Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design)

by Jean Harrington

  “Fresh, never frozen,” he declared, stopping for a moment to check the oven. “From Biloxi. Best shrimp in the world. And my spicy salsa.” He came back to the prep table and ladled a generous spoonful of salsa over each individual shrimp glass.

  “You missed one, Chip,” I said.

  “No, that’s Francesco’s. He’s got a delicate stomach. Anything spicy gives him heartburn.” Chip shook his head regretfully. “Too bad, my salsa’s famous. Right, AudreyAnn?”

  Without looking up, she gave him a grudging, “Yeah.”

  Lovely. The woman has all the charm of weeds in a driveway.

  “We’ll be ready whenever Francesco is,” Chip said, putting the rest of the salsa back in the fridge. “He wants us all to eat together. Imagine. The chef, the salad girl...” he shot a quick, alarmed glance AudreyAnn’s way, but she didn’t bristle, “...Donny. Bonita. Can you believe that? What a guy!”

  “Sounds good to me.” Rossi swiped one of the shrimp from the big bowl, and we strolled out to the patio where “Nessun Dorma” blasted the peace out of the evening.

  Tears running down his cheeks, Francesco basted the ribs yet again. “Hear that aria?” he called to us. “Makes me cry every time.”

  “Ten more minutes till a cruiser visit,” Rossi said to me, enjoying himself enormously. “Care for another drink?”

  I shook my head. “I’m good for a while. We’ve lost our bartender anyway.”

  At a beckoning finger from Francesco, Donny had replaced him at the grill and was turning the ribs with barbeque tongs. His boss disappeared somewhere, probably back to the kitchen.

  “I’ll help myself,” Rossi said, striding toward the bar.

  Figuring this was a good time to tour the house and see what Tom’s painting crew had accomplished, I opened a patio door and stepped into the living room. I didn’t get too far before voices coming from the foyer stopped me in my tracks.

  Francesco and another man. Something agitated in Francesco’s tone told me I should leave, but before I could make a move I heard, “This is the last time I’m telling you, Norm. No excuses. I want my money.”

  Norm murmured something. Whatever he said, Francesco wasn’t buying. “It wasn’t a goddamn Christmas present. It was a loan. For six months only. Maybe you got trouble recalling that, since it was over a year ago.”

  Another murmur. I really needed to beat a retreat, but curiosity had me rooted to the floor.

  “It don’t mean a thing. Stockbroker be damned. You’re nothing but a hustler. Worse. Your pool table’s got no pockets. And I don’t care if you got pockets or not. I’m giving you till Monday.”

  “You won’t pull any rough stuff, will you?” Terror must have caused Norm to speak up. His question, quavery but clear, echoed in the empty rooms.

  “Rough stuff? Don’t make me laugh. What we got going is a gentleman’s agreement. But I got my ways of collecting. No action by Monday, Cookie finds out.”

  “No, please...”

  No more hesitating, I had to make myself scarce and get out of there before they spotted me. The patio door seemed a mile away. The quickest way out was through the dining room and back to the kitchen. I tiptoed across the living room floor, quiet as the proverbial mouse, rounded the archway into the dining room—and almost smacked into Bonita. Equally stunned, we both gasped, two silent, shocked intakes of breath.

  Bonita didn’t look as if she were on an errand. Nothing in her hands, no hurrying to get from point A to point B. No, like me she’d simply been listening to Francesco and Norm’s conversation. Snooping, in plain English.

  “Perdóneme,” she said, and before I could answer, she turned on her heel, fled the dining room and hurried out to the kitchen.

  Sorrow over Tomas’s death had obviously not killed her curiosity. But who was I to talk? Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what she hoped to hear.

  Back on the patio, I made a beeline for the bar. With Donny still manning the grill, Rossi had stayed on as bartender. And Manon had replaced Aida on the sound system.

  “I’d love a glass of wine now,” I said. He poured me a drink from the open pinot bottle. As he handed me the glass, he looked up over my shoulder and broke into a white-toothed grin.

  “Officer Batano, good evening.”

  In the brown uniform of the Naples PD, the biggest cop in the world approached us, a look of utter astonishment on his face. “Rossi! You live here?”

  Rossi laughed. “Not on my salary.”

  “I need to speak to the owner. No one answered the front door.”

  “We couldn’t hear the bell,” I said.

  Francesco barged onto the terrace and shouldered his way over to us. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “I’m Officer Batano of the Naples police. Do you reside on this property?”

  “That’s correct. What’s up, Officer?”

  “Your music’s too loud for the neighbors. The station’s been flooded with calls.”

  “They don’t like opera?”

  “Only at the Met,” Rossi told him, still grinning.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll turn off the system. But I’m not happy doing it.”

  Batano gave Rossi a two-fingered salute. “Have a good evening, Lieutenant,” he said and strode off.

  Francesco killed the speakers and into the sudden silence yelled, “The ribs are done. Jewels, tell Chip we’re ready to eat.”

  “Okay, honey.” She left Cookie’s side and hurried indoors.

  Glass in hand, Cookie wandered over to me and asked, “Where are the other guests?”

  “Everyone’s here.”

  She shook her head. “You must be mistaken. The table’s set for ten, but there are only six of us.”

  Cookie was in for a shock.

  “Did you count the cook, the kitchen helper, the nanny and the...” I changed “bouncer” to “...chauffeur?”

  “Omigod,” she said, splaying a beringed hand across her chest. The pink diamond was drop-dead gorgeous. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yes, I do. Is there a problem?”

  Cookie drew herself even more erect than usual. “If you don’t know, no amount of explaining will help.” She gulped her drink. “Right now, I need to find the powder room, but when this charade is over, Norm and I will have a talk.”

  Yup.

  AudreyAnn lit the hurricane lamps on the table and brought out baskets of warmed crusty Italian bread and small saucers of herbed oil for dipping. A few minutes later, carrying a tray laden with the individual shrimp servings, Chip set them about the table, putting the one without the salsa at the head, Francesco’s place.

  Jewels sat opposite her husband at the other end of the table, the baby in a portable crib by her side. I squeezed in between Rossi and Donny and across from Norm and Bonita. The cooks sat down last.

  “How about a little Pavarotti while we eat?” Francesco asked.

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” Rossi replied, smiling.

  “Yeah. Don’t want the cops here twice in one night. Just shows what kind of neighbors I got to put up with.”

  I shot a quick glance in Francesco’s direction. Did that mean he wanted to leave, wouldn’t go through with the restoration?

  He caught my glance and read my thought. “Not to worry, Deva. I’m nuts about this place. When Jewels and I are under air, I’ll blast the hell out of the sound system. Get the kids used to good music.”

  Cookie returned from her visit to the powder room and sat down rather gingerly to the right of Jewels. Then, rigid in her seat as if she feared contamination from some source close by, Cookie sucked on her bourbon and ignored her shrimp.

  “You don’t care for shrimp?” I asked.

  “I’m enjoying my pre-dinner cocktail at the moment.”

  “I see. Well, when you’re ready, they’re delicious.”

  Like the shrimp, I was ignored. The woman sat sipping in silence until Norm whispered something in her ear.

  “You did what?” she asked, s
lurring her words ever so slightly.

  “Shh.”

  “You going to eat that shrimp?” Donny asked suddenly. The first full sentence I’d ever heard him utter.

  “Are you speaking to me?” Cookie asked.

  “Yes. You want the shrimp or not?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “That a yes or a no?”

  When she didn’t answer him, Donny shrugged. “I guess that’s a no.”

  While Donny found solace in his beer, Norman again whispered in Cookie’s ear. For Brahmins who worshipped correct behavior, wasn’t that rather rude?

  This time Cookie didn’t say a word but took something Norm handed her and concealed it on her lap. What on earth was that all about?

  Oh well. I turned to my shrimp, enjoying every morsel as well as Rossi’s hand on my knee, caressing me secretly, giving me bad boy glances from under those hooded lids.

  A few minutes later, though he hadn’t even touched his shrimp, Francesco announced, “Time for the antipasto.”

  “These shrimp are scrumptious,” I said. “You don’t like yours either?”

  “I been eatin’ them all afternoon. I’m ready for some provolone and salami and a couple slices of tomato.” He tore off a chunk of warm bread and dipped it in a saucer of oil.

  What about his delicate stomach? I wondered as Chip and AudreyAnn cleared away the first course dishes. Donny must have taken his boss’s impatience as marching orders, for he stood too and, picking up his dish and Francesco’s, carried them out to the kitchen.

  As we waited for the antipasto to be served, Cookie and Norm sat in glum silence, draining their drinks. She had both hands on the tabletop, so whatever Norm had given her she’d put down somewhere. Her purse probably.

  “The party’s dying,” Francesco declared, jumping up. At the bar, he uncorked a bottle of Chianti, brought it to the table and poured some for everyone without asking if we wanted any.

  He returned to his seat and raised his wine on high. “Cin cin!” A ray of late-day sun struck his glass, and even from where I sat, I could see the Chianti glowing ruby red in the fading light. “Preppy, huh?” he said to me and laughed.

  My glass halfway to my lips, I smiled. There was definitely something about Francesco that—

  A scream straight out of a horror movie rent the air. And then a crash. My hand shook, splashing wine all over the white tablecloth.

  “Jesus Christ, the kitchen.” Francesco leaped to his feet and raced inside with Rossi right beside him. Jewels scooped up the baby and hurried in too. Then Bonita. Only Cookie and Norm remained at the table, and as I followed the others, I heard Cookie say, “The help one gets these days is atrocious.”

  Hovering in the kitchen doorway as if afraid to get any closer, Jewels stood clasping the baby to her breast. I peered over her shoulder. Ankle deep in antipasto, mouth hanging open, AudreyAnn clutched her cheeks with both hands. Beside the stove, Bonita and Chip ignored the rattle of a steaming kettle and stared at the floor where Rossi crouched beside Donny.

  “What the hell happened to him? Did he pass out or something?” Francesco asked, bending over Donny. “That scream scared the shit outta me.”

  Spread-eagled on his back, his black ankle boots pointing east and west, Donny wasn’t moving. His mouth twisted to one side, his normally swarthy skin an unearthly white, he stared unseeing at the kitchen ceiling.

  Rossi tried for a pulse, shook his head and whipped out his cell phone. “Medical emergency. Two fifty Rum Row. This is Lieutenant Victor Rossi, Naples PD...I can’t get a pulse, and he isn’t breathing...I’m not certain, but that could be.” The 911 dispatcher must have asked if Donny were dead. “Someone will be at the front door.” Rossi pocketed his cell. “They’re on their way.”

  “Chip, the stove,” Bonita said.

  “What?”

  “You need to turn it off.”

  Chip came back to reality with a start. “Oh sure.” He peered into the boiling pot. “Well, so much for the ravioli. It’s in shreds.”

  “You asshole,” AudreyAnn hissed between her front teeth. “How can you think of food at a time like this? That’s Donny lying there. My Donny.”

  Her Donny? Since when?

  Looking like he wanted to burst into tears, Chip started wheezing. With the baby in her arms, Jewels walked over to the stove and turned off the burners, taking a moment to pat Chip’s arm. A sweet girl.

  As Francesco knelt over Donny, stroking his cheeks, urging him back to consciousness, Rossi kept a finger on Donny’s pulse, his expression grim.

  “He can’t wait,” Francesco said. “He needs CPR now.”

  “I’ll do it,” Jewels said, handing the baby to Bonita.

  “You know how?” Francesco asked.

  “Yes, I think so. I had to once for my mother.”

  As she went to kneel over Donny’s inert form, Rossi caught her by the arm. “I heard a siren. The medics are here. They’ll take care of him. The front door, Deva.”

  Before I could move, Bonita stepped forward. “It is my job, señor, I go.”

  Outside, a siren’s screech came to a sudden stop. Rossi let go of Donny’s wrist and stood. A moment later an ERU team raced into the kitchen behind Bonita.

  Gently touching Francesco on his heaving shoulder, the female partner, a muscular girl of twenty-something with Alex stitched onto her uniform pocket, said, “You can stop now, sir.” But Francesco didn’t stop and kept on in a frenzy, patting Donny’s face, pummeling his chest, willing him to respond. Willing him to wake up and big-shoulder his way through the kitchen...through life.

  The girl nodded at her male partner, who had Mike on his pocket. He leaned over Francesco, grabbed him around the middle and lifted him off Donny, out of their way. Francesco slumped on the floor, watching ashen faced as they went to work.

  Long moments passed in silent tension before, finally, Mike closed Donny’s eyelids and stood. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing more we can do. He was gone before we got here.”

  With a wild keening as the only warning, AudreyAnn flung herself across the kitchen and onto Donny’s body. She lay crumpled on top of him, then lifting his head and rocking to and fro, she clutched him to her bosom. But even that didn’t bring him back to life.

  Alone with him in a world of her own making, not knowing or caring who else was there, she crooned to him. “Oh no. Oh no. No, Donny. No. Don’t leave me. Please. Don’t leave me.”

  I stole a quick glance at Chip. Despite the steamy kitchen air, he wheezed so loudly his ragged breathing echoed across the room. Donny was dead and Chip was alive, but had AudreyAnn just killed his reason for living?

  Chapter Fourteen

  The medics covered Donny with a blanket and lifted him onto a gurney. Francesco, his head between his knees, stayed on the floor where he’d been dumped. After giving little Frannie to Bonita, Jewels knelt beside her husband and put an arm around him, cooing to him in the same soft voice she used on the baby. Like the baby, Francesco responded, smiling weakly at her one moment, wrapping an arm around her the next. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Facing the grim reality of a loved one’s death, he was as heartbroken as anyone I’d ever known, and my own heart went out to him.

  Clinging to each other for support, Cookie and Norm ambled into the kitchen, two sheets to the wind as my Irish nana used to say. They must have been ransacking the bar while the rest of us were caught up in the crisis.

  “What’s the matter?” Norm wanted to know. It came out “Whasha matta?” so nobody bothered to answer him.

  “Is there a problem?” Cookie asked. “Ish there a problem?” Nobody answered her either.

  “A physician will need to determine the cause of death,” Alex said. “Do we have a next of kin present?”

  Rossi pointed to Francesco. “Mr. Grandese there was the deceased’s employer. You might ask him.”

  Clipboard perched on her knee, she crouched on the other side of Francesco. “I have a few questions, sir.
”

  “Shoot,” he said wincing at his own word.

  “What is the deceased’s name?”

  “Donatello Grandese.”

  What?

  “A relation?”

  Ignoring the tears streaming along his face and soaking into his chest hair, Francesco said, “My cousin. He was a good man, made some mistakes in life but paid his dues. I promised our nonno...our grandfather...I’d look out for him. Some job I did, huh?”

  At that moment I wanted to tell him he had done a good job. Not only had he tried to help Donny, he’d reached out to Chip and Bonita too. Whether he knew it or not, Francesco was a nurturer.

  Alex murmured a few words of comfort and continued writing on her clipboard. After asking several more questions, she had Francesco sign a release. “As soon as cause of death is determined, the coroner’s office will be in touch with you.” She stood, gave him a copy of the release form and pocketed her pen.

  Mike got behind the gurney, but before he could wheel it out of the kitchen, Francesco sprang to his feet. “Give me a minute,” he said. The medics stepped back, and lifting the blanket from Donny’s face, Francesco kissed both his cheeks. “Ciao, bambino,” he whispered.

  Clearly, cinderblock Donny had been a kind of little brother to him. As if he couldn’t bear the sight of seeing Donny leave forever, Francesco covered his eyes with his hands as the medics wheeled the gurney out to the waiting ambulance.

  Bonita broke the silence that had fallen like a lead weight over the kitchen. “I’ll put the baby to bed, señora?”

  Jewels nodded and said, “Let’s leave the kitchen, everybody,” and taking her husband by the arm, she drew him outside to the terrace. She eased him onto a patio lounger, went over to the bar and held up a Courvoisier bottle, checking see if there were anything left in it. Norm and Cookie? Satisfied that there was, she poured two fingers of cognac into a plastic glass and brought it back to Francesco.

  “You’ve had a shock, honey. Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”