by Joseph Souza
The restaurant he takes me to is called Francesca’s and it’s been here forever. Chefs like to refer to these places as “Tomato Sauce Joints.” This is not to demean this style, because if done right it can be a wonderful experience. There’s nothing better than a small family restaurant serving old-school classics. In Fawn Grove, however, this type of cuisine is considered fine dining.
A pretty young hostess seats us at a table that is adorned with a checkered linen tablecloth. In the middle of the table sits a burning candle within a wicker basket. Like a perfect gentleman, Dalton holds the chair out for me. Really? It feels kind of nice, though. Quaint and old-fashioned like in one of those romantic comedies from the forties. In Manhattan no one ever held a chair out for me. It was everyone for themselves and chivalry be damned. A bottle of red wine is brought over and set down next to a mason jar stuffed with breadsticks. They resemble a witches’ gnarled fingers reaching for my throat. There’s a thimble of olive oil for the bread. I want to laugh so hard that it’ll make me run to the bathroom and search for the gun above the toilet.
“Pretty nice place, huh?”
“Lovely,” I say, trying hard not to sound sarcastic.
“It might not be as nice as those places in New York City, but the food here is pretty good. The owner serves authentic Italian dishes like the ones his grandmother used to make.”
“The chef’s Italian?”
“His grandparents emigrated from Sicily in the thirties and were one of the first Italian families to arrive into Fawn Grove.”
“More immigrants, huh?”
“Yeah, but like they say, aren’t we all the children of immigrants?” he says without irony. “The owner’s an old friend of mine.”
I nod, trying to keep my sassy opinions to myself, holding out hope that our meal might actually be good. It’s not that I don’t like this kind of food. Hell, a good tomato sauce joint is what usually cures the common ails in life, including a bad hangover. The simplicity of good food is often what I yearned for after cooking fancy meals night after night, sick of producing purees, reductions, and seafood risottos. But when places like this do it bad, then it’s very bad, masking quality with quantity.
A chubby balding man with braids of gold bling around his neck stops at our table. He shakes Dalton’s hand and makes small talk. I recognize him immediately as Sal Francesca. He was two years ahead of me in school and a piece of work even then. His face is fatter, shinier, and redder than it was when I knew him. He used to think he was God’s gift to women back in the day and would cruise around town in his black Trans Am. He wore T-shirts sporting the colors of the Italian flag, with a cigarette box curled in his shirtsleeve. Sal hung with a group of guys who referred to themselves as the Guidos and who wore their black hair in greasy mullets. The rest of his time was spent working as a line cook in the family restaurant. Now he’s reached the zenith of success in town as the owner of Francesca’s.
“Sal, this is my friend Lucy.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Lucy,” he says in a high-pitched voice. “Although I don’t know why you’re out with this jabroni.”
“We’re just friends,” I say, watching for any sign that he recognizes me.
“With him as your friend, a pretty girl like you don’t need no enemies,” he says, elbowing Dalton in the shoulder. “Did you know I went to school with this guy?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Lucy’s quite a chef herself. Works in New York City,” Dalton says.
“Is that so?” Sal says happily. “You know Johnny Luisa? I think he lives somewhere in Brooklyn?”
“Afraid not. New York’s a pretty big place,” I say, laughing.
“You any good? Maybe I put you to work out back making the gravy.” He slaps Dalton’s back.
“I’m good, but I’m probably no match for your talented chefs,” I say.
“It’s true, I got the best crew in Maine.”
“Go back to the kitchen, Sal, before I call the health inspector,” Dalton says.
“Only rat in this place is the one sitting in that chair, Ricky boy.” Sal calls over a middle-aged waitress who looks as if she’s toiled in the coal mines for decades. “Maria, take good care of these two. Anything they want, you get it for them.”
After studying the menu for a few seconds, I order the eggplant parm for shits and grins. I’m guessing it’ll be a greasy pile of shit warmed over with sauce and cheese. Or mootz, as we refer to it in the business. Dalton orders the surf and turf before handing the oversized menu back to our waitress.
“Sal’s a great guy. I’ve known him since second grade.”
“Seems nice enough.”
“Had this black Trans Am back in high school that all the guys were jealous of. He may not look it now, but he was pretty popular with the ladies back then. Then he went bald and put on a few pounds. Now he’s got a wife and two kids.”
“I bet he was a real lady-killer back in the day, just like you.”
“I had a girlfriend off and on throughout high school. Too bad she became my wife.”
“What happened?”
“Went from fun-loving party girl to nagging . . .”
“Bee-yotch?”
“You said it, not me.” He laughs as he pours me a glass of wine. “Sal took this place over from his dad about five years ago and started adding his own recipes to the menu.”
“Is this one of those restaurants where you never leave hungry?”
“So you’ve heard of this place,” he says. “Makes a nice lunch the next day.”
“Not to change the subject, Dalton, but have you learned anything new about this murder?”
“Do we have to talk about this now?”
“I thought this was the main point of our coming here?”
“I figured we’d enjoy a nice meal before we started talking about that.”
“Can we talk now? Then we can relax and enjoy our dinner.”
“Sure.” He puts his hand over mine. “I must say, Lucy, you look great tonight.”
I sit back and wonder if this is going to be an epic struggle that I’ll be forced to endure all evening. But when I look at him I find myself torn between conflicting emotions. Am I attracted to him? What the hell’s wrong with me? I must admit, it does feel nice to be desired by someone as handsome as Dalton. Must I continually remind myself that I’m doing this for a specific reason?
“You must have been quite a suave operator back in the day.”
He laughs at this, covering his mouth with a napkin.
“What’s so funny?”
“You saying how suave I must have been. I find that hilarious.”
“Why?” I sip my wine and nearly gag at how sweet it is.
“This may surprise you, but I used to be the biggest a-hole on the planet.”
“Really? And you’re man enough to admit that?”
“Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and change the way I was. Then I’d apologize to all the kids I . . .”
“Apologize to them for what?”
“Forget about it. Have a piece of my breadstick.” He pulls one out of the jar.
“Maybe you’ve already apologized to them and you don’t even know it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He breaks it in two and hands the other half to me.
“Just saying.” I take a small bite and then place it down on my plate. It’s like eating a stale, salty cracker.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What were you like in high school? Hot babe with lots of guys hanging around her? Head cheerleader maybe?”
“Oh, hell no.” I laugh at the absurdity of this statement as I take the earring out of my pocket and place it on the checkered cloth.
“What’s this?”
“This is me bringing something to the table.”
“An earring?”
“Perceptive, Dalton. That’s what I like about you.”
“You gonna tell me
the meaning of this?”
“You tell me.”
He picks it up and studies it. “What’s so special about it?”
“Seems the youth of Fawn Grove like to indulge themselves down by the river.”
“How did you know about that?”
“It took me five minutes of asking around town to figure it out.”
“The design of this earring is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Do you think it has any significance?”
“It’s represents eternal friendship. Some of the girls at Fawn Grove High bought them in order to signify their lifelong bond.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In some bushes the day we hiked down to the river. It was the day you took off like a bat out of hell.”
“I think we both know why.”
“Why deny it? You tried to kiss me at the scene of a murder.”
“No, you misinterpreted my good nature.”
“Be that as it may,” I say, “I’m the only one here producing any results.”
“You call this a result?” He laughs. “I call this bullshit.”
“Then why don’t you tell me something meaningful about the case.”
Our waitress arrives unannounced hefting a huge platter of food fit for an army. How could they have cooked it so fast, unless they precooked it and then zapped it in the microwave? The waitress sets it down on the table and then, with all the enthusiasm of a mortician, proceeds to serve our entrées along with bowls of salad. This troubles me, and I almost say something, because the salad should always be served well before the entrée. My lettuce is drowned in a gloppy white glue that’s supposed to pass as bleu cheese dressing. I sample a wedge and struggle not to spit it out. Then I push the bowl aside and stare glumly at my fortress of eggplant. There must be a pound of melted mozzarella bubbling over the top. I cut into it, and red sauce oozes throughout the thin layers. The gorgeous purple skin of the eggplant has been stripped away—such a shame! I fork a column into my mouth and struggle to swallow the mush. It tastes like equal doses of salt and oil.
I ask myself if I’m being too harsh. Has my time spent cooking in Manhattan kitchens turned me into a pretentious food snob? Someone who can’t appreciate a good old-fashioned meal?
I look over at Dalton and notice he’s wolfing his food down as if it’s his final meal. He looks genuinely happy to be cutting into his rare New York Strip. Alongside it are three fried shrimps and a medley of soggy vegetables. I suddenly feel bad for hating this place, although I know I can’t help it. Working in a high-end restaurant has created this gastro monster within. This trattoria run by a former classmate of mine strives hard to please and doesn’t put on airs, and try as I may, I find it difficult to act grateful.
I struggle to work my way through the meal. I’m so put off by the dish that it makes me uncomfortable. A bowling ball settles in the base of my gullet. Most of the pasta and salad I leave untouched. The waitress comes by and boxes everything up at my request. To my surprise, Dalton orders tiramisu for us to share, but I beg off and instead order an espresso.
“Great meal, huh?” he says after they’ve cleared our plates.
“Very authentic.”
“Sal’s traveled to Italy and has studied their cuisine.”
I look away so I don’t break out into a fit of laughter. It would be too cruel for me to pop Dalton’s cherry about Francesca’s cuisine. If Sal discovered food like this in Italy, they must have sentenced that poor chef to life with no parole.
“There are certain things I haven’t told you about the girl’s death,” he says, taking the bill from the waitress and handing her his credit card.
“Like?”
He smiles at the dour woman and then gives me his full attention. “She recorded videos of herself on her phone and sent them out to her classmates.”
“Videos?” I recall Nasreen saying something similar.
“There were only two, and she saved them on her phone. I’m assuming she made more.”
“What was she doing on them?”
“She wasn’t doing anything you and I might consider crazy. Dancing, singing, and talking into the camera as if she was auditioning for American Idol. She bragged that she was going to be rich and famous one day, and leave everyone behind in Fawn Grove.”
“Can I see it?”
“Of course not. That phone was confiscated by the state police and is in evidence.”
“Was she wearing her hijab?”
“In one she was. In the other she’d let her hair down and seemed like your average teenage girl.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Now there’s a loaded question.”
“Why?”
“It’ll make me sound like a perv if I say a fifteen-year-old girl is pretty.”
“I see your point.”
“But yeah, she was beautiful, especially without her headscarf on. Looked a lot like that Kardashian girl on TV.”
“What about her address book?”
“Most of the addresses listed in it were family and friends. But she also had about thirty of her classmates in there too.”
“Why would such a shy and reserved girl have so many addresses in her phone?” I say.
“Maybe she was trying to fit in, and maybe she was not as shy as you think.”
“That would be a dangerous thing to do living where she does.”
“Someone in her community obviously took offense to the fact that she was acclimating so easily to American culture.”
“It’s possible,” I say, trying to process this new information. “Did you try to speak with the girl’s parents?”
He shakes his head and laughs. “You already know the answer to that.”
“They wouldn’t give you or the state police the time of day.”
“Exactly. Just like they wouldn’t talk to you.”
“But what did they say? How did they react when you first told them that their daughter had been murdered?”
“That’s the thing I couldn’t wrap my head around. They were so calm and collected. No parent reacts like that when told their kid has just been killed, and in that manner. It felt really weird to me.”
“And you should know, right? Having a daughter yourself.”
“How’d you know about that?” The waitress returns with his receipt.
“It’s a small town,” I say. “One hears things hanging out at that diner.”
“Goddamn Stef!”
“What’s the difference who told me, Dalton? I would have found out anyway.”
“And that’s not a deal killer for you?”
“Deal killer for what?”
“ Us.”
“Jesus, we’re just having a nice dinner. There is no us.”
“I’m going to tell you a secret, Lucy. I wish I’d left Fawn Grove a long time ago, like some of my more fortunate classmates. I might have made something of myself had I gotten out of here instead of marrying so early and becoming a father.”
“Looks to me like you’ve done pretty well for yourself.”
“By becoming a small-town cop?”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I say, letting the moment pass.
“No one respects cops these days, especially in Fawn Grove.”
“Were you referring to any classmates in particular who left town?”
“Not really,” he says, eyeing me suspiciously. “Not like you’d know them, anyway.”
“No, probably not.”
“You ever think about having kids someday?”
I laugh. “Hell no!”
“Same here. One moody teenage girl is enough.”
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Like you really care.”
“I want to know something about you, Dalton.”
He sighs. “Brandy.”
“What’s she like?”
“Used to be a good kid until her mother got into her head.”
“How so?”
&n
bsp; “Do we really have to talk about my daughter now?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
He throws down his napkin in surrender. “I’m stuffed. What do you say we get out of here?”
“Sounds good to me.”
We drive in silence back to my sister’s house. No music or small talk. Did I hit a nerve by mentioning his daughter? At this stage in the investigation, I don’t want to alienate him for fear of being left out of the loop. But I fear I might have unintentionally pissed him off. Or was it because I barely touched my dinner? If so, I have no idea how to make things right. Or if I even want to make things right.
He skids to a stop in front of the house, jumps out, and opens the door for me. I thank him for a wonderful evening as my three-inch heel hits the sidewalk. I head up the walkway clutching my doggy bag, and it takes me a second to realize that he’s right behind me. My nerves flutter and leave me confused. I stop and turn to him once I reach the top step.
“Thanks again,” I say, holding out my hand.
“You’re entirely welcome.” He takes it.
“I didn’t mean to anger you by mentioning your daughter.”
“Don’t sweat it. I should warn you, though, that girl’s somewhat of a conversational sore spot with me. Her mother’s poisoned her against me, and now she wants nothing to do with dear old dad unless it rhymes with honey.”
“Don’t quit on her just yet. She might still come around.”
“It’s hard not to at times,” he says, still holding my hand. “I try my damnedest to maintain a good relationship with her, but it never seems to pan out. She hates me thanks to her mother. Still, I’ll never stop trying to be a positive influence in her life.”
“You shouldn’t,” I say, “because one day she might see the light.”
“I hope so, because I’ll do anything for that girl,” he says. “So how long do you think you’ll be staying in Fawn Grove?”
“Not sure. Depends how long my cousin will have me.”
“I hope you can stick around for a while. That lamb burger you made the other day was amazing.”
“Thanks.” Is he saying this just to please me?
“Better not let that pretty head of yours get too swelled, or you’ll never squeeze yourself out of that kitchen.” He touches my hand.
“I really hope Yanni asks me to cook for him again.” I badly want to take my hand back. “I’d love another chance to win his regulars over.”
