I knew what he meant.
“I don’t know anyone in Cabot. It’s what . . . a half hour from here?”
“About that. It’s in the next county and an easy drive in either direction.”
“That could work.”
He grinned. “Maybe. You have any uncles there?”
“No connection with the town of Cabot at all.”
“That should seal the deal.”
I felt a thrill of hope. “Castellano is going to be—”
“Yup. She’s got plans for me, and tomorrow will not be a good day. But I only need to give two weeks’ notice, and she did say there would be no detective position for me here.”
“When do you start?”
“A month from today. I need to put my house on the market, and I have some vacation to use up.”
He pulled some papers from his pocket.
“What’s this?” I said.
“Tickets.”
“Tickets for what? A play?”
“A trip together. Our first vacation.”
“But where?”
“Somewhere I know you’d love to visit with me.”
“Somewhere romantic?”
“You bet.” The man was becoming a tease.
“Let me see.”
Laughing, I reached for the tickets, just as Vera opened the door.
RECIPES
TIRAMISU ALLA SIGNORA
Tiramisu means “pick-me-up” in Italian, and it sure does the trick. As she adapts or invents many of her recipes, Signora Panetone’s tiramisu doesn’t contain ladyfingers or custard, or eggs. Instead, chocolate cake and lots of mascarpone cheese form the base. Tiramisu sure does pick up the mood around Van Alst House. There’s never any left, so you will have to make your own.
8 ounces plain chocolate cake (homemade or purchased)
¼ cup very strong, fresh, hot coffee
¼ cup good-quality DARK rum
1 cup whipping cream
½ cup sugar
1 tsp real vanilla extract
1 cup mascarpone cheese, room temperature
Grated zest of ½ orange (optional)
½ cup coarsely grated bittersweet chocolate
Cut cake into slices. Place the slices in a shallow dish—only one layer. Combine coffee and rum. Sprinkle over the cake.
Whip cream, sugar and vanilla until stiff peaks form.
In a separate bowl beat mascarpone until softened. Fold in the whipped cream, gently. Do not overbeat.
Arrange ⅓ of the cake slices in an attractive, shallow bowl. Layer over ⅓ of the cream mixture and ⅓ of the orange zest (if using). Sprinkle ⅓ of the grated chocolate evenly over the layer.
Repeat for two more layers, ending with a lovely dusting of chocolate on top.
Cover with plastic wrap. This dessert is best the next day, but make sure you chill for at least four hours.
CRISPY ROSEMARY CROSTINI
The signora never wastes anything, even bread. That’s a good thing, because slices of baguette (or slices of leftover ciabatta bread) turn into these crispy snack breads.
4 rosemary sprigs
½ cup good olive oil
Slices of baguette or ciabatta bread (about a half loaf)
Sea salt
Add the rosemary sprigs to the olive oil well in advance. The day before is better. Of course, the signora has oil with herbs in her cupboard all the time. You might consider this too as it amps up many dishes and salad dressings.
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Place sliced bread on a metal baking sheet and brush both sides of bread with rosemary oil. Bake for about 10 minutes until brown.
Turn slices over. Sprinkle sea salt lightly on top.
Bake for another 10 minutes.
Cool and enjoy. You can top with salsa, white bean dip, cheese or whatever your favorite topping or dip is. Jordan likes to eat the crostini as is, and Uncle Kev steals them right out of the oven. We do not recommend that.
SCALOPPINE AL LIMONE
Everyone loves it when the signora serves these tender and delicious chicken cutlets.
6 small boneless chicken breasts (or turkey)
3 tablespoons flour
1½ tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh parsley
Juice and grated zest of one large lemon
2–3 tablespoons dry white wine
Sea salt and freshly ground peppers
Extra parsley, lemon wedges or zest for garnish
If chicken pieces are large, cut in half. If they are thick, slice them in half. It is very important to make sure they are thin enough. Cover each piece of poultry with a sheet of plastic wrap. Pound the scaloppine with a mallet or a cup or a rolling pin until they are ¼ inch thick. This is pretty easy but also essential.
Coat with flour and shake off excess.
Heat two tablespoons of oil in the pan. Sear the chicken quickly on both sides, and then sprinkle with parsley, lemon juice and zest and white wine. Add remaining oil if needed.
Lower the heat and cook for about five minutes. Turn chicken over again. Season with S & P and cook for about five minutes until just cooked through.
Serve at once with lemon and parsley as garnish. They are great with rice, potatoes or pasta.
Turn the page for a preview of Victoria Abbott’s next Book Collector Mystery
THE HAMMETT HEX
Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!
SQUISHED INTO A cable car, hurtling down a steep hill, clinging to a rail with the wind rushing in your ears amid the clang and clatter of metal and the shrieks of fellow passengers might not be everybody’s idea of a romantic moment, but, strangely, it was working for me. Sure, my knuckles were white, but I was happy because I was wedged up against Tyler “Smiley” Dekker, the occasional man of my dreams. Plus the cable car we were riding gave us a view of San Francisco Bay. The half-dozen squealing schoolgirls—black asymmetrical haircuts, shredded jeans and selfie sticks—couldn’t diminish the experience.
After all, you’re only young and pink-tipped once. One of them rolled her eyes at me.
I had also managed to tune out the puffy, bickering couple next to us. Who knew that you could sustain a twenty-minute dispute about the flavor of gelato? Chocolate hazelnut or nocciola? Obviously these two would never run out of things to fight about, and yet they’d miraculously agreed to the same 49ers T-shirt.
We’d bumped into them before on the tourist walks in the area near Union Station. They always had plenty to argue with each other about.
The hulking guy right behind me was a bit harder to ignore. His large, pink, moon face was damp with sweat and his short-sleeved, blue-checked shirt strained at the buttons. He had clearly forgotten his deodorant this morning. Worse, he didn’t appear to comprehend the idea of personal space.
Smiley turned and flashed his grin. I loved that little gap between his front teeth and the way his blond hair blew in the wind. I loved that we were here in this romantic city. I loved that I could still make him blush.
Two silver-haired ladies wearing Birkenstock sandals and Tilley hats nudged each other and smiled at us in approval. I recognized them from our hotel. I’d noticed their bright toenail polish in the lineup at the restaurant in the morning. Even though I was a bit jealous that they’d found seats on the cable car, I smiled back at them.
They each gave us a little wave as they eased their way to the exit behind me.
All the world loves a lover, as they say. Loves a lover! Imagine that. Smiley and I had taken a few sharp detours in our relationship. It was still hard to believe that we were on a getaway alone without hot-and-cold-running relatives and the persistent, gravelly voice of my employer, Vera Van Alst. Could a cop with ambitions to be a detective and a girl who was the first p
erson in her family to go legit have a chance at happiness?
So far, it was looking good.
“Powell Street,” Smiley mouthed. He had a thing for Dashiell Hammett, and Powell Street was important to him too. He mentioned the name every few minutes. He had also mentioned something to do with Sam Spade every few minutes of our cable car ride. As far as I could see, he’d watched The Maltese Falcon once too often as a child. It seemed that his grandfather was to blame. I knew all about fascinations with fictional characters and settings. So I got that. But I had just discovered this classic noir detective and I was reserving judgment about Hammett and his gang.
Today, Smiley was also busy taking pictures. I was equally busy hanging on to my gray fedora because of the bouncy ride and the stiff breeze. That fedora had been the perfect vintage find and just right for San Francisco. It was sort of inspired by Sam Spade (see reserving judgement, above), but mainly I wore it because the foggy, damp air turned my midlength, dark hair into wild frizz. It was either the fedora or a brown paper bag.
It was our third trip on this particular line. We had three-day visitor passports and Smiley wanted us to get our twenty bucks’ worth on every form of transportation.
Most of the day’s itinerary focussed on exploring the haunts of Sam Spade. Smiley had a strong desire to visit Burrett Alley, off Stockton, where there was supposed to be a sign commemorating the shooting of Miles Archer in The Maltese Falcon. Pulp and noir were not my things and, to tell the truth, I’d been a bit surprised that Smiley was such an aficionado. I preferred the gentlemen of the Golden Age of Detection and, of course, anything with Archie Goodwin in it. But if he wanted to see that memorial to a fictional murder, I was fine with it as long as I could keep my hat on.
Smiley had managed to turn full circle as we proceeded down the next block. There couldn’t be a building he hadn’t captured for posterity. There were plenty of shots of me too. That was fine as my hair was covered and I had lots to smile about.
“Seafood tonight?” he shouted, suddenly serious.
Well, how about that? I had something else to smile about. “We’re in the right city for it.”
My response was lost in the racket.
We shuddered to a stop again and people pushed onto the cable car. I tried not to get separated from Smiley as people squeezed their way into the car and a short, bullet-shaped man with crisply gelled black hair attempted to shoulder his way between us. The cable car lurched forward. I steadied myself by grabbing Smiley’s belt with one hand. I held on to my hat with the other. “Sorry,” I said to the bullet-shaped man who seemed determined to take up more space.
I guess I’d been in the friendly, civil society of Harrison Falls, in upstate New York, for a bit too long. I wasn’t used to jockeying for position in confined spaces.
Bullet man flashed me a bleak look and eased behind me. Good. Let him experience the big stinky guy firsthand.
Smiley was pointing now, his enthusiastic words carried away on the wind. No question about it. He was adorable. And he wasn’t the first person to develop a fascination with Sam Spade or the Continental Op. I’d get my turn too. I couldn’t wait to get to Haight-Ashbury and its vintage stores.
As I reached for the airborne fedora, I felt something slam hard into my back, knocking the breath out of me. I lost hold of Smiley as I tumbled forward. When I managed to steady myself, a second sharp slam accelerated my fall. Panicked, I tried to grab at nearby passengers, but too little too late. With a roar of shouting voices behind me, I plunged, screaming wordlessly, from the lumbering cable car toward the pavement, my head set to meet Powell Street the hard way.
But I’m getting ahead of my story.
Let me start at the beginning.
Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!
The Marsh Madness Page 28
