“Oh no,” I said aloud. “This is not good.” There was no doubt that The Jersey Side could bring major profits to the businesses in Oceanside, but it might do some real damage as well. And apart from our ragtag little band of protesters, did anyone even care? Would any of us be able to stem the RealTV tide that was threatening to engulf our hometown?
After all the excitement died down and the crowd dispersed, our protesters, including Nonna and my parents, took their signs and went home. I was left alone with Tim, Cal, and the tomatoes, wondering which I should most avoid, when a customer appeared at the door and I got my first real look at the villain of the piece.
Gio Parisi was a good-looking man, if your taste ran to dissolute Roman emperors. His heavy-lidded eyes were dark and hard, the kind of eyes that missed nothing. But everything about him suggested the words “well kept.” His thick silver-streaked black hair was artfully cut, and his firm tan face owed more to artistry than nature. His clothes were expensive, from his hand-tailored shirt to his Italian silk tie and designer suit, not to mention his pricey two-toned black–and-cordovan oxfords, polished to a mirrorlike shine.
“Table for one,” he said, crossing his arms in a clear signal.
“Uh, Mr. Parisi, we’re not doing a regular luncheon service today, and we don’t serve dinner for an hour and a half—”
“‘Luncheon service,’ is it?” He looked pointedly around at the Casa Lido’s interior. “Please. As if you can’t find me something to eat in this glorified pizza joint.”
I gripped a luncheon menu tightly. “We offer grilled pizza as a summer dish. We are not a—”
He held up a large palm. “Spare me the details.” He stalked past me and took a seat at a table for six. “I’d like a house salad with grilled chicken. And not some soggy piece of meat you pull out of the fridge. Cooked to order.” He smiled and crossed his arms again. “I’ll wait.”
A sound from the bar caught my attention, and Cal jerked his head in Parisi’s direction. I frowned and shook my head, hoping he wouldn’t feel the need to leap over the counter and protect me. I’d handled worse customers than Gio Parisi. Frankly, I was more afraid of what my grandmother might do if she came back and found him eating in her restaurant.
“Oh, and, miss?” Parisi said. “You can also bring me a bottle of San Pellegrino and hot water for tea. And that I don’t want to wait for,” he said softly.
“I’ll bring that right out. Sir.”
“And I want that chicken well-done,” he called after me. “And the dressing on the side!”
In the kitchen, Tim had dinner prep well under way. I watched his skilled hands slicing and trimming veal for the special, and I hated to break his concentration. “Hey, Tim, can you throw some chicken on the grill?”
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and scowled at me. It was a look I remembered well. “What for? I just cleaned it.”
“Listen, Gio Parisi’s out there. He’s insisting we serve him. Just make the chicken. He wants it well-done. I’ll throw the salad together.”
“Forget it.” He slammed his knife down on the counter. “I’m not feeding him. No way.”
“Chi?” Mr. Biaggio came through the door with a large cardboard box filled to the top with lettuce and other assorted greens. He set the box down with a grunt and grinned broadly. “Who are you refusing to feed, Timoteo?”
I couldn’t help smiling at his accent and at his efforts to make Tim’s Irish name Italian. “Hi, Mr. Biaggio,” I said. “Gio Parisi is out in the dining room.”
“No!” He lowered his thick brows, and his face reddened. “That cafone, the nerve he has to come here.” He shook his fist high in the air. “Victoria, I will be happy to throw him out for you, just like the garbage that he is!”
“I appreciate that—I really do, Mr. B—but I don’t want any trouble. That’s the last thing the Casa Lido needs.” I filled a kettle and set it on the stove to boil, sliced some bread, and pulled a San Pellegrino from the drinks cooler. “Tim, please. Let’s just give him lunch and get him the hell out of here before Nonna comes back.”
“Oh, I’ll give him lunch, all right.” He struggled to jerk open the door of the heavy refrigerator, then threw a pack of chicken on the counter and scrubbed his hands with a fury. “I’ll make the damn salad.”
“Okay, but don’t dress it.”
“Got it. And by the way, tell Lockhart to stay the hell out of my kitchen.”
Oh, it’s your kitchen now, is it? I thought, and backed out of the doors, holding the water bottle and bread basket, stopping at the coffee station to ready a plate and a tea bag. It was a little frightening how easily I’d fallen back into my old routine.
I set the water and bread down in front of my customer. “Here you go. Hot water’s coming up.”
Parisi waved his hand. “No bread.” Then he looked up at me with a sly grin. “How does it feel to be serving a ‘pasta-tute’? Bet they don’t come in here every day.”
Do not engage, Vic. “We take good care of all our customers, Mr. Parisi.” I picked up the basket and turned to go.
“Then maybe you can bring me my hot water, Ms. Reed,” he said from behind me.
I fought the temptation to answer him and headed back to the kitchen, where I filled a metal tea carafe with shaking hands.
When I brought the tea things back to his table, he emptied a packet of sweetener into his cup and pointed. “Water, please.” As I poured his hot water, he winked at me. “Surprised you there, didn’t I, Vick Reed? Though I don’t know why you should be—your mug’s on the back of all your books.” He dunked his tea bag vigorously. “I do read, you know.”
“I’m sure you do.” I held up the carafe. “Would you like me to leave this?”
“Nah, you can take it. Where’s that salad?”
“It’ll be right up,” I said through my teeth.
“Hey, it’s a shame about that HBO deal!” he yelled to my retreating back.
Back in the kitchen, I took a deep breath and washed my hands. Neither Mr. Biaggio nor my temperamental chef was anywhere to be found. But there was a telltale smell of burning chicken and smoke drifting inside the open door. Apparently, Tim defined well done as “charred.” But the salad was ready on the counter, so I took a small gravy boat and filled it with house dressing. While I waited for the chicken, I peeked through the kitchen doors at our guest, who was occupied with his phone. I pulled my head back inside before he could see me. C’mon, Tim. Bring me the chicken already. This guy’s not the patient type. A few minutes later, Tim walked in; without a word, he dumped the blackened chicken pieces on top of the salad.
“Thanks, chef!” I called as he slammed out the back door.
I looked down at the unappetizing sight, but when I brought it out to Parisi, he dug right in.
“Is there anything else?” I asked.
“Not at the moment.” He shoveled a load of salad into his mouth, his thick lips glistening with dressing, then followed that up with a loud slurp of tea. If I stood there any longer, I’d be in danger of losing those two pieces of pizza I’d had for lunch. “By the way,” he said, shaking his fork at me and talking through a mouthful of food, “I don’t know what you people are so damn upset about. Your mayor’s on board, and I think your town council will be, too. You might as well get used to the idea that we’ll be filming here.” He opened his water bottle and poured a full glass. “You know the amount of business my show would bring you?” When I didn’t answer, he tried another tack. “Or . . . the amount of business it could cost you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” But I was pretty sure I did.
“Well, all it would take is for one of the kids to say—on camera, of course—how bad the food is here.” He took another sip of tea and grimaced. After another sip, he folded his hands on the table and looked up at me. “How busy do you think you’d be after that?”
“That would depend on the season, Mr. Parisi. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I
wheeled around blindly, my fists clenched at my sides. The guy was scum, threatening us like some two-bit mobster. At the coffee station, I set up the two machines, one for American coffee and one for espresso, keeping Parisi in the edge of my vision and willing him to finish that darn salad.
My concentration was interrupted by a female shriek. “Vic!” Lori Jamison yelled. Then she threw her arms around me and stepped back. “Look at you, you skinny thing.”
I looked down at her round, freckled face, and suddenly I was back in high school, when the two of us waited tables during the lunch shift every summer. But after I left, Lori stayed on.
Now married with a young son, she was our primary waitress and as much a part of the family as Danny or I was.
“It’s so good to see you again, Lori. I could use some moral support around here.”
“Why? Is Nonna around?” She grinned broadly, and I couldn’t help smiling back.
“Not yet. But we’ve got kind of a tricky customer out there. Maybe you passed him on your way in?”
“I came in the back, hon. The only person I saw was Dreamboat in the kitchen.”
“Right.” Strangely, my cheeks grew warm, and I couldn’t meet my old friend’s eye.
“You gonna be able to work with him?”
I shrugged. “I have to, don’t I?”
“So your mom tells me you’re here to work on a new book. That’s exciting, huh?”
“Neat change of subject there, LJ.” I gave her a thumbs-up. “Well played.”
She tucked a fresh order pad into the pocket of her apron. “Listen, don’t let your nonna or Dreamboat back there get to you.” She shook her pen at me. “Or get in the way of that new book. We’re all so proud of you, Vic.”
“Thanks, kiddo. Listen, would you mind checking on that customer at Table Five? See if he’s ready for his bill.”
She peeked out into the dining room. “Hey, isn’t that the guy who was just up at the boards? From RealTV?”
“Gio Parisi.” I shook my head. “And he is really unpleasant.”
“I was wondering whose big ol’ pimped-out Escalade was in my spot. And how lovely of him to mess up that whole table for me.” She turned to me and grinned. “Maybe we can arrange a nice case of food poisoning.”
“I think Tim already tried it with his chicken.”
She winked at me. “I’ll take care of him. Then I’m gonna go say hi to Cutie-Pie Cal.”
“‘Cutie-Pie Cal’? ‘Dreamboat’? Does Billy know about you and the men of the Casa Lido?”
“I’m married, babe,” she called as she walked away. “Not dead.”
Lori came back with Parisi’s plate and nodded toward the dining room. “He’s just finishing his tea, but he’s ready for the bill. I’ll clear up when he’s done.”
“Thanks, Lori.” When I brought Parisi the check, he handed me his credit card without a word. I pointed to his nearly empty teacup. “Are you through?”
“Leave that,” he barked. He downed the rest of his water and wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “You can take the water glass.”
I tucked his card and a pen into the black billfold and set it down next to him. His face was pale. “Would you like more water?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. Where’s the men’s room?”
“Around that wall and to the right.” Holding his glass with two fingers as far away from me as possible, I brought it into the kitchen and then dumped the San Pellegrino bottle in the recycling bin. Then I scrubbed my hands again. Twice. Relieved that Tim was still missing from the kitchen, I backed out through the doors quickly, shaking my still-wet hands. But when I got back to his table, Gio Parisi was gone.
• • •
The Casa Lido started to come to life as dinner prep got under way. Cal was wrapping up his work at the bar, and Lori was in the back getting the specials from Tim. As promised, I filled and wiped all the salt and peppers, my nose twitching furiously. As I was finishing, Massimo Fabri, our executive chef, swept through the front doors and paused dramatically.
“Cara! You return!” He held his arms out to me, and I gave him a European double kiss, one for each cheek. “You look wonderful.”
“So do you, Massi.” Our chef, with his swept-back hair and luxurious mustache, looked as though he would be more at home in the Metropolitan Opera House than in the Casa Lido. And he did occasionally break into arias in the kitchen. When readers asked me if any real person had inspired my fictional detective, I always lied and said no. But there was more than a little Massimo Fabri in Bernardo Vitali. “Listen, Massi.” I looked around to make sure my grandmother was nowhere in sight, but lowered my voice anyway. She had ears like a bat’s. “I’m trying to get Nonna to teach me to cook.”
“Ha!” he said. “Good luck with that, little one.” He set his toque on his head and rubbed his hands together. “And . . . Tim, he is in the kitchen?” He looked away from me as he asked the question; he, like the rest of the staff, as well as most of Oceanside Park, knew our history.
“Yes, he is.” I dropped my voice. “And you can say his name. It’s okay.”
“Good.” He patted my shoulder. “Look. Here is another of your old friends.”
“Hola, Nando!” I said. “It’s so nice to see you.” His bright gap-toothed grin and round face reminded me of a cheerful jack-o’-lantern. He stuck out a plump hand and gave me his usual greeting. “Hello, Miss Victor.” Despite years of trying, I could never get Nando to drop the “miss” or add the feminine ending to my name.
Nando Perez hailed from Ecuador and had worked here for nearly half his life, starting as a busboy and moving up to line cook. He spoke to my grandmother in Spanish and she responded in Italian, a communication style that confused the rest of us but worked for them. As always, Nando’s glistening black hair was ponytailed and braided, the top of his head covered by a hairnet. I don’t know whether he wore the net for reasons of health or beauty, but in fifteen years, I’d never seen him without it.
My parents and grandmother came in right behind Nando. My dad headed to the bar to set up, and my mom took her place behind the reservation desk.
“So, honey,” Mom said. “How was your first day back?”
“Uh, good. Got all the napkins ironed and the setups made.” I risked a look at my grandmother’s impassive face. “Now all I have to do is plant a dozen tomato flats.”
“That’s nice,” my mom said vaguely, her nose in the black reservations book.
“I have something for you, Victoria,” my grandmother said, handing me a rusted garden spade that was probably older than she was. “You still have a couple hours of light.”
“Thanks, Nonna.” I held up the dirty tool. “I’ll get right on it.”
Feeling very much like a child sent off to bed while the grown-ups partied, I headed out the back door toward the garden. My mood wasn’t improved by the sight of the gold Escalade still occupying Lori’s space in the employee lot. What was Parisi’s car doing here? He’d left well over an hour ago. “You’d better come back and get this car, buddy,” I grumbled. “Or I’m calling my brother to come and put a big fat ticket on it.”
As I stood and surveyed the garden plot, I caught a foul smell on the breeze. Ugh, I thought. Nonna’s got a heavy hand with the fertilizer. Knowing I couldn’t put it off one minute more, I sighed and dropped to my knees, dug into the soft soil, and settled the first plant into its bed. Only 143 to go.
I had nearly a whole row planted when I spotted something in the grass near the shed. I stood up, my knees stiff, and took a few steps toward the object. When I bent my head for a better look, goose bumps prickled up and down my bare arms. It was a shoe—a two-toned black-and-cordovan oxford that had no business being in my grandmother’s garden. My feet, of their own accord and certainly without my permission, carried me around the corner of the shed. I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself and looked down at a sight that I had only ever seen in my fevered imagin
ation.
But this was real. And that smell wasn’t fertilizer. There on the ground, his arms and legs splayed out and his face in a puddle of vomit, lay Gio Parisi.
Chapter Four
Why couldn’t I move? Why couldn’t I speak? A voice, calm and rational, was saying, “Call nine-one-one. You need to call nine-one-one.” My mouth dry, I opened it to answer, only to realize the voice was in my head. Holding my breath against the odor, I dropped to my wobbly knees. Careful not to disturb anything (I had learned at least that much in eight years), I reached out to touch Parisi’s wrist, but my hand froze in midair. He might need help, the calm voice said. You have to check and see. I swallowed, breathing hard through my nose, and closed my fingers around the cold skin. But Gio Parisi was beyond any help I could give him. Still shaky, I fell backward in the grass, but pushed myself to my feet. I dug my hand into the pocket of my jeans for a phone that wasn’t there.
I jerked my head up at a sudden rustling in the grass, expecting—no, willing—my fictional detective to show up. I desperately wanted Bernardo Vitali, jauntily arrayed in a summer linen suit and straw hat, his notepad and fountain pen in hand, to take over the case so I could run the hell back to Manhattan. But it was only Tim, rounding the corner from the other side of the lot, the empty compost bucket in his hand. When he saw my face, he dropped the bucket and ran toward me.
“What’s the matter, Vic? What’s wrong?”
I pointed, still unable to utter a word. Tim looked down at the spectacle behind the shed, his face swiftly draining of color. He gripped my arm with a clammy hand. And then he did something I’d been waiting half my life to see: He dropped into a dead swoon at my feet.
Murder and Marinara: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mysteries) Page 4
