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

by Rosie Genova

  “So it is,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as nervous as I felt. “I have a terrible sense of direction.” As I followed him through the door, I reached into my purse, now gripped to my side, and closed my hand around my car keys. I could always set off my car alarm if I sensed danger. A lame move, but all I had at the moment.

  He motioned for me to sit across from him, laced his hands together, and leaned toward me. Barone had a talent for making a people feel that they had his full attention; it had worked on Iris. And there was no doubt the man was attractive. I sat back in my chair to put a bit of physical distance between us.

  “First,” he began, “thanks for being such a good sport at the carousel the other night. I thought it would be fun to have a local celebrity take the first ride.”

  Oh, it was fun, all right, I thought, remembering my queasy stomach and weak knees. But I only smiled.

  “Now, when you visited me last,” he continued, “you had questions about a man you believed to be a great-uncle of yours—Robert Riese.”

  “Right. But at the time you said you didn’t recognize the name.”

  He smiled, a slash of white against his dark beard, and I found myself smiling back and momentarily pitying Iris. A girl didn’t stand a chance against this guy. “That is so,” he said. “But I’ve done a little detective work since then.”

  I stiffened at the word detective, my smile frozen in place. I felt like a hapless mouse being tossed around by a dark, sleek cat. I had to hope that I could leave without being devoured. “Really?” I managed to squeak out.

  He nodded and handed me an accordion-style folder. “It looks as though your hunch was correct. The Robert Riese who was involved with my great-grandfather’s organization was born Roberto Rienzi. He was convicted of the murder of Nino Mancini in 1949 and died in prison. It’s all there.”

  I fumbled nervously with the closure on the flap; was it possible I was holding the truth about Zio Roberto in my hands? I pulled out dog-eared papers that included Roberto’s prison records, copies of his fingerprints, old pay stubs, and an Italian birth certificate dated 1915 that named my great-grandparents as his mother and father. But the clincher was an Italian passport that carried both names: Roberto Rienzi and Robert Riese. They were one and the same, just as I had guessed. There was also a copy of a death certificate with information that tallied with what Danny had told me. For a moment, I looked at the papers in silence, trying to absorb the information I had in front of me.

  I looked up at Barone’s expectant face. “Where did you get this?”

  “Let’s just say I have built up some connections over the years—legitimate ones, of course. But those papers are valid; I’ve had them verified.”

  Of course you have, Richard. But you haven’t answered my question. “I appreciate this, Richard,” I said. “I really do. But I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.” He sat back easily in his chair with the air of one who has no worries.

  “Well, your great-grandfather prided himself on a bloodless organization, yet you’ve just confirmed that my great-uncle served time in prison for murder. How do you explain that?”

  Barone was still smiling and appeared relaxed, but he shifted in his chair. “From what I’ve been able to piece together, the shooting in the Pine Barrens was not at Leo’s behest. It was a private matter between Riese and Mancini, his victim. Something about a woman. Your great-uncle’s car was at the scene. I think the evidence was pretty compelling.”

  “That doesn’t quite line up with what my brother was able to determine about the case.”

  Barone raised an eyebrow. “Your brother is a police detective on the local force, correct?” The implication was clear: He’s a lowly civil servant. What does he know?

  “Yes, but his law enforcement contacts are widespread. He was able to speak to somebody at the state corrections office. And he has access to criminal databases that the public does not. He learned that the case against Riese—likely our great-uncle—was primarily circumstantial.”

  “You know as well as I do, Victoria, that plenty of people are convicted on circumstantial evidence. Even now, in the age of DNA.”

  “That’s true. And some of them are innocent.” We locked eyes for a moment, but Barone was giving nothing away. I glanced back at the papers in the folder. “According to what you’ve found here, Riese died in jail. I wonder why he never tried to reach his family in all that time.”

  Barone shrugged. “He was probably ashamed. Or he was protecting them. As you have pointed out to me, Victoria, we all have family skeletons, do we not?” He pushed away from his desk and stood up. I got the message and followed suit.

  I held out my hand. “Thanks for this. My family will be very interested to know what’s happened to him after all this time.”

  I hurried out of the building clutching my keys, questions swirling in my head. How long had Barone been privy to this information? Did he think that giving me what I wanted might stop me from pursuing information about Pete’s death? Was that folder merely a bone he was throwing me in the hopes that I would take it and go away? Providing me with the information about my uncle suggested he had nothing to hide, so was that the act of an innocent man—or a guilty one who was taking a big gamble?

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I sped away from Barone’s offices feeling as though I’d had a narrow escape. The accordion folder on the seat next to me and the strongbox thumping around my car trunk were not only evidence, but physical reminders of what I’d gotten myself into. It was like driving around with two live grenades, either of which might go off at any moment. I was due at the restaurant in an hour; it might be just enough time to take the next step in the case of Pete’s death—turn the strongbox over to the right person to be investigating it.

  County Prosecutor Regina Sutton lived only a few miles inland, and with the help of my phone, I was able to find her address and a map to get there. Once I reached her house, I sat nervously in my car. Sutton was scary, but so was this strongbox I was carrying around. Just do it, Vic. I dropped the metal box into a shopping bag and trudged up her front walk, taking a deep breath before I rang the bell. An attractive black man with a close-cropped beard answered the door. Sutton’s husband, perhaps?

  “Excuse, me,” I said. “I’m sorry to disturb you.” I held out my hand. “I’m Victoria Rienzi. I was wondering if Ms. Sutton was available.”

  He shook my hand and smiled in a disarming away. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Den Sutton. C’mon in.”

  “Is Den short for Dennis?” I asked as I followed him inside.

  He turned back to me with a grin. “Not Dennis. Denzel. Mama was a fan.”

  “Oh, me, too. Hard name to live up to, though.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. Could have been worse—I had a buddy named Shakespeare.”

  “You did not!”

  “I certainly did. We called him ‘Shakes’ for short. Tried to fix him up with a chick named Ophelia one time, but it didn’t work out.”

  Friendly, funny, and warm, Den Sutton seemed the opposite of his brisk, all-business, and rather intimidating wife. I was still laughing when Regina Sutton entered the room, resplendent in a jungle-print maxi dress that set off her golden brown skin. She fixed her amber eyes on me, and my smile froze in place. Not for nothing had I nicknamed her the Tiger Lady.

  “Have you brought me a gift, Ms. Rienzi?” she asked, motioning to the department store shopping bag.

  “Not . . . exactly. I think it’s evidence.” I shrank from that cold gold glare. “And I’m so sorry to bother you on a weekend, but I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t important.”

  She crossed her arms, her face unsmiling. “Important to whom? To you? Or to that restaurant you and your family live and die for?”

  Interesting choice of words there. “I think it will be important to you, but
yes, we do have a stake in this. It has to do with Pete Petrocelli’s death.”

  “Lord, preserve us,” she said, rolling her eyes. She looked at her husband, her expression suddenly affectionate. “Baby, would you mind checking on the food?”

  He kissed the back of her hand. “I am at your command, my queen.” He nodded to me. “Nice meeting you, Victoria.”

  “Same here.” I looked back to Sutton’s impassive face. “That’s cute how he called you his queen. Because of your name, I mean. You know, Regina . . .” My voice trailed away, silenced by Her Highness’s imperious presence. She motioned for me to follow and led me to a small, cozy room lined with books.

  “I love your house,” I blurted out. “Was it built in the twenties? They did a lot of neo-Tudor stuff then.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “The late teens, actually. So you have an eye for architecture as well as mysteries. You’re just full of surprises. Now, why don’t you tell me why you have interrupted my peace on a weekend exactly one hour before I am expecting guests?” she asked, tapping the thin gold watch on her arm.

  “Again, I’m sorry. But I have reason to believe that Pete’s death may not have been an accident.”

  “I’m listening. But you have ten minutes, Ms. Rienzi. Use them well.”

  We sat down and I began with Pete’s own words to me, went through my family research, recounted the night of the party, my visit to the high school, my conversations with Florence DeCarlo, Richard Barone, and Gerry Domenica, and ended with the computer problems at my cottage and the restaurant.

  Regina Sutton listened in silence without interrupting, even when I paused for breath. Her face was expressionless, much in the way my brother’s had been when I tried to convince him. When I finally finished, she gestured to the box. “So you think this is evidence, is that it? What you have brought me, Ms. Rienzi, is not evidence, but plot threads. This is a story that your overactive imagination is imposing over a series of unrelated events, some ancient Atlantic City history, an old man’s delusions, and a box of junk.” She leaned across her desk, her expression almost kind. “It’s one big heap of supposition, girl. And because of your family’s experience with another dead man, you’ve convinced yourself there’s something here.” She shook her head. “I just don’t think there is. His death has been ruled an accident. Period.”

  “But don’t you think it’s possible somebody plied him with wine deliberately?” I didn’t want to mention his blood alcohol levels, because she would know immediately that the information came from my brother.

  “It’s possible,” she said, “but the cause of death was drowning, Ms. Rienzi, not alcohol poisoning.”

  “Couldn’t somebody have helped that along, though?” I shuddered at the thought of someone holding the old man’s head down on the flooded floor.

  “We found no evidence of another person in that carousel house.” She was clearly losing patience with me.

  “Look,” I said, the desperation sounding in my voice, “I understand everything you’re saying, but any number of people might have wanted Pete dead. And my gut is telling me there’s something wrong here.” I pointed to the box on her desk. “I brought that here because I don’t want it in my house. I’m actually . . . afraid.” I smiled weakly. “Hard as that is to admit to you.”

  Her eyes searched my face. “I can see that.” She sighed. “All right, then. Leave it with me.” She stood up from her chair. “I’ll be back in my office on Tuesday. In the meantime, I will give this some thought, but that is all I will do. Now if you don’t mind, I need to get ready for my company.”

  I scrambled to my feet. “Of course. I appreciate your seeing me, Ms. Sutton, I really do.”

  I followed her down the hallway to the front door she was holding open, clearly in a hurry to get rid of me. “This is such a relief,” I said. “Thanks again.”

  “You may not thank me when this is all over. Richard Barone is a very powerful man. You’ve thought of that, I suppose.”

  I nodded. “Believe me, I have. You have a very nice husband, by the way,” I called as I hurried to my car.

  She raised both eyebrows this time, still shaking her head as she watched me drive away.

  * * *

  Tonight would be our last big push before the Labor Day crowds started lining up outside our doors. According to my mom, our computer system was back up and running as efficiently as ever; apparently, Jason worked in mysterious ways. There was no way to prove what he’d been up to here and at my cottage, but that would be Sutton’s problem now, not mine. Weekend traffic held me up, so I got to the restaurant a little after four. I parked quickly and hurried through the back door into the kitchen.

  “You’re late,” Tim growled. “And I could use some help. Nando doesn’t come in for an hour. I had to wash all this basil myself.” He hit the button on the food processor, its loud snarl a fitting background for his mood.

  Welcome to my world, dude. “Keep your shirt on there, Chef. I have to wash up.” I stood at the sink scrubbing my hands for the requisite two minutes. If Tim was already cranky, I would be sure to get a lecture on cleanliness if I cut corners. I glanced at the menu notes posted on the wall. Tonight’s dinner specials included fresh-caught tuna. Ugh. “Please tell me I don’t have to clean fish!” I yelled over the sound of the machine.

  “Please,” Tim called over his shoulder. “Do you think I’d trust you to fillet the tuna?” He stopped the processor and turned to me with a scowl.

  “Thanks for your vote of confidence. I’ll finish the pesto if you want. Is the cheese all grated?”

  He slammed his palm on the counter. “No, the cheese is not grated. So you’ll have to handle that job yourself, I guess.”

  “Geez, Tim, would you lose the attitude? What the heck is wrong with you, anyway?” But before he could answer, I had a sudden realization: Lacey Harrison must have made her decision.

  He let out a loud sigh and turned to face me. “I’m sorry, Vic. I really am. I didn’t mean to be such a jerk. Especially to you. Lacey and I broke up.”

  “Ah.”

  He frowned at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  What it meant was so my guess was right, but I didn’t want to reveal Lacey’s visit to me. His male pride was already battered enough. “Nothing. It’s just a sympathetic sound, that’s all.”

  One side of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t quite smile. “So now you’re feeling sorry for me.”

  I held up my thumb and forefinger in a this much gesture. “To tell you the truth, Tim, you seem more pissed off than heartbroken.”

  He shook his head. “You know me too well, lass.”

  You can say that again. “Look, I’m sorry. I really liked Lacey.”

  “I did, too.” He rested his eyes on mine. “But I didn’t love her.”

  I looked into those gray eyes I knew so well, studied his familiar lean form. I knew what he was trying to say, but I wasn’t ready to go there. “Well, then,” I said, trying to keep it light, “that must mean your heart’s in one piece.”

  “It’s not and you know it isn’t.” He reached out his hand, palm open.

  I stared at that outstretched hand, knowing how easy it would be for me to take it. To move into his arms swiftly and easily, as though that would fix what he had broken eight years before. I shook my head in the slightest of movements.

  “I don’t know what’s in your heart, Tim. But I do know this: Your girlfriend breaks up with you, and you expect me to fall into your arms a second later. And why? Because I’m here and we’ve got a history. It’s convenient.”

  His eyes widened and his hand dropped in slow motion. “That’s what you think of me?” he asked in a harsh whisper. “You think I would use you like that?”

  “I . . . I don’t know what to think, I guess.” I felt my face redden and the tears start behind my eyes.
I stared down at the checkered pattern on the floor.

  “I guess you don’t. Listen, I need to get down to the big walk-in for the fish, so if you wouldn’t mind finishing the pesto,” he said as he strode past me.

  I watched him go, blinking furiously to keep the tears from spilling over. You will not make me cry, Tim Trouvare. Not anymore.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I woke up on Labor Day with the same sense of relief and sadness I’d felt every year I lived at the shore. By tomorrow, the summer season would be over, and soon the town would retreat into its quiet winter cocoon. While I hated to see summer end, I yearned for the peace that came with September. And now that Sutton had that strongbox, maybe I could find some of that peace myself. I scrambled out of bed and pulled an old bathing suit out from my dresser. Before facing a grueling day at the restaurant, I needed to clear my head.

  The beach was still quiet, but within an hour it would be full of vacationers getting those last few hours in before work and school tomorrow. Without letting myself think about it, I ran into the surf and dove under the waves. The water was colder than I expected, and I jumped up shivering and gasping, salt water in my eyes and up my nose. This is how Pete must have felt, I thought, and shivered again, but not from the cold. I ran from the water, the waves crashing behind me. Grabbing my towel, I trudged up the beach toward home, where a hot shower and hot coffee would be waiting. I finally felt free of Pete and the obsession with his death; it was someone else’s problem now. I would get back to my writing and finish Isabella’s story. One more crazy shift at the restaurant to get through tonight, and I’d have all the peace and quiet I needed. When I got to my cottage, I let myself in through the deck—just in time to see a red Dodge Charger cruise past my front door.

  * * *

  That evening at the restaurant, I went through the motions mechanically, barely talking to Lori or the staff. My parents were preoccupied, and my interactions with Tim and my grandmother were limited to them shouting orders and me scurrying to fill them. Just get through the night, I told myself, trying to dismiss the image of the red car. I called Sofia on my one five-minute break to fill her in on my visit to Sutton and the appearance of the red Charger near my cottage.