Basil Instinct

by Shelley Costa

  Choo Choo opened the front doors at 5:30, and in they came. Into our Miracolo, this Angelotta sacred space with brick walls and black-painted woodwork and gleaming plank flooring and hanging globe chandeliers and impeccable white table linens and black votive candle holders. The first rush was always the after-work crowd hankering for drinks and antipasti. Then came the older diners, who preferred a nice settled meal followed by some nice settled digestion followed by a slow drive home.

  The last rush was the younger set, who dashed from one place for happy hour to another spot for tapas and finally to Miracolo for whatever I was dishing up that day—plus the experience, later, of whatever Dana Cahill and her band of Merry Men were offering up as entertainment.

  So there’s a kind of predictability about business hours at Miracolo.

  Which is why a murder just thirty-six hours later put an end to predictability—and to the life of one of our very own.

  * * *

  On Thursday, Maria Pia wore the apron she had hung up when I came on board, and she dominated the kitchen, prepping whatever she could in advance of serving her Belfiere sorority sisters a gorgeous meal of Scallop Fritters with Roasted Chioggia Beet Carpaccio, Sestri Salad with Grappa and Fig Vinaigrette, Saffron Risotto alla Milanese, Saltimbocca, Granita di Caffè con Panna, and Biscotti all’Anaci.

  Nonna was the queen of multitasking that day, not just overseeing the preparations, but doing them herself. Maybe she had no choice, considering that Landon seemed slow and preoccupied, and Georgia Payne had called to say she had lost a filling, had to make an emergency appointment with her dentist, and would be at Miracolo by 3 p.m. Amazingly, Nonna took it all in stride. She seemed to welcome the opportunity to make everything “alla Maria Pia.”

  When the Belfiere “La Maga” (Italian, apparently, for Big Kahuna), Fina Parisi, showed up, Earth did not actually grind to a halt in its orbit. While I brined the chicken for that evening’s entrée special, Maria Pia showed La Maga the plans for the dinner the following evening, and I was introduced to her briefly. If Nonna wanted to remind me that this woman was the daughter of “that strega” Belladonna Russo, she resisted, settling instead for a meaningful look, which I always had a hard time telling apart from gas.

  Fina Parisi was in her late forties, slim, average height, with chin-length wavy black hair, a heart-shaped face, the kind of lips that show up in Estée Lauder ads, and dark blue eyes. She was gracious, stylish, and if I had to decide in a split second, I’d say I liked her. But then, I liked Joe Beck, so don’t go by me. Wearing a pale-blue summer linen sheath, the Belfiere B was visible on her right wrist. On her it looked like very cool jewelry.

  Fina Parisi asked to see Nonna’s tattoo—no longer hidden by a Darth Vader–style glove—and the two of them disappeared, chatting softly, into the office, where Nonna closed the door. To keep out all of us non-Belfiere troglodytes, apparently, the Oompa Loompas of Miracolo . . .

  By the time Daughter of Strega had left, pleased, Maria Pia went home to change, and Georgia Payne showed up with a numb cheek and a watchful manner. But still pleasant. Landon, I noticed, had nothing more to report on either the Belfiere whistle-blower named Anna T. or Psi Chi Kappa itself. He left his assistant, Georgia, totally alone to figure out how she could, well, assist. He seemed not to notice when the beloved, Jonathan, showed up in new duds—still the Miracolo black-and-white look, but with something modest in the way of bling around his neck—although I overheard Landon murmur something about how jewelry shouldn’t be allowed in the workplace. He had nothing more to say either about Corabeth Potts or the lasting contributions of Bob Fosse to Broadway theater.

  When I touched his forehead to see if he was running a fever, he even flinched.

  5

  When asked later—by the authorities—about Thursday night, I was able to say honestly that it was normal. Even better than normal. The gender-mysterious Mrs. Crawford, a vision in a Pepto-Bismol-pink Vera Wang rip-off and a triple strand of black pearls, stepped up her jazz repertoire with witty asides. Choo Choo seemed unabashed by anything except his crush on Vera Tyndall, who nearly outdid Paulette in terms of sleek service. Before the regulars arrived to bring us all down with Grief Week, Corabeth harmonized with Dana Cahill on the old boogie-woogie number “Frankie and Johnny.” Dana was even on key. Which tells you something about what a fine, rare evening June 19 was.

  And the customers loved everything—the food, the jazz, the rosato Jonathan recommended with the ravioli special, the opera memorabilia on the beautiful old brick walls of my Miracolo—everything. Two came back to the kitchen to compliment me (okay, so one of them was Leo, but his eyes glistened with love for the calamari appetizer, so, yes, I counted him as a customer). Georgia Payne and I exchanged a knowing look. In that moment I decided she was rock solid and we were lucky to have her.

  The customers even ate it up when the regulars tuned up and the clarinet played the opening breathless notes to the Titanic tearjerker, “My Heart Will Go On.” Pretty soon the customers were swaying back and forth, their arms across each other’s shoulders, bellowing, “Near, far, whereEEHHHHver you are, I know that my heart will go on . . .” The musicians seemed particularly choked up, and Giancarlo wiped off his Clark Kent eyeglasses with a bar rag. Karaoke night, Grief Week, something for everybody.

  The candles burned brighter.

  Glasses clinked, but not too loudly.

  There was nothing but laughter.

  The perfect summer night.

  * * *

  The next morning, after a great night’s sleep, I had a sweet, solitary breakfast in my blue butterfly chair out on my porch the size of a welcome mat. There I nibbled a chocolate croissant I had the foresight to pick up from Au Bon Pain the day before, and a mug of French-pressed espresso-roast coffee. While I sipped and chewed, I watched the sky, where clouds seemed to bunch and collide the way they do before it rains.

  At that moment I could honestly say I didn’t care so much as an anchovy about whether Joe Beck and Kayla Angelotta went to a fancy lawyers’ dinner dance for fancy lawyers. At that moment—despite whatever funk my poor Landon was in—I knew I’d figure out what to do about the likes of Belfiere. As I picked every buttery flake of chocolate goodness off my chest, I somehow just knew that a bunch of old cooking drama queens didn’t scare me.

  But if Nonna wanted to join their silly club, I could at least be sure she gave them a dinner that would make them have to get some alterations in their midnight-blue satin costumes.

  My plan was to arrive first at Miracolo that eventful day, the day when Maria Pia Angelotta was supposed to remind the fifty fuzzies of Belfiere exactly why they had drafted her, to eyeball the place after the lovely evening before. For Friday, June 20, Eve Angelotta was making herself Field Marshal for a Day, and Paulette could concentrate just on serving.

  Lucky thing: I was in the shower when I suddenly realized, with horror, that we had forgotten to call the cleaning crew, Maid for You, to come last night after we closed. Of all the days! Of all the nights! I think I told Nonna that I’d take care of it, and then, what with being thrown a curveball in the form of the teaching gig at the Quaker Hills Career Center and Home for Sociopaths, I forgot.

  So I threw a can of Pledge in my car—pretty sure there was an old Eureka upright vacuum cleaner in the storeroom—and took off for Market Square sooner than I ordinarily would have. Maria Pia wasn’t the only Angelotta to leave early last evening in order to rest up for her big day—thanks to Georgia Payne, who offered to stay and lock up, Landon and Choo Choo and I took off an hour earlier than usual. Landon had disappeared without a kiss, and Choo Choo had trailed off after Vera, who didn’t seem to realize it. But the stars had seemed especially steady, anyway, and I believed all of our problems were small.

  So, late that Friday morning I parked my old Volvo up the street from Miracolo, grabbed my stuff, and decided to go through the
front. The street was already busy, what with the Quaker Hills street-cleaning machine brushing its way up the south side of the commercial district and a couple of hungry brunchers two doors up at the outside seating at Sprouts. I waved to Akahana, who was jaywalking across to Providence Park, carrying a bag that claimed, I’m Out of Estrogen and I Have a Gun. She flung an arm at me, then cursed the guy in the VW Beetle, who narrowly missed her. Overhead the clouds collided, and it even smelled like rain.

  I turned the key in the lock of Miracolo’s front door—which had a linen curtain running the length of the glass—but the door wouldn’t open. At least, not very far. I stepped back, then put my shoulder to it, without any luck. Something was blocking the door on the inside. I put my hand to the glass and tried to peer inside, but the curtain was in the way. Finally, I sighed and rolled my eyes. Just what I needed on a day I also had to be Eve Angelotta, Cleaner of Restaurants Before Grandmothers Show Up.

  I pushed open the black wrought-iron gate and sprang up the side path to our courtyard and back patio, then let myself in the back. The kitchen looked spotless and the air seemed very still. More still, even, than outside, where everything waited quietly for a summer rain. Heading through the dark dining room—always strange to arrive first, when there’s nothing that reminds you of life, not even the ticking of a clock—I didn’t notice anything out of place.

  But in that crazy way we have when we try to make sense of what’s deeply unexplainable, I wondered if Kayla had left an order just inside the front door. But how? Had someone given my wayward cousin a key again? After using the back office for her three-night tryst with Joe Beck, she had lost her key privileges. My eyes were still adjusting to the low light, but I realized as I got closer to the foyer, where the inside door was half open, even Kayla wouldn’t do that.

  Pulling open the inside door, I nearly tripped on something.

  And when I realized it was human, I fell back against the door frame. Peering at the shape—small, blond, and still in a chef jacket—I leaned over. “Georgia?” From the way she was lying, facedown, it looked to me like she had sunk to her knees and flopped over, her left hand flung out on the tiled floor of the foyer, her right hand jammed underneath her. Both ballet flats were half off her feet. Not quite her usual capable self.

  Had she been here all night? Was she out cold? Dead drunk? Not what I had in mind for the biggest day of Nonna’s year. Not quite noon and already I’d blown it twice. One, forgetting to call the cleaning service. Two, failing to vet Georgia Payne before signing her up based on the fact that in a Basic Cooking class for crazies-in-waiting, she seemed able to tell a saltimbocca from a salamander. Where could it go from here?

  “Georgia?” I gave her a shake. Maybe I could sober her up, spread around some homilies about not drinking on the job, and get on with the day’s work. When I didn’t get as much as a groan out of her, I crouched next to her and gave her another shake. “Come on, Georgia,” and I think I actually added “Rise and shine” as I eased her onto her back. I realized several things at once, the way you do if, say, your transmission has just fallen out on the railroad track and you wonder for a split second whether that train whistle you hear is coming or going. In my experience, it’s always coming.

  Georgia felt like rubber.

  Her eyes were open and staring, and not the way mine are when I listen to Dana Cahill sing “Me and Bobby McGee.” I sat back on my heels, pretty sure this meant Georgia wouldn’t be plating Maria Pia’s Sestri Salad with Grappa and Fig Vinaigrette anytime soon, when suddenly the front doorknob started to rattle.

  “Hello? Hello? Why won’t the door open?” It was Nonna, just four inches of wood and glass away from a nervous breakdown. I pictured the EMS, the fire truck, the crowd gathering outside, the Channel 12 news team blaring “Second Death in Three Weeks at Local Eating Establishment!”—and that strega Belladonna Russo laughing in the background. My grandmother wouldn’t survive the shame.

  I quickly frog-walked myself between poor dead Georgia and the latest sorority pledge of Belfiere. My single thought was to prevent my grandmother from seeing the train wreck that was about to ruin her precious day. “Nonna?” I said like a strangled soprano that could still do a better job with “Bobby McGee” than Dana. “Hi, bella, it’s me, Eve.”

  She pushed against the door. “The hell are you doing?”

  “Just setting out the new mat so it’s all nice and ready for”—here I went singsong, laying it on thick—“you-know-what.” I looked desperately around me for something more convincing, but nothing was suggesting itself, and Georgia didn’t have any better ideas.

  It worked. So I had better also find time to get a mat. “Ah,” said Nonna, musically. “My favorite granddaughter.” At that moment, had I ever any doubt, I understood perfectly that my cousin Little Serena Bacigalupo had made the right career choice to decamp from Quaker Hills to run a ride at Disney World.

  I pressed my lips together. Georgia, Georgia—I yelled at her silently, my hands spread wide—what in the name of holy roasted nuts happened to you? There was no blood, no apparent wounds, no blue skin, no swollen tongue, no vomit (the worst of all words to utter in a fine Italian restaurant) . . .

  Had the poor woman just up and died on us?

  I heard Nonna take a step back from the front door. “You just do what you have to do, darling. I’ll go around the back . . .”

  And with that I literally sprang into action, popping up to my feet, bug-eyed, needing suddenly to put Georgia somewhere else before Miracolo hosted a second heart attack in twenty-four hours. Apologizing to her repeatedly, I grabbed poor Georgia under her white-jacketed arms and dragged her backward out of the foyer as fast as I could. If I could get Nonna into the back office, I could put Georgia . . . put Georgia . . . I whirled around, looking for a place out of view from what in very short order would be the entire staff of Miracolo.

  Put Georgia where?

  When I heard Nonna come through the back door—thanks to the squeaky hinges I still hadn’t oiled—I watched my options sink to zero. “Eve?” she called, coming closer. With that, Georgia and I slid like crème brûlée on a greased plate to a safe haven behind the bar, where I gently set down her head half a second before Maria Pia Angelotta burst through the double kitchen doors, beaming all around in some nonexistent spotlight while I tried to catch my breath.

  “Nonna!” I hailed her heartily, stepping over the hidden body and dashing out from behind the bar to catch her in a big hug. When out of the corner of my eye I noticed one of Georgia’s ballet flats, I kicked it into the shadows, hoping my nonna didn’t notice. I’d have a hard time explaining a third shoe. But her eyes were still adjusting to the low light. As my nonna and I rocked each other and she murmured the day’s menu like it was sex talk, I said, “It’s your big day!” all the while knowing that if I didn’t get Georgia out of the way, it might also be her last day.

  I managed to send us both through the doors back into the kitchen, telling Maria Pia she should check her timetable carefully before we begin. “Paulette will be bringing my blue Belfiere gown,” Nonna nattered, having apparently appealed to the seamstress in Paulette to “run it up,” as Nonna understated it, on her machine. Paulette sews like the future of the Free World depends on it, and I can picture her churning out parachutes for paratroopers and thinking a sweatshop is a beauty treatment.

  “Well, you just better call Paulette to remind her.” I gave her a gentle push toward the back office. “We don’t want your big day to die”— here I winced mentally, thinking of Georgia—“in the details.”

  It is sometimes useful to know that my nonna responds quickly to alarm.

  Off she dashed to the back office to call Paulette.

  And off I dashed to the business side of Miracolo’s beautiful mahogany bar, where Georgia was—alas—showing no more signs of life than before. Suddenly I heard another set of footsteps in the kit
chen—my heart sank as the likelihood of keeping Georgia’s untimely heart attack a secret dwindled fast—and I held my breath. “Nonna?” came the new voice.

  Landon.

  “Oh, Landon,” I piped up, like I wanted him to join me for tea in the drawing room.

  “Eve?”

  “May I see you in here when you, oh, get a chance, please?”

  My cousin appeared in the doorway, and although I was always happy to see him even when dead bodies weren’t posing problems, I was especially glad to see Landon Angelotta at that moment. Although I could tell from his expression that he was still in whatever funk had reached up its slimy tentacles and drawn him in by the heels over the last couple of days. Landon’s moods were fluid and usually had nothing to do with me, his beloved Eve. And they usually had nothing to do with matters of the heart—for a gay male in little old Quaker Hills, Pennsylvania, Landon never found the field too small. He was just that romantic. No, usually his less effervescent moods had something to do with inferior strawberries for a signature cassata cake. Or wondering how many pairs of shoes Suri Cruise has in her $160,000 collection.

  “Cuz?” He looked around, then caught sight of me motioning wildly to him to come around the bar. Landon brought his five feet ten inches of lithe grace over toward me, where I kept shushing him even thought he wasn’t speaking. His brown hair was still wet from the shower and he was wearing black- and white-checked chef pants and a white-on-white collarless shirt with snaps. “Mice get into the bar towels? What?” As he turned the corner, I flung an arm out at the body at my feet and stared meaningfully at my (in all real things) personal Marine. Who had the good sense to gasp and cry out, “Whoa!”

  So I shushed him some more.

  He stepped back, I think either to get a better look or to put a little space between himself and whatever pestilence was afoot in our Miracolo. “Is it—Georgia?”

  “Yes,” I managed to get out.