songs on Billboard ’s Top Ten list verified Brianna’s superstar status. “I can’t believe you were able to book her.”
Koller waved a hand to indicate it was nothing to land the celebrity. “That’s what a couple of safety deposit boxes of gold bricks are for. Everyone has a price. Even Brianna. Back to the party: after everyone eats, she’ll jump out of the cake and sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Then she’ll sing a couple of her biggest hits to a background track. I didn’t hire her band. Too expensive.”
Koller strolled off, leaving Mia to marvel at the gall of a gazillionaire who’d shown himself to be both profligate and a cheapskate. Then she evaluated the ramifications of this new twist to the party. Brianna would surely come with her own security team. Coupled with Koller’s, that meant a lot of eyes on the crowd, who’d be on their best behavior until they were too drunk to care. The double dose of security was a setback to Mia’s plans. When it came to her list of murder suspects, the best she could hope for was either her, Cammie, or Ravello picking up an overheard conversational clue they could parse.
She returned to the main room of the penthouse, where the waitstaff was draping white tablecloths over the rented ten-top party tables, then setting them with the rental company’s best china and flatware. Having finished setting up several long tables as buffet stations, Guadalupe and Evans had relocated to the facility’s small kitchen to prep the passed hors d’oeuvres. Mia clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. She sh
ared the breaking news about Brianna, which was met with screams and more jumping up and down from Missy, whose general excitement was turning her into a human pogo stick. “No photos, no autographs,” Mia cautioned. “Maintain distance from the celebrity at all times. And absolutely no dancing.” Kevin Koller hadn’t mentioned any of this, but he didn’t seem the type to let the hired help in on the fun. The staff was disappointed but understood. Mia had a feeling they’d be way more well-behaved than Koller’s party guests.
She heard the thud of the freight elevator doors opening. A minute later, Lin appeared pushing a service cart loaded with the most exquisite centerpieces Mia had ever seen. Ravello was behind Lin, pushing a cart that held a more elaborate floral display destined for the birthday girl’s table. All centerpieces featured an array of white orchids and hand-tinted bright blue roses arranged in plain white bowls. The arrangements were simple, yet breathtaking.
“Ciao, bambina.” Ravello kissed his daughter on both cheeks. “I want you to meet a friend of mine. Lin Yeung. She’s the florist I met on that cruise I went on. She’s pretty good, huh?”
“Amazing. So nice to meet you, Lin.”
Mia extended her hand and Lin gave it a light shake. “And wonderful to meet you.” A look passed between the women, tacit agreement that their previous meeting would never be shared with Ravello.
“I’ll put you two in charge of putting out the arrangements. After that, Dad, I need to talk to you and Cammie.”
“You go ahead,” Ravello told Lin. “I’ll catch up.” The floral designer pushed her cart away. When she was out of earshot, Ravello turned to his daughter. “I wanted to tell you that I’m thinking of asking Lin out on a date.”
“Really?” Mia said, playing dumb. “She seems super nice and I wouldn’t mind having a florist in the family. Go for it.”
