by Libby Klein
Aunt Ginny didn’t look up from her parfait. “You’re probably right.”
“One of your neighbors was robbed.”
I prepared my espresso machine to pull a shot. “Oh no. Who?”
“Clara … something.”
“Curly white hair? Glasses? Looks like Mrs. Claus?”
Georgina pointed at me. “That’s the one.”
“Oh, poor Mrs. Pritchard. What happened?”
“Someone broke in last night and stole some kitschy salt and pepper shakers and a big piece of cinnamon Bundt cake. I can’t imagine why anyone would want either one.”
I put stevia and a little almond milk in the creamy espresso. “That’s a pretty random list. Are you sure you heard her right?”
“I’m positive. That’s what all your neighbors are talking about.”
“They didn’t take anything else?”
“Poppy, the woman looks to be a hundred years old. She probably misplaced the shakers and ate the cake herself.”
Aunt Ginny put a mug of water in the microwave to make herself a cup of tea. “We should make her a little consolation cake.”
“Oh, that would be a nice gesture. Let her know we’re here for her.”
“What’s a consolation cake?” Georgina asked.
Aunt Ginny got her tea down from the cabinet. “Just what it sounds like. We make her a cake.”
“It’s something neighbors do to support each other in times of distress. It’s an act of friendship,” I added.
Georgina managed to look down on me from below. “Are you sure that’s a real thing? No one has ever made me a consolation cake.”
I handed Aunt Ginny a tea strainer. “I can’t imagine why not.”
Aunt Ginny added, “Yes, that is a mystery.”
The microwave dinged, and Georgina took out Aunt Ginny’s mug and made a cup of tea for herself. “Are you sure this is a safe neighborhood, Poppy?”
I downed my espresso to keep myself from saying something to Georgina that a lady should never say. Aunt Ginny let out a deep sigh that was heard through the sound of sawing coming from the porch.
“Of course it’s safe. Where do you think we are, the Middle East? This is Cape May.”
Aunt Ginny glared at Georgina, yanked another mug out of the cabinet and filled it with water.
Georgina stirred a spoonful of sugar into her steaming cup. “I don’t feel safe here. Houses are being broken into. What if there are ruffians in the neighborhood?”
“Ruffians? You think the Mob is here targeting ornamental kitchen bric-a-brac?”
“Don’t laugh at me. Maybe you should just finish the house, put it on the market, and come home to Virginia.”
“And leave Aunt Ginny here? Alone?”
“Ginny would probably enjoy one of those retirement homes they’re building now, wouldn’t you, Ginny?”
“Oh Georgina. No …”
Aunt Ginny reached for her anxiety pills and took two.
Figaro knocked his water bowl over and Georgina slipped in it and almost went down. I swear I could see him smiling.
Chapter 6
Before heading out to Mia Famiglia, I stopped in to check on Mrs. Pritchard to see how she was faring after her home was violated. She seemed to have thrown together an impromptu garden party in honor of the occasion.
“I just can’t believe someone was wandering around my house eating my cake in the middle of the night.” All the old ladies on the street were huddled together in Mrs. Pritchard’s living room, drinking coffee from bone china. Their cheeks were pink with excitement as they sat forward on the settee, greedy to drink in every detail. From my metal folding chair in the overflow section, I tried balancing my cup and saucer on my knee while holding a small plate with a Danish that Nell Belanger had thrust upon me. As I’m greatly lacking in balance and coordination skills, this took most of my concentration.
Mrs. Pritchard was putting on a full production of the retelling. “I’m just afraid the thief will be back. Thieves always return to the scene of the crime. Don’t they, Poppy?”
“Um … I think I may have heard that … somewhere. Or maybe that was arsonists?”
I trailed off when I saw my Danish sliding dangerously close to the edge of my plate. Mrs. Pritchard was too rapt in her audience to give me much notice.
“Of course, the police were here early this morning, but they don’t have much hope for recovering my vintage Porky and Petunia.” She shook her head sadly.
All the ladies tut-tutted in sympathy.
Mrs. Colazzo passed me a napkin down the line of sympathizers. “The quality of cops in this town has really gone downhill since Ira Schlessinger was captain. Do you remember him, Poppy?”
“Ah, I don’t think so.”
“No, of course you don’t, you were a baby,” Mrs. Colazzo continued. “But he kept those men in line. There would have been none of this funny business like what happened to you a few weeks ago. You remember that?”
“My false arrest? Yes, I remember that vividly.”
“And Ira would have had those salt and pepper shakers back by the end of the day, you mark my words.”
Mrs. Pritchard clutched her chest. “Oh, Porky and Petunia. You won’t find those at Sears. They were a collector’s set. And the mess. Oh, you’ve never seen such a thing. The perpetrator cut my Bundt cake into ten pieces and ate every other piece.”
All the biddies gasped in horror.
“What was left fell like dominoes. Such a waste of a beautiful Bundt.”
Mrs. Rosenberg asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Did they leave crumbs?” It was the only crime worse than the theft.
Mrs. Pritchard clutched her heart for strength. “A line from the table all the way off the porch.”
“No!”
Mrs. Colazzo had to fan herself to keep from swooning.
I tried to brush the crumbs on my lap back onto my plate before the ladies noticed.
“Poppy, honey, you’re a woman of the world.”
I choked on my coffee and spilled a little on my skinny jeans. “Um …”
“Would you please keep an eye out for Porky and Petunia on the black market for me, in case they surface?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t have black market connections, she looked so hopeful. “I will try.”
Mrs. Pritchard and all the ladies heaved a sigh of relief.
I was running late for Mia Famiglia, so I said my goodbyes and told Mrs. Pritchard I would check in on her later.
*
When I arrived at the restaurant I was ushered to the kitchen, where Momma Larusso was waiting for me. And by waiting, I mean scowling and muttering in Italian while angrily stuffing manicotti shells with spinach and ricotta. I gave her a smile and tried to apologize, but she jabbed at the clock on the wall and said, “Bah!”
Momma was about four feet ten, and as big around. She had salt-and-pepper hair tied up in a giant bun. She would look just like Aunt Bea in a flowered dress and apron, if Aunt Bea were on a killing spree.
She waved me around, speaking quickly in Italian, and I tried to keep up. The room was something off a Hell’s Kitchen set. I felt myself come alive on a wave of excitement breaking on the shores of regret. This could have been mine. Instead I let myself be bullied into business school. And that turned out so well …
Along one wall was a bank of stainless steel cabinets where vegetables and salads were readied. The center of the room was a block of stations for roasting, grilling, frying, and sautéing. The opposite wall would have been my domain in another life: a stainless steel workstation with a Hobart mixer and a Vulcan double convection oven for the pastry chef. I ran my hand over the commercial stand mixer and imagined all the breads and cakes I would have made. I was going to make a name for myself for my genius use of unusual combinations and delicate sugar art.
The dream evaporated into reality as Momma shoved an apron into my hands and pushed me toward the hand-wash sin
k before going back to her manicotti.
Over the next hour I whipped up three different batches of muffins. Gluten-free blueberry buttermilk, chocolate orange, and Paleo banana walnut. I made Mrs. Pritchard a little banana cake from some of the muffin batter—something for her next performance with the neighborhood biddy club. Then I started on the desserts. I had a gluten-free brownie recipe that I tweaked to be Paleo by substituting tapioca starch for cornstarch and honey for sugar. I added a shot of espresso and a pinch of cayenne pepper to deepen the chocolate, then a couple handfuls of dairy-free chocolate chips. Next, I made a batch of gluten-free chocolate chip blondies, adding a scraped Tahitian vanilla bean. Every now and then Momma would come look over my shoulder, then look at me and say, something-something, “trocco truppo Viola.”
“I’m sorry, my Italian is very rusty. Do you speak English?”
Momma fired on me in Italian with her hands waving around. Either my hair was sprouting dragons or I could take that as a no on the English. I nodded a lot and tried to look friendly.
“Something smells yummy.” Gia’s voice carried through the kitchen. I was suddenly very warm, and it wasn’t from the ovens. He went straight to his mother, who was now all sweetness and light, and gave her a bear hug. She cooed over him and had him taste a bite of this and a spoon of that. She patted his belly and smushed his mouth in her hands.
He crossed the kitchen to give me a more intimate hug.
“How’s it going?” he whispered.
“Fine, I think.” I glanced over at Momma.
She narrowed her eyes and gave me a look that made me swallow hard. Then she picked up a rolling pin and slammed it into a ball of dough repeatedly.
Momma muttered something I couldn’t understand.
Gia laughed.
I whispered, “Doesn’t your mother speak English?”
“She speaks some. When it suits her.”
“What is she saying?”
“Viola. Has she been calling you Violet all day?”
He told his mother in Italian that my name was Poppy. That much I understood. Momma gave me the stink eye. I understood that too. She looked back at Gia and rambled something while waving her hands at me in dismissal. Gia didn’t seem to pay her any attention.
I took the brownies out of the oven and set them on the rack to cool. Gia took a deep sniff. “Mmmmm.” Then he looked into my eyes and said, “Delicious.”
Breathe, Poppy. Just breathe.
He picked up a fork and took a step toward me, never breaking eye contact. I swallowed hard. He dipped his fork in the corner of the brownie pan and took a bite. He chewed slowly and closed his eyes. When he swallowed he looked at me and said, “Wow. You’re amazing.”
“I love you.” Okay I didn’t really say that. What I said was, “I’m glad you like them.”
“They are fantastic.” He leaned in to kiss my forehead, but Momma yelled something and he turned to see what she wanted. “Hold on. Momma needs me to get something down for her.”
I think Momma just wanted to get her baby away from Viola. I cleaned up my workstation and cut both pans into bars. I calculated the cost point of each item for him to determine his selling price and wrote it on index cards.
“Do you want to come over and have coffee with me while I put these out?”
I wanted to more than anything, but my cell phone went off and I saw that it was a text from Smitty.
911 kitchen situation. Need you.
I sighed. “I can’t. There’s a problem at home. Can we do it tomorrow?”
He smiled. “I can’t wait. You go. I’ll take care of this.” He gestured to the baked goods.
“Thank you.” Before I could stop myself, I reached up and kissed him on the cheek.
When I pulled away he grabbed my hand and pulled me into him. He leaned down and his lips touched mine and sent sparks down to my ankles.
Momma growled like a bear. She picked lids off of two pots and smashed them into each other like giant saucy cymbals.
I had to get the heck out of there before I was on tonight’s menu with the tortellini.
*
I returned home to a flurry of panic with the workmen. Georgina sat sedately at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea.
“What’s going on?”
Smitty came over and took his hat off and rubbed his bald head. “I don’t know what happened. I checked it myself.”
“Checked what?”
“The color.”
“Color of what?”
“Come see for yourself.”
Smitty led me to the mudroom he had been using as a staging area. There were four cans of satin finish paint. He removed the lid from one.
“What’s that for?”
“The kitchen.”
I narrowed my eyes. “The kitchen is supposed to be a pale shade of apricot. That looks like thunderclouds and misery.”
He grimaced and gave me a pointed look. “I bought four cans of Peaches n’ Cream yesterday and checked each one. This is not what I bought.”
I checked the sticker on the can. “These are dated this morning. What happened to the peach?”
Smitty and I looked at each other, then we both looked at Georgina.
Georgina calmly took a sip of her tea and gave us a sedate smile.
I counted to ten. “Georgina. Where is my paint?”
Georgina shrugged. “Paint fairy?”
Smitty grunted. I imagined myself flying across the room and hitting Georgina in the head with a sheet pan.
Georgina shrugged innocently. “I think someone did you a favor. Pink is so gauche. You would have regretted it. Gunmetal gray is very in right now. You will have a much better resale value.”
I had to send myself to a time-out. I flicked the switch to the hall light to turn it off, but the kitchen light came on. I flicked the kitchen switch and the hall light turned off.
Smitty grunted. “I can fix that.”
I needed to lie down. “That paint is the color of sadness. It makes me tired. Return it and get my Peaches n’ Cream back. It’s probably still sitting at the paint counter.”
Smitty gave me a Three Stooges hand wave from his face to mine. “Nyaaaah. Whoop whoop whoop.” Then he saluted and left the room.
We had two days till our first guests arrived, and either Smitty, Georgina, or Aunt Ginny was sure to kill me before I got through it.
Chapter 7
Thursday morning dawned bright and crabby. The shrill call of the wild pygmy tyrant competed with the primal grunting of the common bull dog as Georgina and Smitty argued over whether the guest rooms should be named or numbered. Figaro was hunkered down in the corner where he could keep his eye on the bedroom door. I had been hiding in my room as long as possible, but I had to get my day started. With a deep breath and one last look at Fig, I yanked the bedroom door open and jumped into the fracas.
“Poppy, tell Smooty here that I’m right and numbering the rooms would add a touch of class. That’s how they do it at the Waldorf.”
“Poppy has already instructed me to hang these painted plaques on each room to match the butterflies.”
I ran past them and down the stairs. “Smitty’s right. Leave him alone, Georgina.”
I could hear the “Humph” from the foyer, followed by Smitty’s “Oh, wise guy!” and then Georgina’s “Stop doing that.”
Aunt Ginny was in the kitchen grinding espresso beans. She had a pair of hot-pink earbuds shoved in her ears. The other end of the cord dangled down by her knees. We looked at each other and shook our heads.
I grabbed two espresso cups and the stevia while Aunt Ginny pulled a shot. “How did you sleep?”
She pulled out the earbuds. “Like a teenager. Oblivious to the world.”
I smiled and looked around the kitchen. Smitty finished the painting yesterday and the room was Peaches n’ Cream beautiful. The only thing missing was my copper range. I needed to see what I could do about speeding up the delivery. I had to get
out from under Italian-momma-glowering as soon as possible.
“More neighbors were robbed last night.” Aunt Ginny handed me my espresso and we clinked glasses before downing our liquid happiness.
“Who?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Sheinberg. Someone snuck in last night and stole her rooster pot holder.”
“Aww. That’s been sitting on her radiator since I was seven. Did they take anything else?”
“A piece of apple pie.”
“How does she know Mr. Sheinberg didn’t just eat the pie?”
“She said a hunk was missing like it was ripped out by a bear claw, and a line of crumbs led to the door.”
“Do you think maybe we have some neighborhood kids playing pranks?”
Aunt Ginny shrugged.
The sounds of Georgina clicky-clacking down the hallway put us both on high alert.
“Poppy, good I found you.”
“I’m not changing the room signs, Georgina.”
“What? Oh, don’t be silly. I don’t care about that. I wanted to tell you that I had to fire the cleaning girl this morning.”
“What! Why?”
Aunt Ginny rubbed her forehead and sat down at the banquette. “She looked like she would steal from you.”
“Are you serious?”
“You can’t be too careful. Especially with this being a bad neighborhood.”
“This is not a bad neighborhood. And Martina came with good references.”
“You know more of your neighbors were robbed last night. That now classifies as a spree.”
A pain started throbbing along my shoulder blade. I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “Georgina. This is the off-season. It’s very difficult to find chambermaids who want to work over the winter. Most places hire girls from Eastern Europe just for the summer. I have four couples arriving tomorrow. Now who will clean the guest rooms?”
Georgina didn’t look concerned in the least. “Well, I have no idea. I usually just call the service and they send someone over.”
Aunt Ginny and I looked at each other. Figaro walked into the room, saw Georgina, and turned around and walked back out.
I sighed. “I have to go. I’m making some gluten-free pie bars for the coffee shop today.”
