A middle-aged woman with a fall of thick, chestnut hair, chic glasses, and a stunning black suit came up, carrying a stack of menus. “I’m Francesca, the owner, and it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Madame Geri.”
My companion gave a regal nod of her dreadlocks. She’d pinned them up for the evening and had placed a jeweled comb in the back, keeping with her 1920s theme.
Francesca turned to me. “And I understand you are the food critic from the Observer. It’s a pleasure to meet you and … uh … your date.”
“I’m Pop Pop Welch,” he chimed in. “Mallie and I are really just friends, but I’m hoping for something more permanent, if you get my drift.”
“Of course,” Francesca answered, without altering her smoothly professional manner. “May I seat you at one of our best tables?”
“As long as it’s not a booth.” Pop Pop tapped his oxygen. “I can’t replace the tank fast enough if I’m not in a chair.”
“Certainly, sir.” Again, she didn’t miss a beat.
Boy, she had that class-act down-no doubt born of long practice-which was probably the best description of her job.
As she led us through the dining room, I shot a furtive glance in Cole and Nick’s direction. They appeared to be deep in conversation and didn’t even look up as we moved toward our table.
I coughed and cleared my throat loudly as I went by them, hoping to get their attention, but they didn’t so much as blink.
What was up?
Stopping to look at them again, I didn’t realize Pop Pop had taken a little pause to catch his breath, and I rammed into him, causing him to stumble into a table. A glass of water tipped over and shattered on the tile floor. At that point, Nick and Cole switched their attention to our motley trio making our way across the dining room. Nick started to rise, but Francesca held up a hand in his direction.
“I’ll have it cleaned up-please just continue with your dinner.”
Nick sank back down. Damn. Now I’d never know what they were talking about.
I steadied Pop Pop by grasping his arm and then steered him along behind Francesca. He moved with the speed of a turtle, but we finally made it to our table without further incident.
After we took our seats, with Pop Pop next to me, Francesca handed us paper-thin menus that apparently contained only five items, none of which had prices.
“How much are the entrees?” I asked, mentally calculating what I’d have to pony up beyond the twenty bucks Anita had promised per meal.
Francesca peered down her patrician nose and mentioned an amount that caused me to catch my breath.
“I’ll get the check,” Madame Geri offered, much to my relief. I didn’t even make a pretense of arguing with her over it, because I knew it wouldn’t be yours truly. I didn’t carry that much cash, nor did I have that much money available on my debit card.
“Thanks,” I said, after Francesca moved away to clean up Pop Pop’s accident. “So, what do you think, Madame Geri?”
“I’ll have the lobster ravioli with the secret sauce,” she pronounced after scanning the menu.
“No, I mean, do you think Francesca is the type of person who could’ve murdered Marco?” I watched the imperious way Francesca flicked her hand to motion over a waiter to sweep up the broken glass. “She certainly seems to rule this place like Lucrezia Borgia-which sort of fits, even though the shellfish wasn’t exactly a poison.”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m getting a powerful vibe that tells me she’s capable of strong emotion-the kind that can drive a person to kill.” She tucked a rogue dreadlock behind her ear, her mouth pursed in thoughtful reflection. “But whether she did it or not remains to be seen”
“Did what?” Pop Pop tapped his hearing aid. “My hearing aid must be on the fritz.”
“Uh … change the menu,” I stammered, not liking to lie, even to protect Pop Pop from hearing things that could cause his pacemaker to short circuit.
“I thought I heard the word murder,” he continued, pulling out the left hearing aid and replacing the battery with a backup he kept in his pocket. “Ah, that’s better; now I can hear everything.”
Madame Geri and I exchanged a warning look and focused on our menus.
“Since I have to review the food, let’s all order a different entree,” I suggested.
“Huh? I don’t need a tray.” Pop Pop tapped the right hearing aid this time. “Dadgum it, now the other one went out, and I have only one replacement battery.”
“Entree!” I repeated, smiling inwardly. Good. Now he only could hear every other word. “How about you order the mushroom risotto, Pop Pop, and I’ll have the shrimp Alfredo?” I stressed the shellfish word with a knowing nod in Madame Geri’s direction.
“Good choice.” She winked at me.
Our waiter approached in his tuxedo, white cloth over his arm, and took our order with a formal gravity reserved for high tea at the Ritz. After last night’s debacle at Le Sink, though, it was kind of refreshing.
Once he left, I leaned forward toward Madame Geri. “Did you see who was sitting together over there? Nick and Cole?”
“Uh-huh.” She folded her hands on the table. “Mallie, you tried to date both of them at the same time; they’re probably commiserating.”
“Hah.” I didn’t turn around. “They don’t look inconsolable to me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I guess not.” I pretended to drop my napkin on the floor and tilted my face in their direction as I retrieved it. Commiserating, my eye. They appeared lost in pleasant conversation.
Double hah.
Pop Pop reached for his water and, remembering what had happened at Le Sink with his dentures, I moved the glass out of his reach. “Why don’t we have some wine?”
“Sure, toots.” He draped a bony arm across the back of my chair. I leaned as far away from him as I could get without moving to the other side of the table.
“Yes, let’s order a bottle.” Madame Geri gave a little wave in Francesca’s direction, who, having finished overseeing the cleanup, instantly returned to our table. This food critic thing wasn’t half-bad; I did get incredible service.
“We’d like to order a bottle of pinot noir,” Madame Geri said, scanning the wine list for a few moments. “Let’s go with the Torrini vineyard. It seems to be one of your better vintages.”
Francesca nodded in agreement. “Or you might try the Armanti merlot.”
“Wouldn’t the pinot noir complement your special sauce better?” Madame Geri asked, folding her hands into a bridge and leaning her chin on top, her eyes on Francesca. “The menu says the sauce has a five-herb blend…. What are they?”
“Oregano, basil, Italian parsley, and two other ingredients.”
Madame Geri lifted her eyebrows, waiting for our hostess to finish the list.
“I can’t tell you what the other ingredients are-it’s a house specialty.”
Francesca seized the wine list but couldn’t budge it from under Madame Geri’s elbows. “Could you let me have the wine list? Then I’ll get your pinot noir.” Geri smiled, elbows firmly planted.
“I bet I know,” Pop Pop remarked, a twinkle in his eye. “It’s dried cheese out of one of those cans. You know, the stuff you shake on pizza.”
Glaring at him, Francesca placed one hand on her hip. “Do you mean parmesan?”
“Yeah, that’s it!” Pop Pop threw his hands up in excitement. “Gimme an extra shake on my sauce.”
“I don’t use canned parmesan cheese, either in my special sauce or other entrees. Everything that we serve is homemade, fresh to order, with nothing canned.” The glare turned almost murderous.
I drew back into the circle of Pop Pop’s cadaver-like arms.
“Now, may I have my wine list?” The irritation in Francesca’s voice upped a notch.
“Sure.” Madame Geri held it out and sat back. Francesca whipped the wine list away from her and stalked off.
“What was that all about?�
�� I inquired in a hushed tone.
“Just pushing her a bit.” Madame Geri opened her retro bag and produced a silver compact. As she powdered her nose, she commented, “By the way, I’m still trying to commune with Anita’s ancestors about your raise.”
“And?”
“Still nothing. But I haven’t given up yet.” Madame Geri slipped the compact back into her purse. “I have my ways of finding things out.”
I couldn’t argue with that one. Right then, a youngish, Latin-looking guy with a guitar started playing classical music on the tiny stage. Diverted, I listened to the dreamy romantic song, wishing that either Cole or Nick sat at my table, rather than the one-thousand-year-old man and the loopy island psychic.
In a short time, our food arrived, and I inhaled the garlic and herb aroma that wafted up from my shrimp Alfredo. My mouth began to water in anticipation of biting into one of those jumbo shrimp.
Maybe this dinner wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Pop Pop took his napkin, carefully unfolded it, and tucked it into his shirt collar, bib-style. “I forgot my glasses-blast it!”
Then he grabbed a fork and tried to spear a giant mushroom in the middle of the risotto. He missed, and the mushroom went flying off his plate and smack into Francesca, as she approached with our wine.
She halted, staring down at the large red blob of sauce that stained her white suit. Muttering a loud expletive, she turned to Madame Geri. “You did that on purpose-“
“It was Pop Pop,” I cut in. “He’s got arthritis in his hands.”
“Liar!” she spat out. “This is a designer suit, and I demand that you pay for the cleaning bill.”
“Not likely.” Madame Geri calmly began to sample her own entree, ignoring Francesca’s hissy fit.
Sensing that things might come to head, I shoveled in as much of my entree as I could and took a couple of quick bites of Pop Pop’s risotto. No matter what, I’d have to write a restaurant review, so I needed to have some idea of the food quality at Taste of Venice.
The risotto melted in my mouth with an explosion of taste so strong, if I’d been standing, my knees would’ve gone weak at the delicate blend of Italian flavors.
Wow.
In the meantime, Pop Pop kept trying to spear mushrooms, which flew off his plate like Frisbees, hitting Francesca in the chest, whapping a middle-aged guy at the next table, and slamming into his female companion, knocking her silver wig askew.
The woman gasped and tried to straighten her cheap synthetic bouffant, but then it tilted to the other side and looked even worse.
“Stop that, old man!” Francesca shouted, holding her hands up to ward off any more wayward mushrooms.
“Don’t call him ‘old,”’ I said in a huff. I might refer to him as an “aging dotard,” but I was his date for the evening.
“This is my restaurant, and I can do what I want.” Francesca tried to snatch the fork out of Pop Pop’s hand, but he evaded her attempts.
Madame Geri didn’t attempt to halt Pop Pop’s mad attack on the mushrooms. Instead, she held up a forkful of lobster and commented, “I think I know what’s in this secret sauce.”
“Shut up” Francesca slammed the wine bottle onto our table and tried to remove Pop Pop’s plate, but he edged it away from her. “You know nothing about my fiftythousand-dollar sauce.”
“Did Marco?” Madame Geri countered. “It was his recipe, wasn’t it?”
Francesca’s eyebrows lowered in a thunderous line. “How dare you accuse me of stealing? You’re nothing but a phony psychic who hangs out with a girl who works for a two-bit paper and an old fossil who can barely chew his own food.”
I stopped midbite. She was really hitting below the belt. “Hey, the Observer might not be the Washington Post, but a lot of islanders read it, and a bad review would hurt your business.” I slammed down my fork. “And Pop Pop can chew his food if he’s wearing his dentures.”
She turned on me. “You can shut the hell up too”
I opened my mouth, starting to phrase a pithy retort, but noticed Nick Billie coming over. I clamped my lips together and remained silent.
“I don’t care if you’re doing a review of my restaurant. I want you all out of here.” Francesca raised her chin and pointed at the front door. “Now!”
“Okay, everyone, just calm down,” Nick said as he approached. “No one has to leave.”
Goody. I still had two shrimp left and hated to let the food go to waste.
“We were just enjoying a pleasant dinner when Francesca started shouting.” Madame Geri dabbed her napkin on Pop Pop’s lips. “I think she’s deranged.”
Francesca shrieked and attempted to throttle Madame Geri, but Nick seized her arm and pulled her back.
People stopped talking, preferring to enjoy the show at our table, and for a mad moment, I wondered if I could hide under the linen cloth. I couldn’t take another restaurant scene, especially with Nick struggling to hold back the owner’s fury, which Madame Geri had unleashed.
Just then, Guido rushed into the dining room, fastening a wild gaze in Francesca’s direction and hollering, “Murderer! You killed Mr. Santini!”
Oh no. Here we go again.
Guido headed, arrow-straight, for Francesca, whose flailing arms flapped against Nick’s restraining hold like the wings of a trapped bird.
As Guido grew closer to his target, I stood up, not sure what to do. Checking my companions, I noticed that Madame Geri remained seated, and Pop Pop was still occupied with spearing a mushroom with his fork.
Not much help there.
“Do you need help?” I finally managed to ask Nick, not sure whether to abandon my lone shrimp or kick Francesca in the shin.
“I’ve got it under control,” he responded in a grim tone, somehow managing to clamp down on Francesca’s arms.
When Guido reached us, Nick held up a hand. “Stop right there, or I’m arresting all of you.”
Guido halted. Francesca froze. No one else in the dining room batted an eye, including me.
“I finally got one!” Pop Pop raised his fork with a small mushroom poised on the prongs.
Yippee.
“I want all of you outside-now,” Nick ordered, gesturing at our little group with a circular motion of his hand. Abashed, we all trooped behind him like a line of soldiers following orders.
Before I abandoned my shrimp Alfredo, I grabbed my coat; something told me we might be out there for a good long while. Then I helped Pop Pop to his feet, secured his oxygen tank, and assisted him as he shuffled across the dining room.
We passed Cole, but he didn’t look up. Still mad at me, I guess.
Once Pop Pop and I made it out the door, I noticed that Francesca had already begun relating to Nick her side of the dispute with Madame Geri, but the island psychic managed to counter every point with the flair of a fighter in combat. Guido stood to one side, arms folded, not speaking.
While the female gladiators continued their verbal jabs, Nick lowered his head and scratched the back of his neck. Eventually, when they showed no sign of abating, he raised his head again. “This isn’t getting us anywhere”
“You’re telling me,” Pop Pop protested, still clutching his fork with the elusive mushroom. “All I wanted was a quiet dinner with my girl.” He pointed at me, and I managed a shaky smile in return, not sure what was more embarrassing: my “date’s” touching attraction to me or sense of pride over his spearing the mushroom.
“Sorry about that,” Nick said. I detected barely restrained humor in his voice, and that caused me to cringe even more.
“I’ll get over it.” Pop Pop gulped the mushroom and swallowed it whole.
I waited to see if I’d have to give him the Heimlich maneuver, but he seemed okay.
“All right, here’s what we’re going to do,” Nick began, focusing on Beatrice’s boyfriend first. “Guido, you go home, and stay there. I don’t want any more outbursts from you. Got it?”
The young man nodded,
staring down at his shoes. “Si.”
“Francesca and Madame Geri, you two need to just cool it. There’s no point in arguing about a recipe when Marco isn’t around to care.”
“He cares, trust me.” Madame Geri pronounced. “Just because he’s crossed over doesn’t mean he’s not connected with what’s going on.”
Francesca drew back and crossed herself as if to ward off some evil.
Did she have something to fear? Maybe-if she killed Marco.
Nick raised an eyebrow. “Okay, let’s just say he doesn’t care from this world.”
“Fine.” Madame Geri inclined her head. “If you want to limit your doors of perception.”
I shivered, partly from the cold, partly from the thought that Marco might be hovering around the Taste of Ven ice, and partly from the fact that Madame Geri actually could quote from Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.
“So, I want everyone to hit the road and forget about what happened here tonight,” Nick said. “Do I make myself clear?”
More nods from the group.
As they made for their cars, I lingered, along with Pop Pop.
“I’m freezing my buns off,” Pop Pop announced, his dentures beginning to chatter. Not an appealing sight.
“I’ll take you home,” Madame Geri said, motioning him over to her vehicle. I could have cried in gratitude, as I helped him wheel his oxygen tank over to my new best friend, Madame Geri. Once he was settled in the passenger seat, I gave her a thumbs-up.
“Pretty good evening, huh?” Madame Geri leaned over and whispered to me. “We now know that Francesca has the temperament to commit murder.”
“You mean, you said all that just to get her annoyed?” My mouth dropped open in amazement.
“Oh yeah.”
“Hey, ladies, don’t fight over me.” Pop Pop leaned back in the seat with a smug quirk to his mouth. “I’ve got my Social Security check coming in the mail tomorrow, and the rest of the week is open to kick up my heels with you.”
And break a hip on your way down, I added silently.
“He’s all yours.” I tapped the top of Madame Geri’s car and stepped back.
As she drove off, I sensed Nick was standing behind me. The wind had started to whip up with a biting chill, but I could still catch a whiff of Nick’s deep-woodsy aftershave. I shivered again, but this time for a different reason.
Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool Page 10
