The Spia Family Presses On

by Mary Leo

  On the way over to Dolci Piccoli, I walked through our new store, a long room painted a soothing green. Two of the walls were lined with dark wooden shelves that held our various oils in smoky glass bottles with gold embossed labels, our balsamic vinegars, a few imported labels that we knew to be pure, imported Italian olive oil candles of all sizes and shapes, soaps, lotions and some hand-painted ceramics Mom found in Spain.

  Three round tables held displays of various sized wooden spoons and spatulas, vibrant table linens, books, and more pottery. We also sold various posters with an olive theme and a few novels that featured olives in their plot. We were everything olive, and it seemed to be working well for us.

  The room was crowded with customers and my mom was busy handing out samples of our oils in tiny white plastic cups, demonstrating the correct way to taste oil. She stood at the wooden bar, which we kept stocked with our best sellers. If sipping oil out of a cup wasn’t to your liking, we provided small chunks of bread for dipping.

  Valerie, Uncle Ray’s wife, was also handing out samples, as Audrey, their nineteen-year-old daughter who helped out two days a week to earn extra spending money while she attended culinary school, busied herself with a tall male customer at the register.

  The new tasting room was my baby, and soon we’d combine it with a small restaurant on the north side of the building. We would attract more tourists and locals if we also offered food. Of course, if I didn’t resolve Dickey’s murder soon, the whole place could come tumbling down around us.

  I wanted to ask Valerie a few questions before I went on to talk to Aunt Hetty. I waited for her to finish demonstrating how to taste oil. Val was particularly loud when she sucked back the oil through her clenched teeth, and always drew curious stares from the customers around her. Mom loved her for it.

  “Our beautiful oils take on many different characteristics as they travel down your throat. They can be a little grassy, fruity or peppery. Sometimes they even taste like chocolate or green apples,” Val said. She had several people captivated.

  She poured a bit of the oil into her mouth. A few of the customers did the same. Then she sucked it back through clenched teeth, making her distinctive loud sucking noise. Everyone followed her lead. Two of the people, a man and a short stocky woman, instantly began coughing, while the rest seemed to enjoy the experience.

  “I’m tasting our Artisan Blend, a smooth front body, with grassy, green apple tones, and a slightly bitter finish. There’s a hint of a peppery undertone, but not like the Seviano that our two coughing friends experienced.”

  She smiled.

  They smiled.

  “I love it,” the coughing man said once he had control of his burning throat. “I’ll take a case!”

  That got a burst of laughter out of the group.

  The peppery fire they were experiencing was a result of the oil hitting the mucous membranes near the esophagus, and if you weren’t used to that feeling it could be a bit daunting.

  Apparently, the coughing man delighted in it.

  When Val finished her demo, and everyone was doing their own tasting, she turned to me, grinning. Val had one of those toothy grins that showed her gums, and made her slightly hooked nose prominent. Despite her gums and nose, Valerie was a handsome woman who loved hats. Today was no exception. She wore a black, wide-rimmed straw number with a lime green strip of cloth encircling it that matched her dress and heels.

  “What’cha want, kid? I’m busy here,” she said low enough so only I could hear.

  “This will only take a few minutes. Can we step outside for a few minutes?”

  She leaned in closer, and whispered. “If this is about last night, I got nothin’ to say, and either do you. You should be happy the louse disappeared. He can’t bring nothin’ but trouble to this family.”

  And with that she went back to her customers.

  So far this was not going like any TV show where the witnesses voluntarily offered up information without much coercion. I thought I might have to get a little tougher.

  I caught up with her and tapped her on the shoulder. She whirled around and flashed me the evil eye. I instinctively flashed one back, admittedly, not a true evil eye, but one that got her attention.

  Again, she excused herself. This time I walked with her behind the counter, for a bit of privacy.

  “You get one question, kid, so make it a good one,” she hissed through a phony smile.

  I thought about this for a moment. If I knew Val, she hated violence against women more than anything. “Who would have the most to gain if my mother went to jail for Dickey’s murder?”

  She blanched. Was it a sign she had nothing to do with the frame-up or did she blanch because she knew something? My gut told me this was news, and now she would be a more willing snitch.

  “Is that what this is all about, kid? Somebody tried to frame your mom? Again?”

  “What do you mean, again?”

  “Don’t you remember? You’re mom was a suspect when your dad disappeared. Them cops sniffed around her for a long time, even tapped her phone.”

  “But I always thought the phone tap had to do with everybody else.”

  “You was young, probably why you don’t remember the facts so good. And now somebody set her up for wastin’ Dickey? Sporco Diavolo.”

  I didn’t want to tell her any of the details just yet, so I didn’t answer, but I knew she could read me. Val could always read me. It was as if she had a window into my head.

  She shook her head, and let out a couple sarcastic little guffaws. “Ain’t nothin’ changed? Ain’t nobody sacred in this family?” She paused for a moment, her eyes scanning the room. Then, satisfied with what she saw, she whispered, “Look for the person who maybe’s got a fucked up past with your mom, might have the most to gain or was scared of Dickey’s return ‘cause Dickey knew that person set him up for Carla’s murder. If that’s the case, then your mom, unfortunately, was the easy scapegoat. That’s all I’m gonna say on the subject, kid. But, my advice? Like Paul McCartney says, Let it be. Dickey screwed me over with my first husband and he’s the reason why I got this here scar to remind me of them two every day. Dickey got what he had comin’.” She started to turn away, but something else was on her mind. “Oh, and one more thing. Get that Jade girl outta here. Never know what could happen if she hangs around too long. She’s trouble. Past trouble, if you know what I mean. But you didn’t hear any of this from me.”

  With that she sashayed back to her customers.

  My head raced with information. What did she mean that Jade was “past trouble?” This was the first time I’d heard about her, and I thought the first time for everyone. But once again, the family was hiding something from me.

  And what was she talking about that my mom had been a suspect for my missing father? How could that possibly have happened? Did my mom know what happened to my dad but neglected to tell me?

  The possibility was too disturbing to dwell on, so I told myself I’d deal with it later. One disappearance at a time, and right now, Dickey’s was on the top of my list.

  I hadn’t really focused in on the fact that Jade could be a threat to the killer, but Val knew what this family was capable of better than I did. She was privy to the monthly secret meetings, and I wasn’t. Not that I couldn’t attend, I simply never thought they were something I needed to hear, until now.

  The next meeting started at nine, and this time I intended to be there.

  ELEVEN

  The Kill Zone

  Dolci Picolli sat at the end of a row of storefronts down the red brick path. Wine-colored mums bloomed from clay pots along the path and in front of most of the shops. Young olive trees lined the pavement with their slender leaves gently dancing in the wind, showing off their soft white underbellies. A few of the clay pots were filled with more traditional autumn colors of burnt orange or yellow mums, giving everything that wonderful fall glow.

  My mom had said Aunt Babe was showing Jade around. She
’d be safe with Aunt Babe . . . at least I hoped so.

  The narrow path was dotted with shoppers meandering in and out of the stores, carrying bags announcing Spia’s Olive Press and the individual store name or logo. As I walked, thinking that not only was I suddenly desperate for a dozen Amaretto cookies (baked goods made with alcohol were my one allowable indulgence), but I hadn’t really eaten in over twenty-four hours. Murder was a great hunger suppresser.

  When I walked into the Dolci Piccoli, Aunt Hetty was behind the large glass baker’s case helping a couple customers, an older man and an attractive woman with shiny gray shoulder length hair. They were speaking Italian with Hetty, who lapped it up. She loved to revert back to Italian whenever she had the chance. When she and Babe were growing up, their immigrant parents only spoke Italian to their children. Both she and Babe were fluent in the language. Me? I was third generation, and knew a few sentences, a mixture of good swear words and gestures, and could, if pressed, pick out a few words in a conversation.

  From what I could make out, which wasn’t much, they were either talking about blow fish in the mountains, or Jordan almonds at a wedding. I was going with the Jordan almonds. They were a safer bet under the circumstances.

  The top of the counter held several glass displays of cookies and biscotti. A large slate board hanging on the wall behind the counter announced today’s special: Two dozen cookies for the price of one.

  Apparently, Aunt Hetty was trying to get rid of all the excess cookies from Dickey’s party. Usually, the relatives scooped up the excess food after one of these events, but when my mom yelled cop, leftovers was not something that took high priority, even for Zia Yolanda.

  The bright yellow walls of the bakery gave the place a happy, light ambiance, and white floor tile with little yellow squares at the corners reflected that happy tone. A padded, red-checkered bench ran across the far wall, with square tables and chairs in front of it. Artwork hung on the walls depicting Italian baked goods and older Italian women pulling bread or trays of cookies out of rustic ovens.

  Jade sat at one of only four small round tables in front of the floor to ceiling windows. Aunt Babe was nowhere in sight, but it didn’t matter because Nick Zeleski seemed to be a pretty good replacement. I didn’t know if I was happy to see him, or scared to death.

  “Mia,” he yelled out. “Come join us.” And he pulled up a white chair from the empty table next to them.

  I needed those cookies, bad.

  Before I could get up to the counter to place my order, Aunt Hetty already had a dozen Amaretto cookies sitting on a plate waiting for me. “You want tea or coffee with these?” she asked, stone faced.

  “A shot of brandy would be perfect, but short of that, Irish Breakfast tea, please,” I told her.

  “I’ll bring it over.”

  I nodded, took my plate of cookies, inhaled three of them before I arrived at the table, smiled at both Jade and Nick and sat across from Jade, right next to Nick.

  Then I ate another cookie, this time I totally could taste the sweet Amaretto and a satisfied sensation momentarily washed over me.

  Then Nick spoke. “Well, this is a nice coincidence.”

  Satisfaction was replaced with apprehension.

  I nodded, too busy eating cookies to actually speak.

  “Isn’t this great?” Jade announced. “Nick’s been looking for Dickey, too. I told him about our phone call last night, and about your mom and me just missing him this morning. Nick thinks Dickey went off to town or something. We’re waiting for him to get back. In the meantime, I’ve been telling Nick all about my honey-bear.” She turned to Nick. “I didn’t ask how you know Dickey.” She leaned in closer. “Were you an inmate with him in prison? ‘Cause he told me he made a lot of friends while he was in there.” She turned to me. “He was a cook, ya know? For the inmates. Wrote a cookbook with all his recipes. I’m going to help him get it published. My brother-in-law is a literary agent in New York.” She turned back to Nick. “Were you his cellmate or something?”

  I bit into another cookie and gazed over at Nick, waiting for his answer.

  “Not exactly,” he mumbled.

  “Oh, now I get it. She leaned in closer and whispered. I leaned in closer and listened. “You’re a friend from his Mafia days, aren’t you?”

  I sat back, smirked and watched Nick’s face get all serious. “I’m with the Sheriff’s Department,” he told her. “I’d simply like to talk to Dickey.” He turned to me. “But that seems to be a bit of a problem.”

  I swallowed, not wanting to say anything that might incriminate me later when and if the body ever did turn up. “I need more cookies. Can I get either of you anything?”

  I stood.

  Jade seemed to be in shock. She stopped talking. Nick was all smiles. “Yes, I’ll take an éclair, they look great.”

  When I arrived at the counter with my empty plate, Aunt Babe was standing down at the other end, alone. I walked over to her. “Honey, you need to lose the cop and the dame.” She still had that Barbara Stanwyck thing going on.

  “Want to give me a clue how I should do that? Where’s Dickey’s SUV?”

  “Don’t fret, doll. Uncle Ray moved it.”

  “Oh, well, that makes sense. Wouldn’t want the SUV sitting around attracting attention.” I sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a rush of frustration. “This is getting completely out of control. We’re diving in deeper and deeper. This is how to end up in jail, you know. I don’t think I’ll like jail. The jumpsuits are really unattractive.”

  “I baked an Amaretto cake this morning. How about I cut you a big chunk?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her, sort of an evil eye kind of thing.

  “You getting a headache, doll?” she asked.

  Apparently, I wasn’t very good at the evil eye thing.

  “I’m thinking I should just tell Nick about the murder.”

  “And what are you going to tell him happened to the body?”

  “I don’t know. He’s the detective, maybe he can tell me what happened to it.”

  “It won’t be pretty. This whole place’ll get locked down for days. We’ll all be suspects, and who knows what they’ll dig up. Don’t forget he’s got your mom’s gun.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Nothing escapes your Aunt Babe.”

  She pulled out six more Amaretto cookies, added a rather large slice of Amaretto cake and placed everything on a large white plate. “Is this enough, or should I bring over the whole cake?”

  “I’ll let you know.” I grabbed the goodie plate. “Nick would like an éclair.”

  She slid open the glass door on the counter, pulled out an éclair, placed it on a larger dish, and added a cream puff and a cream filled horn. “These are for Jade. The dame already ate two puffs, but from the look on the doll’s puss, she’s gonna want more.”

  “When was the last time you saw Dickey, alive?” I whispered.

  “Now’s not the time to be asking questions. I might have something to tell ya, but lose the heat first.”

  She patted the bottom waves on her hair, turned slightly and asked the middle-aged woman who had walked up next to me if she could help her. I thought about asking Aunt Hetty a few questions, but with Nick and Jade in the same room, I knew she would be even more uncooperative than Aunt Babe.

  I turned and headed back to the table carrying the plates of goodies. My pot of tea had arrived along with a white mug. As I walked toward them I knew I had to figure out a way to get rid of them, if only for a little while.

  “Is that for me?” Jade asked when I returned to the table.

  “Yes,” I told her, and she grabbed the cream puff before I could put the plate down. I placed the éclair in front of Nick.

  “Thanks,” he said. “What do I owe you?”

  “On the house,” I answered.

  He took a bite, custard oozed out the bottom and splattered on his plate. I thought it was too bad it didn’t land
on his pants. He’d have to leave to change if it fell on his pants. Nothing stains like lemon custard, well, except maybe thirty liters of olive oil, but that was last night’s fiasco. I’d have to think of something else for today.

  Nick calmly finished off his éclair while I finished off the Amaretto cake in three bites and washed it down with the entire pot of hot tea. This was getting scary. I didn’t know who in my family had killed Dickey nor did I know who wanted that ring, but the entire incident was enough to make me crave a good solid binge.

  I had to get more aggressive with my interrogations if I was going to remain sober and figure out this murder game, or I was destined, at the very least, to become an Amaretto addict.

  Jade’s phone made a growl. “It’s my honey-bear!” she trilled. “He’s calling me. That’s his ring.”

  I tried to remain calm as I threw Nick a “see, everything’s okay,” kind of look, but I could tell he was skeptical, while I was curious about the caller.

  At first, Jade couldn’t find her phone in her oversized Coach tote. Then by some miracle of female determination, she came up with a pink Blackberry. She put the phone up to her ear and cooed, “Hi honey-bear, where are you?”

  Both Nick and I were intent on the call. He pretended to be interested in the cream-filled horn still on his plate, while I pretended to be fascinated in the pot of mums on the other side of the window.

  “Ah-huh. Yes. Sure. But are you okay? You don’t—”

  She listened, head down, staring at the table. “Right away, sweetie. Okay. Love you.”

  She disconnected.

  “I’ve got to go,” she told us, grabbing her bag and standing, a concerned, rushed look on her face.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked her.

  “No. I don’t think so. I just need to go.”

  “Go where?” Nick asked.

  “Someplace,” she said. “I, I can’t tell you. Just someplace.”

  Nick’s phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” Nick said, pulling out his cell and greeting the person on the line with a, “Nick Zeleski.”

  Jade turned to me, whispering, “What’s the fastest way to Glen Ellen? I have a GPS in my car, but sometimes it doesn’t tell me the best route.”