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

by Rosie Genova

  “Hello, miss,” she said. “Do you remember me?”

  “Of course. But we’re not open for dinner yet, and—”

  “I’m not here for dinner.” She held out the box as though it contained a dangerous animal. “I came to bring you this.”

  “Uh, okay. What is it?”

  She looked around nervously. There were beads of perspiration on her forehead and along her upper lip. “It was his,” she whispered. “I found it in an old dresser I had downstairs. It’s locked, so I don’t know what’s in it. I only know I don’t want it in my house.” She held it out to me, her arms trembling from its weight.

  My pulse racing, I took it from her and immediately looked around for somewhere to duck it. “I’m not sure why you brought this to me.”

  “Well, you wanted to know about him. So I thought maybe you know somebody you can give it to. Somebody who might want his things. I thought about bringing it to Father Tom—”

  “Oh no,” I said hastily. “I’ll take care of it; don’t worry. I’ll make sure the right person gets this.”

  “Thank you.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s a relief to me to get that off my hands.” She left the restaurant, her shoulders sagging.

  She looks worried, I thought as I watched her go. But about what? Did she have her own suspicions about Pete? Still alone in the dining room, I set the box on a nearby table. Its hinges were rusted, as was the small lock holding the clasp shut. I lifted it, testing its heft, then shook it. Something metal was in there; I could hear the soft clack as the object hit the sides of the box. I shook it again and heard the rustle of papers. I had to find out what was in there. Yeah, and so did Pandora, said a voice in my head, one that sounded a lot like my sister-in-law’s.

  I grabbed my purse, slipped the box under my apron and crossed my arms over it, and hurried down the hallway toward the kitchen. Tim and Nando were deep in preparations and barely noticed me. I grabbed a pair of vinyl kitchen gloves and slipped them into my apron, then pushed through the back door to the parking lot, where I locked the box in the trunk of my car. With shaking hands, I shot off a text to Cal:

  I know it’s your day off, but I could use your help with something. Can you meet me at the restaurant? And bring your tools, okay?

  A half hour later Cal came into the dining room bearing his toolbox and a puzzled look on his face. “You got somethin’ that needs fixin’?”

  “Not exactly.” I kissed his cheek. “Thanks for getting here so fast.” I guess the kiss must have encouraged him, because he pulled me close.

  “I am at your disposal, Victoria.” His grin was on the wicked side, as was the look in his eyes. I disentangled myself as gently as possible.

  “Glad to hear it, but could you scoot out to the parking lot with me for a minute? Let’s go out the dining room door; I don’t want to risk Tim seeing us.”

  “What the heck is this about, cher?” Cal asked as he hurried behind me.

  “You’ll see. It’s in my car.” We managed to get to the car without anyone seeing us, and I motioned him to come around to the back of it. I opened the trunk and handed him the box. “Can you knock that lock off for me?”

  “I can, for sure, but you mind telling me why?”

  I looked into his questioning face, tempted to remind him that he had secrets of his own. But he was also concerned, and probably suspicious. I looked around the empty parking lot—no customers yet, so I probably had a little time. “Listen, please don’t lecture me, but it belonged to Pete. His landlady left it with me because she didn’t know who to give it to.”

  He cocked his head. “That so? And how’d she know to bring it to you?”

  “I, um, paid her a visit. I wanted to see where Pete lived, okay?”

  He let out a small breath and looked heavenward, as though to ask for guidance. Or maybe just a little patience. “Why do you feel the need to mess around with this?” He spoke quietly, enunciating every word.

  “I’m not exactly sure, Cal, to tell you the truth. But I can’t leave it alone, even though I know I should.” I looked over at the garden and the statue of Mary in its corner. “I feel like he died on our watch. Do you know what I mean? I feel . . . responsible in some way.”

  He took my shoulders and shook me gently. “You’re not responsible, and neither is your family. And if your suspicions are right—and, girl, I know you think that old man was murdered—there might be somebody out there who’ll cover his tracks any way he has to.” His face was level with my own and I could see the concern in his eyes. “And I don’t want you to get hurt, damn it.”

  “I won’t. I’ve already decided to go to Prosecutor Sutton with all the information I find. Hand to heart.” I slapped my hand over my chest, just to make sure he believed me.

  He let me go with a sigh and opened the toolbox. “Give ’er here,” he said, holding out his hand. He set the box down on top of the restaurant Dumpster, and with one sharp whack of his hammer, broke the lock. He handed me the box and the lock. “I’m gonna let you open it on your own. Not sure I wanna know what’s in it, anyways.”

  I hugged the box to me, impatient for him to go. “Listen, thanks a lot. And I promise I’ll be careful.”

  “Heard that before,” he said as he turned to go.

  The minute he was in his truck, I slid into the backseat of my car and opened the box with two very sweaty hands. I wiped them on my jeans, slipped on the gloves, and lifted out a shabby piece of cloth that looked like an old dish towel; I stared at the evidence in front of me. On top was a torn page from the Cormorant. The lead article bore the headline “Anonymous Hackers Breach Grading Program,” and the story read just as Kelly and Mr. Ainsley had described. So you knew about Jason. I shifted the newspaper and pulled out a pamphlet from Richard Barone’s foundation. Another connection to another suspect. Under that was a scorecard from the Atlantic City Country Club. Gerry Domenica, fancy meeting you here. In one corner was a signet ring with the initials AP—for Alphonse Petrocelli? There was also a St. Christopher medal and a church bulletin from St. Rose’s, where Father Tom was pastor. Father Tom? Tucked into the bulletin was a manila envelope; I opened it with shaking fingers. Inside was a single sheet of paper, signed and notarized: Pietro Petrocelli’s last will and testament, leaving his entire bank balance to St. Rose’s. Balled up in the corner of the box was another rag. When I picked it up, a purple silk scarf slipped out—one that smelled faintly of patchouli. And Iris makes five.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Tim and Nando had helped me close, so I managed to get back to my cottage before eleven. I took the box from my trunk, anxious to get it inside until I could deliver it to Regina Sutton, the county prosecutor. I locked the door behind me and switched on the basement light. Putting it on a high shelf where it would be sure to stay dry, I covered it with an old T-shirt. I trudged back up the basement stairs, every muscle aching. Relieved to be in my own cozy nook after the last couple of days I’d had, I headed to the refrigerator to pour myself a nightcap. I emptied what was left of my chardonnay into a water tumbler and trudged up the stairs with a groan. After driving all day, dealing with the strongbox, and running my tail off tonight, I couldn’t wait to dive into my bed.

  I saw the light from my computer screen out in the hallway. Had I left it on? I stepped into my darkened room and switched on the light, sending up another small prayer of thanks to the power company. When I looked at my screen, I let out a relieved breath. It was only updating in that mysterious process that allowed computers to turn themselves on and off at will. Setting down my wine, I sat at my desk, and a window opened up with two choices:

  Continue updating or postpone?

  I clicked CONTINUE, only to see the window close and the screen turn black. Bright gold letters appeared on the screen, scrolling across the page like a news crawl:

  This is your last warni
ng this is your last warning this is your last warning this is your last . . .

  “Jason strikes again,” I said, slamming my palm down on my desk. And tired or no, I was going to get some answers. Clutching my keys, I ran down my stairway on rubbery legs, wishing I’d had water instead of wine. In less than a half hour, I pulled into the entrance of Florence’s apartment building, parked hastily, and scrambled out of my car. I strode toward her building, and as luck would have it, there was one light on in her apartment. I had to hope she was in there alone.

  She came to the door in her bathrobe, her face tired and devoid of makeup. She opened the door a crack.

  “What do you want, Victoria?” she said wearily. “Is this still about that old drunk? Don’t you have anything better to do at this hour of the night than drag people out of their beds?”

  I held up my phone so she could see the photo on my screen. “Do you know anything about this?”

  She leaned forward, squinting at the screen. “I can barely see it—what is it?”

  “It’s my computer. It has some kind of virus and now it’s scrolling a warning along the bottom of the screen. And the whole computer system at the restaurant is down. I don’t suppose your darling son would know anything about that? Is he here, by the way?”

  Her eyes shifted away from me. “Jason’s at school. He left this morning.”

  “Is that so? I wonder if he stopped for a spot of breaking and entering at my cottage.”

  “Please. You have a goddamn computer virus so you come here accusing my son? I should call the police right now.”

  Not a good idea. I didn’t want to have to explain to my brother why I was badgering this woman at eleven thirty at night. I crossed my fingers and went for the bluff. “Yeah, you do that, Florence. And when they get here, we can talk about that empty wine bottle I found in the alley. By the way, did you know that the police can lift prints from that bottle, even though it’s been rained on?”

  “They won’t find any prints on that bottle,” she said through her teeth.

  “Oh, that’s right,” I said. “Because one of you wiped it clean.”

  She dropped her head and to my horror, started to cry. “Why can’t you just leave us alone?” She sniffled and swiped the back of her hand across her nose. “And if you’re gonna harass somebody, why don’t you go find that ex-con that showed up with Alyssa?”

  “Are you talking about the guy with the tattoos?”

  She sniffed again and nodded. “Who else? I caught him snooping around your father’s wine cellar.”

  If she was telling the truth, this was a valuable piece of information. “How would you know that, Florence?” I asked. “Unless you were down there yourself? Or was it Jason who was down there?”

  Florence’s tears dried immediately as her mother instincts took over. She stepped out onto the tiny porch and jabbed a finger at my face. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she said in a low voice. “Or what you think you know, but if you don’t leave me alone, I will call the police. I told you, damn it—I was the one who gave the old man wine that night.”

  “Maybe so, Florence, but you weren’t the one who hacked into the high school’s computer system, were you?”

  She lifted her head, her eyes wide, her body tensed and alert. “What are you talking about?” she said in a whisper.

  “I think you know. And I’m pretty sure Pete knew, too. Was he blackmailing you? And did you and your son find an easy way to get rid of him the night of the party?”

  At those words, Florence thrust her face into my own, baring her teeth like a feral dog. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. But if you think I’m gonna let you—or anybody—stand in the way of my son’s success, you’re wrong, bitch!” On the last word, her arm shot out, knocking me sideways off the porch and into some dead-looking azalea bushes. I sat up in a daze; there were scratches on my arm and I had a sore bottom, but the bushes had broken the worst of the fall. Any pity I’d felt for Florence evaporated in that moment.

  “Hey, you just assaulted me!” I shouted as I got to my feet.

  She turned back to me, her eyes glittering darkly. “Yeah, and next time I’ll do worse. You come back here again, or you go anywhere near my son, and it will be the last thing you do.” And then she went back inside, slamming the door behind her.

  * * *

  The next morning, I woke up feeling muddled and uncertain about my own perceptions. Had I dreamed Miss Ferraro’s visit, the computer virus, the trip to see Florence, the malicious shove off her front porch? Well, my butt hurt when I shifted in bed and there were still scratches on my arm. And that strongbox full of evidence was sitting downstairs in my basement. Nothing in it had been a complete surprise, except of course for that will. I couldn’t help remembering Sofia’s words about Father Tom as a suspect. Stop it, Vic, I told myself. That will was only in there because Pete needed a safe place for it. But I couldn’t shake my sense of unease.

  I got out of bed with reluctance and walked stiffly over to my desk. Last night, my computer had shut itself down, and I started it with trepidation, half expecting to see a scary clown face pop up on the screen. But once I started it, the log-in appeared and all was well. No evidence of a computer virus here, which also meant that except for a fuzzy cell phone picture, there was no evidence period of anyone tampering with my computer. You’re a shrewd one, Jason Connors. Luckily, I was able to access my e-mail, because there was a new one from my brother:

  Hey Vic,

  I talked to somebody in the corrections department on Friday and did some digging around the SCIS database.

  As my brother was Mr. Acronym, I had to look that one up. SCIS stood for the state criminal information system. He continued:

  I found out that Robert Riese, aka Robert Reese, served time in Trenton State Prison from 1949 until his death in 1978. From what I could put together from my contacts and some old records, the evidence against him for the murder of Mancini was mostly circumstantial. Prosecution couldn’t even come up with a clear motive. The whole case hinged on the fact that his car was ID’d fleeing the scene, but there was no weapon ever found.

  No motive and no weapon? Yet this guy spent thirty years in jail.

  He died in jail from complications of pneumonia. He was only in his early sixties—I guess the drugs took their toll. But apparently he had got clean there and was a model prisoner. He worked in the prison laundry and in the cafeteria.

  I had a moment of sadness, thinking about a Rienzi serving food behind bars; it was both fitting and ironic. There wasn’t much more to my brother’s message:

  Records indicate he had no visitors. He came up for parole twice and was denied both times. He’s buried in some potter’s field in Trenton. And that’s all she wrote.

  If this guy’s our uncle, nobody ever knew it. Sad story, huh?

  Danny

  Sad story indeed, brother. I opened the library book to the old photo and studied Riese’s pleasant, open face. I reread the e-mail, my mind roiling with possibilities. Was Riese framed for the Mancini murder? Or did he take a deliberate fall for someone else, most likely Leo Barone? And as far as the records showed, he’d never had visitors, which made sense if his family knew nothing about his existence, but what about his friends? Wasn’t it strange that a party-animal type like Riese would be completely forgotten once he was in jail? Unless . . .

  “Someone wanted it that way,” I said aloud. Somebody locked up Robert Riese and threw away the key. He was dangerous to somebody, just as Stinky Pete had been. Was it Gerry Domenica? That scorecard from the golf club seemed to suggest that Pete had connected with Domenica at some point. More than ever I was convinced that the secret to Pete’s death led back to Atlantic City and Leo Barone.

  I was about to go downstairs to make some coffee (as caffeine helps me think) when I noticed a missed call from an
unfamiliar number on my phone. When I called it back, a rich baritone voice sounded in my ear. Why is Richard Barone calling me?

  I listened to the voice mail message, hesitated, and ended the call. I needed time to think. Was Barone calling to give me information or to warn me off? Before I could even theorize about an answer, my phone rang again.

  “Victoria,” he said. “I noticed you called back, and I’m so glad you did. Do you have some time this afternoon?”

  “Well . . .”

  “I ask because I was hoping you might meet me at my office for a quick chat.”

  “It’s Sunday,” I said, frowning.

  He laughed. “I know what day it is. We keep rather irregular hours here at the foundation.”

  “I see,” I said. “I could probably make some time, but could you tell me what this is about?”

  “Of course. You had asked me about our shared family history, and I have some information for you if you’re still interested.”

  So Barone had picked Option 1: information. He knew full well I was interested, and he’d just thrown me a pretty tasty piece of bait. But why did he want me to bite?

  * * *

  That afternoon, the strongbox safely locked in my car trunk, I was once again on my way to Richard Barone’s plush offices. But this time the corridors were empty and the office doors closed. And there was no sign of his secretary. I hadn’t forgotten the Barone Foundation pamphlet among Pete’s things, and I was likely alone in a building with a man he might well have been blackmailing. A man who might be a murderer. No, thank you. I would find another, safer way to get what I needed. I was halfway back down the hall when I heard his voice.

  “Hello, Victoria.”

  I turned and saw him in the open doorway, wearing jeans and a blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled, revealing forearms bare of ink. So no lion tattoo—at least on his arms. There was an amused expression on his handsome face. “My office is this way.”