by Mary Ellis
‘I’m not dating Eric. I’m working here … on a special project.’
Much to Jill’s surprise, John went to the refrigerator for the pitcher of iced tea. He poured two glasses, handed her one, and then clinked glasses. ‘Take it from me, a gal can do far worse than snagging that boy,’ he whispered. ‘Rumor has it he’s loaded. When everybody else got burned in the ’08 market correction, Eric emptied his bank account and bought stocks. Buy low, sell high – that’s the ticket. The son of Alfonzo Manfredi is one smart cookie!’
Jill could only stare at the man with her fork midway to her mouth. Why do middle-aged people think everyone is out to make the perfect match … or should be?
‘Thanks for the tip, but I think I’ll leave this fish for a woman angling for such a good catch.’ Jill stabbed her last piece of salmon with the fork.
‘Ha, ha, you’re a quick one, Jill Wyatt. Do you enjoy your present career? Because you’d be a natural at sales. The wine business could use a few funny women.’ John pulled a business card from his wallet and laid it on the table. Then he began devouring his soup now that it was sufficiently cool.
Jill recognized an opportunity. ‘I’m curious. What did you mean by “if only every restaurant owner was like the Manfredis”?’
John glanced around to make sure they were still alone. ‘Did you notice how Eric took my invoice and immediately went to write the check for the delivery? He wasn’t even expecting me today.’
Jill spooned up some soup, which tasted wonderful. ‘So you’re saying most customers don’t pay their bills promptly?’
John laughed. ‘You’re pulling my leg, right? It’s easier to squeeze blood from a turnip than to get money from some restaurant owners. They’ll charge thirty bucks for an entrée, yet make vendors crawl on their knees to get paid. The Manfredis – they’re the exception!’
Jill was about to ask who wasn’t an exception when Eric strolled into the room. ‘What’s so exceptional about us?’ he asked.
‘Your pasta e fagioli, for one thing.’ John tipped up his bowl to savor the last drops.
‘Grazie, John. How about you, Jill? Are you reserving your opinion until you taste the competitor’s?’ Slipping into the opposite chair, Eric slicked a hand through his thick hair.
If the wine vendor hadn’t been there, Jill might have cracked a joke about Renaldo Borelli. But with a sneaky plan percolating, she smacked her lips instead. ‘This is the best fagioli I ever tasted.’
‘It’s the only fagioli you’ve ever tasted,’ said Nonni, pulling Jill’s braid on her way to the table. She had changed out of her Sunday dress into a cotton skirt and blouse.
‘Would you like another bowl, John?’ Eric carried a bowl of soup for Nonni and one for himself.
‘No, thanks. I’d better take those cases down and mosey on to my next customer. My wife’s expecting me home by four for dinner.’
‘I’ll check inventory on the computer against what’s on the shelves and send in my order tomorrow or Tuesday.’
‘Sounds great, Mr Manfredi. Nice meeting you, Miss Wyatt. Call me if you’d like to change careers.’
The moment the vendor disappeared down the steps, Jill turned toward Eric. ‘Mr Russo gave me an idea. What do you want to bet Salvatore Borelli owed plenty of people money around town?’
Nonni readily agreed. ‘Very likely. According to Francesca, half of Sofia’s credit cards were confiscated by the store because Sal wasn’t making minimum payments. Never seemed to slow down Sofia’s spending though.’
‘Are there no family secrets you and Francesca don’t gossip about?’ Eric asked his grandmother.
Nonni tapped her lips with a finger. ‘I can’t think of any, but you don’t have to worry, Enrique. I say only good things about you and Bernadette.’
Eric met Jill’s gaze. ‘See what I’m up against?’
‘I’m starting to, but getting back to my theory, what if someone Sal owed money to got tired of waiting? He might have followed Sal and your father from Tuscan Gardens. Then after your dad left, the man lost his temper when Sal refused to pay him.’
Eric stretched out his long legs. ‘You could be on to something, but I doubt it’s one of our suppliers. If a restaurant gets too far behind, the purveyor stops supplying them. A chef can’t cook and serve food he doesn’t have.’
Jill leaned across the table. ‘But the owner could buy the food elsewhere and end up owing money all over Charleston.’
Eric’s smile turned his handsome face into something irresistible. ‘High-end cuisine isn’t the same as buying burgers and bagged salad at Kroger’s,’ he explained patiently. ‘Imported seafood, specialty meats, and vintage wine usually have only one source in town. A restaurant can’t remain in business if they don’t satisfy the foodies.’
‘Hmm, I see your point.’ Jill slung her purse over her shoulder and set her bowl in the sink. ‘Thanks for the soup, Eric.’
‘How about a run along the waterfront or maybe a bike ride out to Sullivan’s Island? Today is supposed to be a day off, remember?’
‘Maybe later, but right now I need to follow up on this. Call it feminine intuition.’ Jill picked up Russo’s business card and bolted for the door.
Or call it listening to her better judgment for a change. Unlike Beth or her boss, Jill didn’t believe Eric Manfredi was the least bit dangerous. But a person on the run couldn’t afford to get involved with anyone. It was too bad really, because jogging along the waterfront with an attractive man who cooked soup this good definitely had appeal.
Jill punched in the wine vendor’s number the moment she reached her car. ‘Hi, Mr Russo. It’s Jill Wyatt. Bet you didn’t think you’d hear from me so soon.’
He hesitated only briefly. ‘No, but what a pleasant surprise. What’s on your mind?’
‘I’d like to continue our earlier discussion, but not in earshot of my present employer.’
‘Gotcha. Why don’t you call my office and set up an appointment for next week?’
Jill needed to come up with something fast. As much as she hated lying, she knew the truth wouldn’t go far with Russo. ‘Unfortunately, I’m about to accept an offer elsewhere. That’s why I was hoping to talk to you later today.’ She held her breath as she waited.
‘Today? I still have three more deliveries to make.’ Russo didn’t sound quite as eager for a humorous saleswoman as he did before.
‘Could we have coffee after your next call? I’ll come wherever you are. I’ll even buy the coffee.’ Jill added a friendly chuckle.
‘You sure are as persistent as a salesperson needs to be. OK, write down this address. It’s where I’m headed next. Find us a coffee shop nearby and text me the location. I’ll get there as soon as I can.’
Jill did as requested, and true to his word, John Russo arrived at the Java Stop sixty minutes later.
‘Just so you know, Miss Wyatt, I texted my wife our location. So if you slip something into my latte and attempt to kidnap me, she’ll track you down like a dog. She’s very fond of me.’
Utter silence spun out since Jill had no idea how to react.
‘Ha ha, you should see your face.’ Russo slapped his knee. ‘Get me a double espresso and we can talk shop.’
Jill thought the last thing Russo needed was more caffeine but filled his request anyway. Once she returned with his espresso and her regular coffee, she pulled out her notebook. ‘The idea of wine sales intrigues me, but I’m concerned about a few things.’
‘Ask whatever you want.’ He took a sip of the strong brew.
‘I’m nervous about those restaurants that place big orders and then don’t pay you. You said not everyone is responsible like Bella Trattoria.’
‘It’s a headache, to be sure, but it’s not your worry. You’re not personally responsible for collections. The company has people in the office who deal with that sort of thing. If necessary, we turn it over to an agency or take the deadbeats to court.’
Jill whooshed out her breath
. ‘Whew, that’s a relief. But I’m still shocked that top-end restaurants would behave like this.’
Russo shrugged. ‘Most top-end establishments are still family owned, instead of corporate controlled. The chefs might have reached the zenith of their careers, but many still let their wives handle the books. Some just hate turning over their books to a professional accountant.’
She sipped her drink. ‘I overheard the Manfredis talking and it seems their biggest competitor is Tuscan Gardens. I was curious if the Borellis could be one of those late payers.’
Russo studied her curiously. ‘This will stay just between us?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said.
‘Sal was the absolute worst. Now that he’s passed on – may God rest his soul – I hope Renaldo Borelli will handle day-to-day operations more professionally.’
‘We can only hope.’ Remembering how Nonni tried to make Eric jealous by touting Renny made Jill smile. But the amusing memory led to her undoing.
Russo’s expression changed. ‘You’re not really thinking about changing careers, are you, Miss Wyatt?’
Since she wasn’t a good liar, Jill looked the vendor in the eye. ‘No, sir, I am not. I love my job, plus I don’t know the first thing about wine.’
‘Then why buy me a six-dollar cup of coffee?’
‘I’ve been hired by the Manfredis to find out who’s been targeting them maliciously. And lately, I’ve expanded my scope to figure out who killed Salvatore Borelli.’ Jill laid her business card on the table.
Unexpectedly, Russo broke into peals of laughter. ‘You’re pulling my leg again, right? The Manfredis and Borellis are certainly not friends. No way would Alfonzo Manfredi hire you to find Sal’s killer. He would just raise an expensive glass of Cabernet in toast.’
‘Not Alfonzo – Eric Manfredi. Finding the real killer is the only way to clear his father’s name.’
Russo sobered. ‘You think it might have been someone Sal owed money to?’
‘It crossed my mind after talking to you.’ Jill gripped her coffee with both hands.
‘Then your list of suspects will be longer than the US Tax Code.’ He took another hearty swallow of espresso. ‘Just for the record, on the Friday Sal Borelli died I went straight from work to my daughter’s school. She was in a play and my wife has plenty of video of the event, in case I need to prove my whereabouts.’
‘I’ll cross you off my list of suspects, but what I really need is someone to narrow the field.’
Russo scrubbed his hands down his face. ‘Sal probably owed plenty of people money, but Colin MacFaren, the seafood purveyor, comes to mind. Colin has quite a temper on him when someone’s account is more than two months overdue. Colin doesn’t have a large enough operation to give restaurants much leeway.’
Jill jotted down the seafood salesman’s name. ‘Can you think of anyone else that might not like getting paid?’
Russo finished his espresso and crumpled the cup in his large hand. ‘Not offhand. Nobody likes not getting paid, but it’s a huge leap from that to shooting someone in the head. After all, vendors will simply stop delivering the products the restaurant needs to survive.’
‘That’s what Eric said.’ With a sigh, Jill closed her tablet. ‘This could be another dead end.’
‘OK, Miss Wyatt, since you spent six bucks on me I’ll give you one more tip. When people don’t pay their bills, they’ve usually had that bad habit their entire life. Six years ago, Salvatore Borelli built a huge fancy house on Kiawah Island. I’ve never been to one of his parties, but I heard the house described as palatial. Dollars-to-donuts I’d bet Sal still owes plenty of people money from construction.’
Jill’s exuberance waned. ‘Six years? Wouldn’t they have done something by now? And how would this be any different than owing money to a product vendor?’
‘Pay attention, young lady.’ Russo shook his finger at her. ‘A vendor would cut off your supply if you get too far behind, but if you owe money to a marble importer, a plumbing contractor, or the guy who installed your Olympic-size swimming pool, they’re not allowed to take back the countertops or chrome faucets. Their only recourse is to file a lien against the house, which the owner isn’t forced to pay off until the property is sold.’
‘And if the owner doesn’t sell the house for twenty years?’ Jill asked.
‘Now you’re catching on. That poor plumber just has to wait for his money.’ Lumbering to his feet, Russo picked up Jill’s business card. ‘You came all the way to Charleston from Natchez, Mississippi?’ He hooted with laughter. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t get a look at Eric Manfredi on the restaurant’s website before taking the case.’
Jill shook her head. ‘John, you are impossible, but I appreciate your help.’
‘You’re welcome. Just don’t call me again unless you’re serious about getting into the wine business. You know what will happen to you.’
‘Your wife will hunt me down like a dog?’
‘Exactly right.’ With a final wave, Russo headed for the door.
Jill added one more item to her to-do list after Colin MacFaren’s name and headed back to Bella Trattoria.
NINETEEN
‘Eleven, twelve, thirteen.’ Eric jotted down the figure next to Chardonnay Chateau Ste. Michelle, and moved on to sparkling wines and Proseccos. He usually never inventoried on Sundays, but with his parents visiting out-of-town relatives and Nonni napping, he had little else to do. Actually, it was the fact that he’d planned to spend the day with Jill that had him cranky. Hot and cold, over and over. Every bit of encouragement she threw his way was quickly dashed by her actions. Why on earth did she run after the wine salesman? Jill couldn’t possibly consider him a murder suspect. John Russo was an all-round nice guy, who couldn’t hurt a fly. Jill must have needed an excuse to get away from him. Maybe his grandmother was right. Maybe he was a field mouse, lurking in the tall grass, waiting for a crumb to fall.
Seven, eight, nine bottles of Gaston Chiquet – a French champagne purchased by those celebrating an anniversary or special occasion.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen bottles of Bellavista Franciacorta Brut – an Italian sparkling from the Brescia valley.
‘Eric, are you down there?’ Jill’s voice floated down the stone steps.
‘Nope, I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past,’ he answered.
Jill tramped downstairs and wound her way through the maze of aisles. ‘I looked everywhere for you. I thought you weren’t going to inventory stock today.’
‘I hadn’t planned to. I had planned to jog or ride bikes and just sit and get better acquainted with someone. But as Steinbeck once said, the best laid plans of mice and men …’
She pressed her fist to her mouth. ‘I believe that was Robert Burns, but no matter. I caught your meaning and I’m sorry.’
‘No need to apologize, Miss Wyatt. You made it clear from the start you were merely my tenant.’ Eric tried to count bottles of Spanish cava, but his mind refused to cooperate.
‘Eric, stop. Please.’ Jill laid her hand on his arm. ‘Give me a chance to explain.’
He tucked his clipboard of order sheets under his arm, feeling suddenly like a rejected adolescent. ‘Did you catch up with John Russo?’
‘Yes. And as much as I would’ve loved a day off, last night when I realized how much money you’re paying for my investigation I felt like a flimflam man in a traveling sideshow.’
‘Those were outlawed years ago in South Carolina.’ Eric felt his back muscles start to relax. ‘Was Russo able to shed light on the case?’
‘Yes, and he completely agreed with you – a vendor wouldn’t remain unpaid for long without cutting off the supply, something no restaurant can afford. But Russo did drop the name of Colin MacFaren, a seafood seller who Borelli owed plenty to. He also said the guy has a hot temper.’
‘I can easily check into Colin MacFaren tomorrow. I’m acquainted with him.’
‘Good. Then Russo pointed me in another direction.
He said that Salvatore had a very expensive house built on Kiawah. If he still owed money to any of the sub-contractors, they have no recourse but to file a lien.’
‘And a lien doesn’t get paid off as long as the Borellis own the house.’
‘Exactly. While you look into MacFaren, I’ll look into liens on their property as soon as the Charleston County Courthouse opens in the morning.’
‘And your plans until then?’ Eric dusted off a bottle of vintage Krug. ‘It’s too late to ride bikes to Sullivan’s Island.’
‘I thought we could drive out to this Kiawah Island. It’s on my short list of places to see anyway.’
‘Because you hope a shirtless Renaldo might be out trimming the hedges?’
Jill punched him squarely in the solar plexus. ‘Get this straight, Eric. Renny is Nonni’s fantasy, not mine. I’m interested in seeing Salvatore’s palace. Then I hope to pry a non-Italian meal out of you. No offense.’
‘None taken. What a load off my mind.’ Eric patted his abdomen. ‘I have but two questions: What kind of food did you have in mind?’
‘Cheeseburgers – fully loaded with grilled mushrooms and onions, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles.’ Jill ticked off condiments on her fingers. ‘And the cheese must be American, not gorgonzola or something I can’t pronounce. Plus French fries with Cajun seasoning and lots of Coke. Can we find this somewhere on Kiawah, hopefully not too far from the water?’
‘I’m sure we can and I will admit American cheese melts well on burgers.’
Jill’s eyes sparkled with animation. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. What’s your second question?’
‘What will we do after we spy on the Borelli house and dine non-gourmet under the stars?’
‘Maybe we can get to know each other better. I’ve always wanted to walk the beach on an island.’ Jill curled her fingers into a fist a second time. ‘But no funny stuff, Manfredi. This will be our first official date. Dinner at Bernadette’s didn’t count.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of funny stuff. Are you wearing that?’ Eric gestured to the dress she had on this morning when they returned from church.
