Irma Getz kicked him not so subtly under the table. "So sorry about your show, Andy. Such a shame. I had almost raised enough money with the Rotary Club for a sign with your name on it. Like that one in North Myrtle Beach, that says 'Home of Vanna White.' But then you poisoned all those people, and we decided to put it toward the St. Patrick's Day parade instead."
The smile froze on my face. The way she'd said that rankled, like it had been part of some master plan. No wonder Pops wasn't doing well. His friends and neighbors thought his granddaughter was some kind of homicidal lunatic. Was that a step up or down from a "poor child" turned "opportunistic gold digger"?
Before I could come up with a decent response, Aunt Cecily pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, spotted me, and left the steaming pan of Italian meatballs on top of the register. "Come, I must look at you."
All movement in the diner stopped as though everyone feared they were the unlucky person she meant. Without Nana's sweet to balance out the sour, Aunt Cecily seemed more imposing than a four-foot-eleven-inch octogenarian ought.
I moved closer, presenting myself for her inspection. Her jet black hair fell long and straight down her slim back and was threaded liberally with white. She wore a band to keep it off her face, and I always thought it looked like a dish of black and white angel hair pasta. The perfect complement to Nana's rotini-shaped curls, which I'd inherited—though mine tended more toward Wild Man of Borneo, especially after spending a few hours in high humidity.
She surveyed me top to toe and then nodded crisply in what I hoped was approval. "Enough of this standing about. You will come to the kitchen and make the pasta."
Several forks clattered. I squared my shoulders and resisted the urge to look around and verify that the entire room full of patrons had born witness to Andy's Folly. Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if a whole troop of Boy Scouts lurked in the kitchen, EpiPens at the ready, because the little buggers would do anything for a merit badge.
"Actually, I need to see Pops. Is he here?"
Aunt Cecily squinted her eyes, somehow managing to look down at me as though I'd disappointed her. "He is very sick, wrong in the head."
"I heard that, you old battle-ax," Pops grumbled as he emerged from the tiny business office.
"Aricchi Du Porcu." Aunt Cecily glowered while comparing her brother-in-law to the hair on a pig's ear. Though I was probably the only person in the joint who understood the insult, her tone clued the rest of the patrons in on her displeasure.
Everyone knew that dining in the pasta shop often came with a bonus floor show.
"Andy girl!" Pops shuffled over to me, intentionally ignoring the tiny seething Italian woman glaring daggers at him. Pops wasn't big on public displays of affection, but he wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and I pressed my face against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of peppermint and wood smoke.
His color was high, and though his skin was paper thin and mottled with age spots, he looked much the same as he had over the past five years. A sigh of relief escaped. Aunt Cecily must have been mistaken. He didn't look depressed at all.
Pops escorted me back to the office and shut the door. "Daniel Tate called. Said you vouched for some strange guy lurking about off Route 86."
Tattletale. "He's right on both counts, although the 'strange guy' is a transplant who gave me a ride here, since my car is wrecked." I didn't elaborate because I didn't want him to know just how worried I'd been about him. Pops would have considered it shameful to have his granddaughter fuss over him to such an extent.
Upon closer inspection he looked tired, with tight lines creasing around his mouth. "What's wrong, Pops? I can see it in your face."
With a grunt, he lowered himself into the leather office chair held together by duct tape. His shoulders slumped in as though he carried the weight of the world and was bowing under the constant strain.
"It's this place. We need to sell the Bowtie Angel."
Bowtie Angel Fresh Pasta
Combine 2 cups of all-purpose flour and 1/4 teaspoon of salt on a pastry board. Make a well in center. Whisk 3 large eggs and 1 teaspoon extra virgin olive oil in small bowl until well blended. Gradually pour eggs into the well in flour mixture while mixing with fork or fingertips to form ball of dough.
Place the dough on the lightly floured surface and flatten slightly. Fold the dough in half toward you, and press the dough away from you with heels of your hands. Give the dough a quarter turn and continue folding, pushing, and turning. Continue kneading for 5 minutes or until smooth and elastic, adding more flour to prevent sticking if necessary. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and let stand for 15 minutes.
Unwrap the dough and knead again on a lightly floured surface. Using a floured rolling pin, roll out dough to a 1/8-inch thick circle on a lightly floured surface. Gently pick up the dough circle with both hands. Hold it up to the light to check for places where the dough is too thick. Return to the board; even out any thick spots. Then let it rest until the dough is slightly dry but can be handled without breaking.
Lightly flour the dough circle; then roll it loosely onto the rolling pin. Slide the rolling pin out, press the dough roll gently with your hand, and cut it into strips of the desired width with sharp knife. Carefully unfold the strips.
The pasta can be dried and stored at this point. Hang the strips over a pasta rack or a clean broom handle covered with plastic wrap and propped between two chairs. Dry for three hours. Store in an airtight container at room temperature up to 4 days. To serve, cook the pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water 3 to 4 minutes, just until al dente. Drain well.
**Andy's note: You can flavor the pasta with tomato juice or pureed basil leaves added during the blending stage. No matter what Aunt Cecily says, it goes much quicker if you mix the dough in a Cuisinart and shape with a pasta machine, and it tastes just as delicious!
CHAPTER TWO
I sank into the folding metal chair behind the scarred and cluttered desk. Sell the Bowtie Angel? My brain couldn't wrap itself around the notion. "What happened?"
Pops scrubbed a hand over his face. He'd been the business manager of the pasta shop since its inception and had always managed to keep it in the black. "Recession, inflation combined with drop off in sales. But that's just part of it. Your grandmother was the glue that held this place together, always talked sense into that crazy old bat of a sister. Without her, Cecily drives off customers by the busload. We throw out more food than we sell on an average day. "
I fidgeted with a loose button on my shirt. "What about lowering the prices, having specials, hiring someone else to deal with people? A loan maybe? There's got to be something we can do."
Pops shook his head. "I've tried, but Cecily won't budge on anything. Says it's a family enterprise, and only family is allowed. Besides, we don't have the money to take on new staff. I took out a loan to pay for the new roof, but we're barely making enough to pay that back, never mind the cost of food and utilities. "
Guilt flayed me. How naive to think that Pops and Aunt Cecily would always be here, bickering and running the pasta shop, acting as my safety net when the big bad world chewed me up and spit me out. "I had no idea things were so dire. What does Aunt Cecily say?"
"Other than calling me names in Italian? She says I dishonor her sister's hard work by even suggesting we sell the business. Then she clangs around in the kitchen and undermines every attempt I've made to bring people in. We don't have any portable pasta bars scheduled because no one wants to invite Cecily into their home. Like she's a vampire." Then almost under his breath but still loud enough for me to hear, "Except she's sucking life out of our business."
So that was why Aunt Cecily claimed Pops was "losing his grip on reality." She didn't like the unpalatable truth he was shoving down her throat. "Pops, try to see it from her point of view. Aunt Cecily has been making pasta here as her own boss since she was a teenager. She doesn't want someone else telling her what to do."
Pops snorted.
"Like anyone could. I swear, if God himself descended from Heaven above, your Aunt Cecily would drive him to drink." He sighed and shook his head. "Believe me—I know how much the place means to her. I've retired from all my other accounting jobs but this one. The Bowtie Angel holds a lot of memories. You practically grew up here. But there is no other choice. We need a financial infusion. A big one."
Failure hung over me. If I'd had my act together, my cooking show would have been the saving grace of the Bowtie Angel. Instead, I'd doled out food poisoning to a live studio audience. No one would lend me money to cook for the public.
"I'm sorry to burden you like this, Andy girl. You've already had a tough day. Why don't you go on upstairs and lie down in Cecily's apartment until I'm ready to head home."
My heart warmed at the protective gesture. "That's okay. Maybe I'll work the register for a bit, do a little cleaning until closing time." If nothing else, my notoriety would spread through the town like wildfire, and patrons would drop in for a look. Plus, I could act as a much needed referee between Pops and Aunt Cecily. The thought held little joy but someone had to or the Bowtie Angel would be the scene of a double homicide when they drew pistols at dawn.
The rain had stopped and the crowd had dispersed when we emerged from the office. Pops went to fix the leaky faucet in the kitchen while I wiped down the tables. I'd just started to sweep the floor when the door opened.
I turned to greet whoever had made the little bell jingle, but the smile slid right off my face. Lizzy Tillman, the bane of my high school existence, stood there. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face in a smooth French twist, a look I couldn't pull off with a gallon of Aquanet. A sleek black sheath dress encased her greyhound-lean frame, and pearls hung from her neck and earlobes. Her heels clicked on the tile as she approached me, like spurs jangling on cowboy boots before the last gunfight. Dread coiled in my gut, and I was sorry I hadn't taken Pops up on the nap.
"Andy." She didn't look surprised to see me. Word spread faster than diaper rash on a baby's butt in this town.
"Hello, Lizzy." It'd been years since we'd seen one another, yet all my supposed maturity melted away at seeing her. Damn, but the urge to tell her to bugger off and not let the door whack her on her bony ass rose up inside me. It wasn't worth the momentary satisfaction, especially if Aunt Cecily caught wind of my unprofessional attitude in her pasta shop, so I clamped my mouth shut and waited.
"How have you been?"
"Fine. You?"
"Great."
Awkward silence. So much for pleasantries. She looked just as uncomfortable as I felt. Two adults who had been completely rotten to each other in high school, trying to be mature, but unsure where to start.
I couldn't take the silence anymore. "What can I do for you?"
Her smile was tight, brittle, and it piqued my interest. "Well, since you asked, I need a caterer for an event."
The Bowtie Angel's famous portable pasta bar was perfect for all sorts of special occasions. A baby shower, a twentieth wedding anniversary, even the random Briss. Hey, after witnessing the main event, who wants to eat meat?
Moving slowly, so I didn't do something idiotic like trip over my own feet, I sauntered behind the register and retrieved the catering form. "When do you need this, and how many people are you expecting?"
Lizzy tapped her chin thoughtfully. "About two hundred and tomorrow night."
"You can't be serious." Pasta for two hundred by tomorrow night? She was out of her mind.
She shrugged, almost apologetically. "My caterer cancelled at the last minute."
We stared at each other for a minute. An event like that would bring in more money than the pasta shop would make in a month though. I blew out a breath. "That's a big crowd."
One elegant blond eyebrow arched up. "Are you saying you can't handle it?"
Oh, those were fighting words. "I didn't—"
"We will do it." Aunt Cecily emerged from the kitchen, her full black skirt swooshing around her legs. Her steely-eyed glare went from me to Lizzy and back again. "We will do the full buffet catering for your event. Pick three kinds of pasta, ten toppings, and we will see it done. Wine and dessert are extra."
Lizzy, like everyone else, was cowed by my petite aunt. She leaned down and filled out the form without another word. Aunt Cecily's gnarled old fingers flew over the cash register and named a staggering sum. Out came Lizzy's Black Amex card, and it was a done deal.
The bell jingled again, signaling Lizzy's departure." Aunt Cecily," I began, but the phone rang.
"Answer that," she called over her shoulder before the kitchen door swung shut in my face.
Clearing my throat, I picked up the phone. "Bowtie Angel, pasta and catering."
"Andy, is that you?" The male voice was gruff, and he practically shouted over the din of noises in the background.
"Yup, it's me." Why was I even surprised? If Lizzy knew I was back in town, her mom knew, and so did her mother's best friend, Tallulah, the biggest gossip in Lumberton County. "Who is this?"
"Lenny, Lenny Garrison. How you doing, Little Bit?"
I hated that nickname and not just because Kyle had given it to me. Sure, I was short but when said with a drawling accent it always sounded like the guys were calling me "little shit." Closing my eyes, I leaned back against the wall. Hives were imminent. "Just fine. What can I do for you?"
"Our wives are at a book club meeting, and we're mighty hungry. White Tudor number 154 on the corner of Dobson Street and Lake Road. Three fettuccini Alfredo, five bowtie, one with pesto, one with butter and cheese and the rest with meat sauce, and two baked spaghettis."
Aunt Cecily would be thrilled, or as thrilled as she ever was. "Any special reason everyone wants pasta today?"
He chuckled. "There's a really big tip if you deliver it here yourself."
Figured. All the old gang wanted to get the scoop on my televised debacle. It would be a good-natured sort of ribbing, the kind you can only get from friends who have seen you at your worst several times over. Why the hell not get paid for the mocking they were sure to dish out? Maybe I could even learn to laugh about it? "See you in twenty minutes."
I hung up and went in search of Pop's car keys. Never let it be said I didn't sacrifice for my family.
* * *
"How did it go?" Pops asked as I entered the pasta shop.
"They were playing "Mack the Knife" when I got in."
Pops frowned. "What's wrong with that? It's a good song."
"Everyone thinks I tried to poison my audience, like I'm some lunatic."Pops shook his head. "You're reading too much into it."
Maybe. "At least I got a nice tip." I flashed him my wad of cash.
Behind me the office door opened with a creaking groan. I turned, and Aunt Cecily shot me a squinty-eyed glare. "You must make the pasta now."
"Cecily," Pops began, but didn't add anything when Cecily shifted her gaze to him.
I rose and headed toward the kitchen. Not because I intended to cook, but it was where I'd left my purse.
"You must make the pasta."
"I don't think that's a good idea." Propping my hands on the basin, I watched the water trickle down the drain. "No one wants to eat my cooking."
"I cannot do this whole order by myself. I am too old for such a task."
"Then we're going to have to cancel on Lizzy." I was fine with that option.
"You gave your word. When a Rossetti woman gives her word, she keeps it, no matter what. Besides, you need to show that little porca puttana you do not care how she thinks of you." It was rare that Aunt Cecily cursed—unless it was at Pops— but when she did so, she did it with style. Like calling Lizzy the Italian equivalent of a pig whore. I couldn't help but smile a little. It was one of Nana's favorite curses.
"I'm only half a Rossetti," I told her, unnecessarily. "On Mom's and Nana's side."
"The side that counts. The side that makes the pasta. Blood is blood." She handed me a paper towel. "You will m
ake the pasta now."
"Aunt Cecily…" Crap, was there any way to dissuade her?
She patted my shoulder. "You are a molta bene cook. A real Rossetti. For your family, you will make the pasta."
How could I say no?
We worked side by side to Dino's "Ain't that a Kick in the Head?" Just two Italian women too stubborn to go down without a fight. Pops stuck his head in to check on us, shook it back and forth, and retreated to the office. Covered in flour, we made the pasta well into the night. Cecily brought out every drying rack she owned, and noodles of varying thickness hung suspended like starchy streamers.
Pops took me home around ten, after all the pasta had dried and was stored securely in Tupperware for the next night.
"Let me drive." It was a public service, really. No one wanted Pops driving after dark. If at all.
His eyebrows drew together like two zebra-striped caterpillars smooching. "The man drives. I taught you that much."
"A man's driving is the reason I don't have a car right now. Give me the keys, Pops."
Cecily glared at him out of her upstairs window. Pops waved, and she gave him the evil eye before drawing the shade down. He grunted and held the door open for me. "I don't got all night, Andy girl. Either get in or walk."
"Fine. But go slowly. One car accident a day is my limit."
He didn't listen, and I was tossed around like a cork on the ocean as his Town Car took turns like a school bus on meth. He did a left-hand turn on Hickory Ridge when the light didn't change fast enough to suit him. "Jeez-a-lou, Pops—"
Pops braked, and I braced my hands on the dashboard, heart thudding, eyes wide.
"Slicker than cat spit," he chuckled.
Every part of my body ached, and I couldn't think. "What did you have for dinner?"
He muttered something too low for me to hear.
"What was that?" I asked.
"I wasn't hungry," he grumbled.
Pop's lack of appetite worried me. The psychologist I talked to after Nana died cautioned me that disinterest in food or a change in sleeping habits could indicate depression, especially after the loss. Though I felt like death warmed over, I offered, "I can fix you something if you like."
Pies & Peril Page 22
