A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An)

by Rosie Genova

  “You got it, sweetheart.”

  I was halfway up the stairs when I heard him call out to me, “Hang on a minute, Vic. There is one more thing. ’Member I said that they never talked about my uncle? Well, that’s not completely true. My nonna once told me I looked just like Roberto.” He turned to me with a wink. “Musta been a handsome guy, right?”

  “I’m sure he was, Dad,” I said, suppressing a shiver as I remembered the bold grin so like my father’s. “I’m sure he was.”

  Chapter Ten

  Isabella set the grocery sack down on the small table in the kitchen that was shared by three other women—her zia Concetta and her two cousins, Theresa and Lucia. As she was the first one home, it was up to her to begin la cena, or evening meal. As she carefully sliced the fresh bread, she . . .

  She . . . thought about her day? Wondered if she’d ever get out of the garment factory? Cut her finger? I let out a loud sigh.

  “What am I going to do with you, Isabella?” I said to the computer screen. “I’ve got to get you out of the city, out of the garment factory, and away from those awful cousins of yours so you can meet Tomasso and start your produce business. And I’ve got about forty minutes left on this battery.”

  I sat back against my plush desk chair, a small luxury I’d allowed myself since moving back to Oceanside. In the three months I’d been here, I hadn’t completed nearly enough of the new book. Not to mention that my latest Bernardo Vitali mystery was releasing in little more than a week, and I had a ton of promotion to do. And all the while I had to stop my ears from the siren song of those three library books. I pushed them to the corner of my desk, willing myself not to look at that picture again, at the man I was certain was Zio Roberto.

  I’d sat up last night with a flashlight, going back through the books for other mentions of the Barones or Petrocellis, to no avail. Now I only had a few precious minutes left on my computer battery, and I couldn’t waste them on ancestry Web sites or Google searches of Leo Barone. In fact, I had a much better idea.

  “Sofe,” I whispered into the phone, “are you alone?”

  “Yes, and why are you whispering?”

  “Oh, sorry. I was worried Danny might be there.”

  “He’s on duty till six.”

  “Great. That gives me plenty of time before I have to go to the restaurant at four. I have some stuff to fill you in on, and I’m heading over right after I take a shower. Oh, can I blow-dry my hair there?”

  “Only if you let me do it. I’ve seen your version of style.”

  “Deal. See you in a few.”

  In less than a half hour I was at Sofia’s door, hair dripping wet and a large messenger bag over my shoulder.

  “What the heck have you got in here?” Sofia took the bag from me and set it down on her kitchen counter.

  “Just a few things. Some books. A notebook. My computer and cord. My phone charger. My hair dryer. My shaver.”

  “Your shaver?”

  “It’s out of power. I was hoping I could charge it while we talk; you should see my legs. I look like Sasquatch Italian-style.”

  She held up her hand. “No, thanks. And I don’t know why you don’t get them waxed like normal people.”

  I grinned. “You mean like pretty Italian princesses. Hey, wanna hear another shocker?” I dropped my voice. “I polish my own nails, too.”

  “Okay, stop giving me crap and tell me what you came over here for. But get in this chair first so I can fix that mess on your head.”

  Over the sound of the blow dryer, I told her about my Internet research and my trip to the library.

  “So, do you think you can pick up with the family tree stuff?” I shouted. “I’ll send you a link to the site and we can change the account over.”

  Sofia nodded and patted her slightly swelled belly. “I’ve got the perfect excuse.” She widened her eyes in a semblance of innocence. “After all, my baby should know all about his heritage, right?”

  “Or her heritage,” I said, crossing my fingers in the air. “I’m still holding out for baby Isabella.”

  “And I’m still not naming this baby after one of your characters, so don’t hold your breath. And sit still so I can finish this, please.”

  After I was smoothly styled, we sat at her table talking while we sipped decaf espressos.

  “Vic,” Sofia asked, “are you really convinced that this Riese guy is your great-uncle?”

  Instead of answering, I opened the book about Atlantic City, found the photo section, and pointed. Sofia frowned and read the caption aloud, her eyes flicking back to the picture. Her mouth dropped open and she gave a little gasp. “Oh my God,” she said. “It’s your father. Right down to the hat.”

  I nodded. “It’s eerie, isn’t it? And when I asked him about his uncle, he said that his grandmother once told him he looked like Roberto.”

  She closed the book. “Well, you sold me. But if Roberto was in Atlantic City, he would have been within miles of his parents and younger brother.” Sofia shook her head. “To think they believed he was dead and here he was, right in the same state.”

  “Maybe even the same city. My dad said my grandfather and his parents came here near the end of World War Two, so let’s say 1944 or 1945. We know Roberto is already here from the ship’s manifest and the 1940 census. The photo is dated 1948, so they definitely overlapped. But even if Roberto somehow knew his family was nearby, my gut’s telling me he wanted to stay hidden.”

  “The name change,” Sofia said. “He and Alfonso came over together, but Alfonso kept his Italian name, so why would Roberto have changed his? Unless he pissed off some seriously scary people back in Naples.”

  I nodded. “It makes sense. He gets in trouble there, so he changes his name and takes off for America, letting his whole family think he’s dead.”

  “To protect them, I bet!” Sofia’s voice rose in excitement. “The Italian Mafia—they were called the Black Hand, right? They didn’t fool around; they’d go after people’s families for revenge.”

  “Absolutely. That has to be why he took off. And don’t forget, it was probably a lot easier to stay hidden in the 1940s, before computers and cell phones. He could blend right in with all the other Italian immigrants in Atlantic City.”

  “True. But he was still taking a chance.”

  “Look, the guy was reckless,” I said. “He gets here and instead of looking for a legit job, he picks up right where he left off. As Nonna put it, he got in with criminals.”

  “The Barones,” Sofia said, tapping the cover of the book. “We need to find out more about Leo Barone.”

  “It’s Richard Barone I’m more interested in.”

  A wicked grin spread across my sister-in-law’s face. “Watch it, or your friend Iris will scratch your eyes out.”

  “I didn’t mean interested that way. Though he is a good-looking guy, and you’re right: Iris is besotted with him.”

  Sofia’s face was blank. “Besotted? Is that good?”

  “Actually, no. It means you’re so infatuated that your judgment’s impaired.”

  “You mean like how Cher is over Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck?”

  I laughed. “Something like that.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Or how you were about Tim back in the day?”

  This one wasn’t so funny. “Okay, yes, I was besotted with Tim. But it’s Iris I’m worried about.”

  “But what does it matter if she’s crazy about Barone?”

  “It matters if he’s a bad guy.”

  Sofia pointed with her coffee cup. “All I’ve ever heard about him is that he’s a good guy. If I’m following your logic, you think that Pete knew something about Leo Barone—through his brother, Alfonso—that threatened Richard in some way. Am I right?”

  “Well, it’s possible, isn’t it? Barone was at the party.
And he could be hiding something about his family’s involvement with the mob.”

  “But what, Vic? He’s made no bones about his relative’s criminal activities; I read an interview with him once and he was honest about it. Talked about his family’s ‘unfortunate past’ and how it inspired him to do charitable work.”

  “Even so, what if there was something he didn’t want coming out? Something that would be too serious and too big to overcome by throwing his money around?”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? I can’t help wondering if Pete had incriminating information about the Barones. You saw that census record. Pete lived with his brother and Robert Riese in Atlantic City; he must have been privy to a lot of stuff.”

  “Maybe,” Sofia said. “But without more to go on, it’s a big leap to Richard Barone as a murderer. I just wish we knew more about Robert, Alfonso, and Leo Barone.”

  “Me, too, Sofe. But I suspect the one person who had that information is dead.”

  * * *

  When I got to the Casa Lido later that afternoon, both the restaurant and my father’s generator were up and running. Out in the dining room, Lori and Florence were putting clean linens on the tables.

  “Hey, girls,” I called. “Want me to make setups?”

  “Please, hon,” Florence said. “Everything’s out and ready on the family table.”

  “So they’ve got all three of us on tonight,” I said as I carefully folded our red-and-white-checked napkins into pockets for the forks and knives. I’d learned to do this as a little girl, and it was my only claim to fame at the Casa Lido.

  “Yup,” Lori said. “I think everyone in town with an electric stove is coming in for dinner.”

  “Ya’d think they’d never heard of a grill,” Florence mumbled. “My feet can’t take this.”

  “You can go early if it quiets down, Flo,” I said. “I’ll stay.” I looked around the empty dining room. “Do we have any busboys coming in tonight?”

  “Just Jason,” Florence said. “For all the good he is.”

  “You really don’t like him, do you?” Lori said, snapping a fresh cloth onto the last table.

  She shrugged a skinny shoulder. “What’s to like? He’s just another rude teenager. Like that Alyssa—how come she gets the whole weekend off?”

  From the corner of my eye I could see that Flo was still frowning at the thought of our sullen busboy and sorority girl waitress. But it struck me that what came across as Jason’s rudeness might have been shyness or insecurity. Whatever it was, he’d better get here soon, or we’d be clearing our own tables tonight.

  “Well, girls, these are all done,” I said, getting up from the table. “But those veggies ain’t gonna prep themselves. See you out here for service in an hour.”

  In the kitchen, Nando, our line cook, had gotten a start on the vegetables. I watched in wonder as he furiously chopped carrots, turning out perfectly even discs that were all the same size.

  “You have mad knife skills, Nando.”

  He dipped his head and grinned, his knife still moving at double speed. “Thank you, Miss Victor.”

  “Nando, I’ve known you fifteen years—don’t you think it’s time you called me Victoria? Or Vic? I answer to both.”

  He shook his head, his long black braid moving from side to side. “I don’t think so. It would be too . . . extraño.”

  “Too strange? Like calling my grandmother by her first name instead of senora?”

  “Sì,” he said, a wide grin on his round face. “Eh-zackly. Oh, she leave you her notes there.”

  “I’ll bet she did.” I tied my apron around my waist and pulled the yellow pad closer. Then I groaned. “I have to seed tomatoes? Is she kidding?”

  “No, she’s not,” Tim said as he came in the back door. “It’s for my tomato coulis.”

  “But it all goes in the blender, Tim.”

  “That doesn’t mean I want seeds in it.” He went over to the sink to begin the long process of washing up to his elbows. I’d say this for the guy—he ran a clean kitchen.

  “Okay,” I muttered. “Seeding tomatoes is the first order of the day.”

  “Nope,” Tim said. He dried his hands and pointed to a basket of garden tomatoes. “Blanching and peeling them is.”

  “It’s gonna take me forever,” I said, filling a stock pot with water. The tomatoes had to be gently dropped into boiling water, and then shocked in ice water before they could be peeled. And I couldn’t do too many at once, so I’d be stuck back here for at least an hour. But maybe it wouldn’t be such a waste of time after all. I set the heat on under the pot and covered it, thinking about how to broach the subject that was uppermost in my mind. I filled a bowl with water and ice, trying to keep my tone casual.

  “So, that was quite the party on Friday night, huh, guys?”

  The only responses were a Spanish-inflected uh-huh followed by a grunt I recognized as Tim’s. I tried again. “It’s great that Frankie’s generator is working. It sure kept us going the other night.”

  “Still is,” Tim said. “That water boiling yet, Vic?”

  Of course it wasn’t, and if Tim thought he was going to distract me, he was dead wrong. “Uh, not yet. So, what did you guys think of Stinky Pete showing up like that? Crazy, huh?”

  “God rest his soul,” Nando said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah, the poor guy,” I said. “Hey, did either of you talk to him that night?”

  “I jus’ tell him he has to go,” Nando said with a shrug.

  “When was that, Nando?” I asked.

  “After your grandmother give him the food. He was still hanging around.”

  For how long? But before I could ask, Tim was at my shoulder. “Cut it out, Vic,” he said in a low voice. “I know what you’re doing.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “Please,” he said, shaking his head. “Listen, I need some sun-dried tomatoes.”

  “In the pantry,” I said, knowing he expected me to happily fetch them for him. But I merely pointed the way.

  Tim was barely out of the kitchen before I pounced. “So, Nando, did you actually see Pete leave?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I see him pass me with the two bags and then he walk toward the boards.”

  “The boardwalk, you mean? Hang on—did you say two bags?”

  “Sì, two bags. A white plastic one that has the food in it, and another brown one that has the, you know—” He curled his hand into a fist, lifting it as though holding something.

  “You mean handles? Like a shopping bag?”

  He nodded, grinning. “Yes, handles.”

  “Did it look like it was heavy?” I asked.

  He tilted his head, as though remembering. “I think so. He was walking like this,” he said, listing to one side.

  “Thanks, Nando,” I said, and put a finger to my lips as Tim pushed through the doors. I turned my attention back to the tomatoes, as the water was now boiling. My mind spun as I watched the tomatoes simmer in their hot bath. When I’d seen Pete round the corner of the restaurant, he was only holding the food container—at least that was how it appeared from a distance. When—and where—had he gotten the other bag? More to the point, who gave it to him? There had to have been wine in that bag, probably more than one bottle, if he struggled with it—it was the most logical assumption. And whoever had given him that wine had surely contributed to his death. Please, God, don’t let it have been my dad.

  I ladled the tomatoes out of the boiling water and shifted them into the ice, their skins now a bright orange red. I worked mechanically, my mind scurrying from one point to the next, always returning to the same place: If Pete had two bags, one of them heavy, somebody at the party had given him the means to his death. Was it a careless act of int
ended kindness, or something much more sinister? When Pete said he knew things, were those words the rambling of an incoherent drunk, or did they hold real significance? I shook my head and put the last of the tomatoes into the ice water to cool. And then a thought took hold of me, wrapping itself around me like the tough old grapevines in the garden.

  “I’ll be right back, guys,” I said, and raced out the back door. In the parking lot, I tried to retrace Pete’s steps as I remembered them, rounding the corner to the front of the restaurant. I stood with my hands on my hips, studying our striped awnings and gold-lettered sign.

  Where had Pete gone? Had he doubled back, and had that been when someone supplied him with the wine? My eye strayed to the alley that separated our building from the hair salon next door. Trash and debris from the storm made it hard to navigate the narrow space, and I picked my way through it slowly. On our side was a door that led to our basement, but it was one we rarely used. I jiggled the knob, finding it locked as I expected. Past the door, the alleyway narrowed and darkened, with climbing plants covering the brick exteriors. I stood against the wall of our building and slid down, my legs bent in front of me. Plenty of room for someone to sit. Plenty of room for someone desperate for a drink to stop and have one. And it had the added benefit of keeping him out of the wind. I hugged my knees, my chin resting on my crossed arms, staring at the assortment of trash all around me. Even in the dim light, I noticed a splash of red near the other building. It wasn’t blood, but the sight of it set my heart racing anyway.

  I crossed the alley, dropped to my knees, saw the glint of glass half-hidden by a piece of torn cardboard. I lifted it and stared at the object I’d known was there all along. Resting on a wet and dirty red-and-white-checked napkin was a wine bottle that bore a familiar label: Frank’s Thursday Chianti.

  Chapter Eleven

  I got up stiffly and brushed the dirt and grit from my black pants, surveying the scene. Except for the doorknob, I hadn’t touched or moved a thing. That bottle was evidence, as was the napkin. The bottle alone was damning enough, but if there was any doubt where it came from, that checked napkin dispelled it. I dropped my head in my hands. I knew what I had to do, and it meant involving the restaurant in Pete’s death, and possibly incriminating my father. My doting, charming, life-loving dad, who’d never intentionally hurt a soul. I lifted my face, hoping that by some act of fate the bottle had disappeared. But fate wasn’t on my side today, and that bottle and dirty napkin stared back at me in reproach. I took my phone out of my apron pocket and called my brother, knowing exactly what I was setting in motion.