by Rosie Genova
Praise for the National Bestselling Italian Kitchen Mysteries
Murder and Marinara
A Suspense Magazine Best of 2013 Pick and a Finalist for the 2014 Daphne Award
“The tastiest item on the menu, with colorful characters, a sharp plot, and a fabulous Jersey setting. I enjoyed every bite.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jen McKinlay
“So good I can taste it.”
—New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Evanovich
“A saucy debut. . . . The crime wraps up logically and the characters are likable. . . . I could easily see reading another in the series, preferably in a beach chair, down the shore.”
—The Star-Ledger
“Follow Vic and her cohort through the streets of Jersey . . . and discover that you can smell Italian food through a book.”
—Suspense Magazine
“A charming, action- and humor-filled novel. . . . The cast of characters is sassy, brassy, and memorable, with writer Victoria and her SIL (sister-in-law), Sofia, leading the way.”
—Fresh Fiction
The Wedding Soup Murder
“A tightly plotted whodunit that will have readers guessing right to the end, the book blends mystery with comedy, romance, family drama, a vivid and affectionate portrayal of the Jersey shore, and . . . oh, yes, cooking.”
—New Jersey Monthly
“Love the characters and the atmosphere.”
—Suspense Magazine
“Genova has served up another tasty read. . . . This story is well crafted, and I found myself turning those pages so I could find out whodunit.”
—MyShelf.com
“The characters continue to grow. The friendship between Vic and Sofie is spot-on. Interfering but loving family, again, right on the money . . . a great read.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
A Dish Best Served Cold
“Once again, Rosie Genova’s writing sparkles!”
—Night Owl Reviews, Top Pick 2015
“A perfect storm of great atmosphere, likeable characters, excellent plotting, and nifty transitions between New Jersey’s past and present. Highly recommended!”
—Suspense Magazine
“The Jersey shore setting, lovingly depicted by Jersey girl Rosie Genova, virtually becomes another character in her series . . . If you’re a beach lover, and especially if you’re an aficionado of Italian cuisine, you’ll love this book (and the Italian Kitchen series).”
—Jane Reads
“Genova captures the essence of family, the good and the bad, and combines it with a complex mystery. . . . [She] deftly melds a great ensemble cast of developed characters with humor in a fully realized locale and creates a fun, cozy read.”
—Cozy Up with Kathy
The Seven-Course Christmas Killer
It’s December at the Casa Lido, which means only one thing: the Rienzi family’s traditional Christmas Eve celebration, including wine, song, and seven Italian seafood courses. As Victoria and Tim prep scungilli and calamari, Nonna directs the cooking until all is in readiness for the big night.
But the holiday cheer is interrupted by the attempted murder of Mayor Anne McCrae, who asks Vic to investigate. Trouble is, there are as many suspects as there are fishes on the Christmas Eve menu . . .
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
Copyright © 2016 by Rosemary DiBattista
Excerpt from Murder and Marinara copyright © Rosemary DiBattista, 2013
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
ISBN: 978-1-946069-07-8
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Christmas Day
Author’s Note
Recipes from the Italian Kitchen
Excerpt from Murder and Marinara
About the Author
For Bill and Jane King, with gratitude and friendship
Chapter One
The Seven Fishes
“So tell me again why you and Chef Massimo get to design the Christmas Eve menu while I sit here chasing cranberries across the table?” Just as the words left my mouth, another one skittered away from me, rolling off the table and landing somewhere at my feet. I gave a quick look around, and since Nonna was nowhere in sight, picked up the errant berry and threaded it onto the string. They weren’t for eating, after all.
Tim looked up from his notes. “I don’t know, Vic. Could it be because we’re the culinary experts?”
I shot him my best oh, please look and he grinned. So I grinned back, savoring the little sizzle of electricity that sparked between us.
“Cara,” Chef Massimo said, “you know that your treasured nonna has put you in charge of decorations for this year. You are still learning.”
In the six months that I’d been back at the Casa Lido, my “learning” hadn’t gotten much beyond chopping carrots and seeding tomatoes, and I was getting a little impatient. “But really, guys—stringing cranberries? Couldn’t we just buy some tinsel and be done with it?”
“Tinsel makes a mess.” And there she was, an avenging Neapolitan angel in polyester pants, swooping in out of nowhere to direct my life. “And my mama only allowed fresh greens and fruits into the house in December, and that is a tradition we have carried on here in the restaurant.” She shook her clipboard at me. “So stop complaining and keep stringing.”
“Yes, Nonna,” I said, exchanging another look with Tim, who frowned and shook his head. He wasn’t yet in my grandmother’s graces, and it amused me to see him on his best behavior. Particularly as it doesn’t come naturally to Tim, who’s a bit of a bad boy, Italian-Irish style.
Nonna sat down next to Massimo and looked over at his notes, conferring with him quietly in Italian. Now and then Tim would chime in, and I was gratified to see her nodding at his suggestions. It helped that he spoke her language, literally, if not figuratively.
I sighed and kept working, straining to understand what they were saying. Finally, I could stand it no longer. “Could you at least tell me the menu?” I asked loudly,
and three heads snapped up.
My grandmother glared at me over her bifocals. “It’s the Seven Fishes, as we always do. There’s nothing to tell.”
But Massi smiled and pushed his notes in my direction. I scanned the list:
Calamari Fritti
Scungilli Salad
Scallops a la Casa
Clams Casino
Linguini ai Fruitti de Mare
Shrimp Scampi
Grilled Pulpo
“Ooh, this looks good,” I said. “Nobody makes fried calamari like you do, Massi.”
“And scallops from Barnegat Bay, right?”
“Where else?” Tim answered.
“Who’s going to stand out in the cold and grill the octopus?” I asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
“That will be Timoteo’s job,” Nonna said, smiling tightly.
“And I am happy to do it,” Tim said, and actually bowed at the waist.
“Overkill,” I mouthed, and he shot me another dark look.
“In the meantime, we also have a dinner to prep for this evening,” Nonna said, getting to her feet. “Andiamo!”
“Don’t mind me,” I called as my grandmother and Massi headed to the kitchen. “You all have fun creating delicious holiday food. I’ll just be chasing cranberries around the dining room.”
Tim lingered at the table, waiting until they were safely inside the swinging doors. He pulled me to my feet and kissed my forehead. “Stop being cranky.”
“Only if you make me some of those scallops. Better yet, show me how to make them.”
“I think we need to start with a more cost-effective seafood for you. Like cod.”
“Ugh. At least there’s no baccala on the menu.” I wrinkled my nose. “Or eel.”
Tim ran a finger lightly across my lips. “We really need to do something about that palate of yours.”
“Will you teach me, Chef Tim?” I slid my arms around his neck, gazing into his smoky gray eyes.
He answered me with a warm, lingering kiss, one which I was thoroughly enjoying before I heard a loud cough behind me.
“Excuse me there, kids,” my dad said with a grin. “But maybe the dining room isn’t the best place for all this PDA.”
“How does your dad know about PDA?” Tim whispered.
“What can I say? It’s his curse to be cool.” I regarded my still-handsome father, tanned and hazel-eyed under his trademark fedora. “Got it, Dad. Hey, what’s the notebook for?”
“Our guest list for Christmas Eve. Your mother’s trying to make nice with the mayor.”
“She’s coming? There goes my Christmas cheer.” Her Honor Anne McCrae could best be described as a frenemy of the Rienzi clan. While sweet as ricotta pie to our faces, behind the scenes she was hatching any number of plots against us—her favorite involved turning our historic family restaurant into a Starbucks.
“C’mon, baby,” my dad said. “It’s for charity. The proceeds are going to the food bank, and the gifts are for the women’s shelter. Are you tellin’ me you can’t put up with the mayor for a couple of hours in a good cause?”
“When you put it that way,” I grumbled. “But you’re almost as good as your mother in the Dishing of Guilt Department. Who else, Dad?”
“Let’s see,” my dad said. “There’s Anne’s administrative assistant—the skinny kid with the glasses.”
“I know him,” Tim said. “Brad Schultz. Always wears a bow tie.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “The guy running behind her taking notes.”
“He’s been in here twice already,” my dad said, “insisted on looking over the menu, fussing over the seating. Drivin’ me and your mother nuts. Anyway, we also got Rob Lonegan from the town council. And then there’s my buddy Jeff Kuchinski. He’s a contractor.” He grinned. “I gotta say, neither of ’em is too fond of Anne.”
I peeked over his shoulder at the notebook page. “Oh, Gale’s coming, too. That should be interesting.” Gale was our town librarian, and she’d been locked in battle with Anne over a planned expansion. “Oh, my gosh,” I said, “Jeannette Powers? The school superintendent? They hate each other. Dad, have you and Mom finalized this?”
Just then the kitchen doors flew open, revealing Chef Massi, still in his coat and toque, his Roman nose high in the air. “I will not cook for that woman,” he thundered. “It is useless to ask me again.”
Behind him, my grandmother was speaking Italian in soothing tones, her hands clasped in supplication. Apparently, begging is begging in any language. She glanced at my dad and broke into English. “Tell him, Frank. Tell him how important his work is. That we cannot have Christmas Eve dinner without him. That the food bank is counting on us. What does it matter if the mayor is here or not?”
Instead, I jumped in, as I am wont to do. “Massi, none of us wants her here. But we’re stuck with her. If we don’t invite her, she might turn the town council against us. Think what that will mean if we want to expand and need a permit. Or hold a special event. We don’t have a choice. We have to stay on the good side of Anne McCrae.”
He pressed his hands over his ears. “Do not say that name to me. That . . . that Philistine who calls herself a public servant! She has no grace, no taste, no appreciation for my artistry. She wouldn’t know good food if she fell over it!”
A few weeks later, those words were to haunt us all.
• • •
I had to admit it: The fresh greens and cranberries festooning our windows and draped over our carved walnut bar lent a festive—and fragrant—coziness to the Casa Lido. As I stood there admiring our (my) handiwork on Christmas Eve morning, my mom linked her arm through mine. “Was it fun helping us decorate and prep for tonight?” she asked. “Like when you were young?”
“Yes. And at thirty-three, I’m still young, Mother.”
“Of course you are, honey. But do you and Tim have any plans for . . .” Her voice trailed away as she noted my raised eyebrow.
“You’ll be the first to know,” I said sweetly. “By the way, the tree looks great.” A seven-foot-tall fresh Scotch pine stood in one corner of the Casa Lido, lovingly decorated by my mother. This year’s theme was gold, from the ornaments to the satin poinsettias and lengths of ribbon that spilled from the top.
“Do you think so?” My mother tilted her head, shaking her auburn curls. “I’m wondering if it needs anything else.”
“Just the star on top.”
My mother puckered her glossy lips in a small pout. “We’re reserving that honor for Anne to kick off the party tonight. She wants a photo-op.”
“Of course she does. Is she dragging a PR person along, too?”
She shrugged. “Who knows? But a little publicity would be nice for the restaurant, don’t you think?”
Oh, you mean like the publicity that followed us for most of the summer season because of our involvement in two murders? “If you say so, Mom.” I patted her shoulder, and turned to meet the stone face of my grandmother.
“Victoria, Nicolina—you have nothing better to do than stand around gossiping?”
“Actually, I was just about to set up the dining room,” my mother said. “So if you two will excuse me.”
“Wait, I’ll help you,” I called after her, but Nonna held me in her bony grip.
“Your mother is perfectly capable of setting the tables,” she said. “You are needed in the kitchen.” She tugged at my arm.
“But I did the vegetable prep already, Nonna.”
“And a fine job you did.” Her eyes glinted behind her glasses. “But we need to prepare the calamari that was just delivered.” She put her face close to mine. “Fresh.”
“‘Fresh’ as in still with tentacles?” I squeaked.
“Yes, still with tentacles. And eyes. And ink. You will become very familiar with squid this afternoon, Victoria, because you are going to clean them. Every last one,” she said as she propelled me to the kitchen. “Which is what you wanted, is it not? To learn to c
ook?” She gave me a little shove and the doors closed behind me.
The shudder-inducing process of cleaning squid does not bear describing, but hours later, I was still scrubbing ink from my hands. And picturing glassy black eyes staring up at me from the counter. It was one thing to eat those delectable golden rings dunked in our famous marinara sauce, but quite another to see where they came from. I was deciding whether to skip our first course when Tim arrived in a crisp white coat, his longish hair pulled back in a ponytail. He took my hands and gave me and my little black dress an appraising look. “Clearly, you are front of the house tonight. You look amazing.”
“Not so bad yourself, chef.” I eyed a rectangular box tied with a red ribbon. “That for me?”
“Yes. And it’s not your only present,” he said, handing me the box. “But I thought it was fitting to give it to you here.”
I untied the ribbon and opened the black velvet box. Inside, nestled in satin, was something shiny, but not to be worn around my neck or wrist. I held it up and it glinted in the low light of the dining room. “My own chef knife,” I breathed. “German steel. And with a full tang and a three-rivet handle.” I tested its grip and heft and let out a loud sigh. “That feels sooo good in my hand.”
“Please, Vic,” he said with a grin. “We’re in public.”
I slipped the knife back into the box and set it down on a table. “I love it. How did you know?”
“Could it have been the billion hints you dropped? The various links you sent me?” He pulled me in for a quick kiss. “But I’m happy you like it.” His eyes grew serious. “I want to make you happy. You know that, don’t you?”
