by Rosie Genova
He jerked a thumb back at the window. “The first signs are already out there.”
It was clearly time for a change of subject. “What are you working on, by the way?”
“The bagna cauda.” He added a bunch of peeled garlic cloves (courtesy of me) to the food processor, then one by one, some drained anchovies. It was the base for a spicy dipping sauce that literally means “cold bath.” He lifted the top of the processor, about to stick his finger into the pungent mixture.
“Uh, uh, uh. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“What are you talking about? I can’t make it without tasting it.”
“Well, you do what you have to do, but do you really want to breathe all over Lacey after tasting raw garlic and anchovies? She’s coming tonight, right?” Of course she was—she’d been glued to his side for about a month now.
Tim’s expression softened and he grinned in a way that used to (okay, maybe still did) reduce me to the consistency of cannoli cream. Note to self: Remind Lacey of the dangers of Irish-Italian men.
“Yeah, she is,” he said. “She’s really looking forward to it.”
“Will she stay for the whole thing?” I asked innocently. “I mean, isn’t ten past her bedtime?”
He shot me a look of disgust. “She’s not that young, Vic. She’s twenty-eight, for Chrissakes—”
“Tim,” Chef Massi interrupted, “the seafood delivery is here. We need to get it on ice as quickly as possible.” He clapped his hands. “Subito, Chef!”
Ugh. Much as I loved shrimp, I had a pretty good idea who would be cleaning it and deveining it. I’d come back to the Casa Lido to learn how to cook and do research for a new book, but thus far my training had only extended to the dirty work. Literally. I glanced at the kitchen clock; it was already nearing eleven. Five hours seemed like very little time to finish the prepping and cooking. I squinted at the menu, written in Chef Massi’s typically European hand, full of loops and flourishes:
Scallops with pancetta
Proscuitto and cantaloupe
Antipasto alla Casa Lido
Bagna cauda with celery for dipping
Shrimp cocktail
Fusilli with fresh chopped tomato sauce
Beef carpaccio
Grilled watermelon with salata ricotta cheese
Assorted pastries and seasonal fruit
I was so lost in thought I didn’t hear the kitchen door open and didn’t see our busboy until he was right at my side. Jason Connors, one of our summer hires, was a local kid who’d just graduated from Oceanside High. A dark, silent boy with an acne-scarred face, he barely spoke to the rest of the staff, though he sometimes exchanged a word or two in Spanish with Nando. But we kept him around for a simple reason: He worked hard. He stood silently next to me, holding a black bin against one hip.
“Oh . . . Jason, hi. I didn’t see you there.”
He blinked, looked at a spot somewhere above my head, and gave me the universal greeting of teenagers everywhere. “Hey.”
“Um, hey. Do you need something?”
“Yeah.” His face was impassive, difficult to read, and I wondered how his parents dealt with him. “Your grandmother told me to get the silverware from the dishwasher and wipe it down.”
I gestured to the dishwasher door. “Help yourself.”
The only sound in the kitchen was the crash of silver in the bin. As always, when there was an awkward silence, I felt compelled to fill it.
“So Jason,” I said in a hearty tone, “where’re you headed in the fall?”
“County,” he said without looking up, continuing to throw forks, knives, and spoons into the bin.
He probably meant county college, and not jail, but with this kid, who could be sure? “It’s good to get those required courses out of the way,” I said. “You do a good two-year program and you can pretty much go wherever you want.”
“I guess.” He straightened up, shifted the bin to both hands, and eyed the door. “D’ya have a towel?”
“Oh, for the silver, sure. Here you go.”
Were all teenagers this hard to read? I thought as he left the kitchen. Or just our silent busboy?
* * *
By three thirty there was a steady wind blowing in from the ocean, with the sun hidden behind masses of gray clouds that looked like tufts of unappetizing cotton candy. Nonna was still adamant about having the party outside, so I decided to appeal to my dad. I found him out near the Dumpsters, frowning down at an ancient generator.
“Hey, Daddio,” I said brightly, then decided to plunge right in. “Listen, I’m here to plead my case for moving this party inside.”
My dad tugged nervously at his straw fedora and shook his head, whether at me or the metal monstrosity at his feet, I couldn’t tell. I waved my hand in front of his eyes. “Hello, Frank Rienzi? Come in, Frank.”
“Sorry, baby,” he said with a sigh. “I can’t seem to get this thing going. I already tried the choke twice. And if the weather gets bad—”
“Our power might go out. That settles it, Dad. We need to move the party into the dining room. I’ll stand out in the garden greeting people and then usher them inside. Then we don’t have to worry.”
“Oh yes, we do, baby.” He pushed his hat back on his head and grinned, looking a whole lot like my brother, Danny; they had the same tanned, square features and hazel eyes. “I’d rather take my chances with a hurricane than cross your nonna,” he said.
I sighed. How could one old woman instill such fear in those around her? “But you’ve seen the weather reports, right?”
His face brightened. “Yeah, I did. In fact, now they’re saying there’s a twenty percent chance it’ll head out to sea.”
Ah, Frank, I thought, it’s just like you to back the long shot. “If you say so, Dad.” But his attention was back to the paint-chipped cylinder at his feet. He fiddled with a lever, hesitated, and then gave the generator a swift kick. When he pressed the button, the thing suddenly roared into life. “See that?” my dad yelled over the noise. “We’re good to go!”
“I hope so!” I yelled back. I glanced at my watch—3:37—almost time to get my derriere moving. The first brave guests would be arriving soon.
I ducked into the restroom for quick once-over in front of the mirror. In lieu of our usual white blouses and black slacks, we were all wearing stylish black shirtdresses. I’d turned up the collar on mine and pushed the sleeves to my elbows, added a string of pearls, a silver belt, and a pair of black pumps. And in an attempt to channel my inner Audrey Hepburn, I wore my hair up. If I had to work, at least I’d do it in style. But whether that style would hold in the wind that was whipping up was another matter entirely.
As I approached the three waitresses outside, it struck me that despite the similar outfits, each woman had dressed in a way that revealed her personality. Our head waitress and my oldest friend, Lori Jamison, was wearing her dress in typical Lori fashion—which is to say, no fashion at all. It was buttoned up to the neck and accessorized with a pair of black kitchen clogs. Flo, on the other hand, had a few too many buttons undone and had hiked her dress above her skinny knees; her dyed black hair was styled in a beehive that was so out of date it was fashionable. Alyssa Madison, our newest hire, looked like a sorority girl on a job interview. Her blond ponytail was immaculate, her dress starched and crisp, her black ballet flats polished to a high shine.
“You look great, Vic,” Lori said. “I like your hair that way.” She scrutinized my dark blond hair more closely. “Did you get highlights?”
“Maybe. Okay, yes. My mother strong-armed me.”
She raised an eyebrow, a knowing look on her round, freckled face. “I don’t suppose it has anything to do with your new boyfriend?”
At that, a look and a smile passed between Flo and Alyssa. The perils of dating within the workplace, I thought. Everybody k
nows about it. “No,” I said. “And yes, before you ask, he’s coming.” I pointed to the busboys putting the finishing touches on the setup. “I can’t believe how quick these guys are working.” In their black shirts and slacks, they swarmed the tables like a colony of oversized ants. Only one of them stood alone, and he happened to catch Flo’s eye.
Hands on hips and frowning, she called out to him in a harsh tone, “Hey, Jason! Did you light those candles like I asked you to? Is every one of those silver setups neat and straight? Those tables better be perfect, mister!” Jason, his expression blank, merely nodded and went back to his work.
“Go easy on him, Flo,” I said. “I know he’s not the most personable of kids, but he does his best.”
“Yeah, well, his best isn’t good enough,” she muttered.
“So, what do we think, chickadees?” Lori asked, gesturing to the gray sky. “We gonna stay ahead of this storm?”
But before we could answer, the first guests appeared around the corner of the building.
“We’ll find out soon enough, girls,” I said. “Ready or not—it’s showtime.”
Chapter Three
Along with the heavy canapé trays, I carried the fervent wish that my feet would hold out in heels. As I circulated a bit unsteadily among the guests, I came face-to-face with our redoubtable mayor, Anne McCrae.
“Why, hello, Victoria,” she said, wearing her best politician’s smile, a Hillary Clinton pantsuit, and a year-round leathery tan from too many hours on the beach, the tennis court, or her garden. (All three were places where she spent more time than town hall, that was for darn sure.) She’d lived in Oceanside Park her whole life; single and in her mid-forties, she was obsessive about bringing more tourism (read “dollars”) to our town. Anne barely tolerated my family, as we always seemed to be on opposite sides of town issues. And not long ago, when the Casa Lido found itself in some trouble, she swiftly lined up a buyer for the restaurant—one who planned to turn the space into a Starbucks.
But I flashed her my brightest smile and held out the tray of canapés. “Would you like a scallop wrapped in pancetta? Perhaps some prosciutto and melon?”
Her pale gray eyes held a hint of slyness. Was she up to something? “Yes, thank you,” she said, putting two of each on her plate. At least the woman knew good food. “How are you, Victoria? Isn’t the new Vick Reed book releasing soon?”
Darn the woman, she had an elephantine memory. Not long ago, I had made a hasty promise to speak to her book club this fall. But I kept smiling. “Yes, it is, Anne. Murder Della Casa comes out the first week in September.”
“Cute title,” she said through a mouthful of melon. “And very appropriate. It means ‘murder in the house,’ right?” She tilted her head in the direction of the blue shed. As if I needed reminding that a corpse had ended up in the Casa Lido garden. “And that timing works nicely with our book club meeting,” she added.
I ignored the jab and went with the lesser of the two evils Anne was setting before me. “I haven’t forgotten,” I said. “I’ll be happy to speak to your club.” It was time to escape, but before I could make a move, Anne put a hand on my arm.
“Before you go, dear—a word to the wise. Would you let your father and grandmother know that I don’t appreciate their rabble-rousing at town meetings?”
“I’m sorry?” I shifted the tray to my other hand, attempting to remain balanced in my heels. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
She gave a short, barking laugh. “Then you’re the only one in town who doesn’t. We’re planning to sell the carousel, and apparently the Rienzi family does not approve.”
“The carousel? But . . . but you can’t be serious,” I sputtered. “It’s a nineteenth-century carousel. It was made in Italy. All those horses are hand-carved. It’s a work of art. And you’re talking about selling it off?”
“Well, we’re hoping of course that we get a buyer who will keep it intact. But it’s too difficult to maintain and doesn’t bring in the revenue it used to.” She ate her last canapé in one bite and swallowed quickly, just the way a snake eats its prey. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Victoria, Richard Barone is over there. And his foundation has very deep pockets. Who knows?” she said with a wink. “He may even be in the market for an antique carousel.”
I steadied the tray, taking a deep breath. The Oceanside Park Carousel was something of a historical landmark in our town. We’d ridden it every summer of our lives from the time we could sit on the horses. I’d loved riding in the beautifully decorated chariots; when I waved to my mom and dad in the crowd, I’d felt like a princess in a magical carriage. Every kid should have that experience, I thought. Who is Anne McCrae to take that away?
But I would have to save my righteous indignation for another time. I had a job to do, so I headed for friendlier territory, the corner of the grape arbor where my brother and sister-in-law stood talking, heads bent close together and blissfully unaware of anyone around them. It was good to see them close again; their marriage had had its ups and downs, partially because of Sofia’s involvement in my sleuthing adventures. But now she was newly pregnant, giving off a glow that rivaled the lights on the boardwalk. And my brother was over the moon at the thought of being a dad.
“Hey, guys. I’d kiss you both, but this tray is cramping my style. Anybody hungry?”
Danny’s answer was to put four canapés on his plate. “I’ll take a piece of melon,” my sister-in-law said, “but no meat.” She carefully unwrapped the ham and placed it lovingly in Danny’s mouth.
“You two are kind of disgusting, you know that?”
“But in a good way, right, sis?” My brother grinned. “We got a good turnout. Ma and Pop must be happy.”
I pointed over at the bar, where our parents were providing the guests with generous pours of house wine. “They’re in their element, that’s for sure.” I glanced at the darkening sky. “I just hope we can move this thing along before that storm comes.”
“By the way, Vic,” Sofia said, “where’s your mysterious date? Looks like Mr. Down on the Bayou is nowhere to be found.”
“He’ll be here, don’t worry.”
“Was he away again last week?” my brother asked. “Where does he go when he’s off on these jaunts of his?”
Good question, big brother. I spread my palms out. “Who knows? He’s a very private guy.”
My brother rubbed his chin, a sure sign that his detective wheels were turning. I held up my hand. “Danny, I hope you’re not thinking of running a check on him.”
He grinned. “Did it already. No priors.”
“That’s comforting. Listen, he and I aren’t serious and I’m not in high school. You don’t have to vet all my boyfriends.”
Sofia unwrapped another piece of melon. “You say that like there are so many.”
“Moving away from my love life,” I said, “do you believe that Anne’s trying to get rid of the carousel?”
“I know,” Danny said. “There’s a big movement to save it. Petitions, even a Facebook page.” He glanced over to where Anne was still deep in conversation with Richard Barone. “I don’t know how much luck they’ll have, though.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t hear about it,” I said.
“You’ve been holed up in your cottage,” Sofia said. “Working on your magnum opus. How’s it going, by the way?”
I sighed. I’d come back to the shore to take a break from my mysteries to write a historical novel based on my family. But so far, I hadn’t produced very much. (Mostly because corpses tend to interrupt one’s work.) “Slow. I told my agent I’d have a draft for him to look at in eight or nine months.”
Sofia patted her barely visible bump. “Let’s hope we both deliver on time.”
“Ha!” I said, but my laughter died on my lips when I realized my grandmother had spotted us. Nonna threw up her a
rms in welcome, kissing my brother on both cheeks. I rarely got even one. “Daniele!” My grandmother always called my brother by the Italian version of his name, yet another sign of her favoritism. “Sofia, how are you feeling, cara? Are you hungry?” She pointed to my tray. “If you don’t like the appetizers, Victoria will be happy to go into the kitchen and get you something else.”
“Of course she will,” I muttered.
“Now, you two have a good time.” Nonna pointed a gnarled finger at me and frowned. “You, miss, start bringing guests to the tables. The boys will be bringing out the bagna cauda and the antipasto platters soon.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said through my teeth. “Later, guys.”
After depositing my tray, I made my next round through the garden, attempting to usher people to tables. I was arrested by the sight of a brunette standing with Richard Barone. Both tall and dark, they made an attractive couple. The woman turned and began waving wildly. I blinked. It can’t be.
“Iris? Iris Harrington?” I moved toward her as fast as my heels allowed and gave her a hug, taking in her familiar patchouli scent. But her perfume was the only thing that hadn’t changed about Iris. I stared at her curly cropped hair and her cocktail dress, patterned with purple irises. “What have you done to yourself, lady? You look amazing. And that’s a statement dress if I’ve ever seen one.”
As the proprietress of the Seaside Apothecary, our natural pharmacy, Iris was a well-known figure in town. But that figure was transformed. Gone was her long graying hair; gone were the hippie clothes and Birkenstock sandals. For years Sofia had threatened to give Iris a makeover, but somebody else had gotten to her first. And he was wearing an expensive designer suit.
“It was time for a change,” she said, her face pink. “Victoria, do you know Richard Barone?”
I reached out a hand. “No, but I know that your foundation does wonderful work in the community.”
“You’re very kind, Victoria,” he said. “It’s so nice to meet you at last.” He clasped my hand. “Iris talks so much about you and about your work as Vick Reed. And I confess I wasn’t a mystery fan until Iris gave me a copy of your latest. Well done.” He smiled, his teeth a flash of white against his dark beard and mustache. My hand was growing warm in his, and I could feel my cheeks follow suit. Barone exhibited a smoothness and charm particular to certain Italian men—Tim had it, and so did my dad. And so, certainly, did Richard Barone. It was easy to see why Iris was smitten and why she’d gotten that dramatic makeover.
