She surveyed me top to toe and then nodded crisply in what I hoped was approval. "Enough of this standing about. You will come to the kitchen and make the pasta."
Several forks clattered. I squared my shoulders and resisted the urge to look around and verify that the entire room full of patrons had born witness to Andy's Folly. Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if a whole troop of Boy Scouts lurked in the kitchen, EpiPens at the ready, because the little buggers would do anything for a merit badge.
"Actually, I need to see Pops. Is he here?"
Aunt Cecily squinted her eyes, somehow managing to look down at me as though I'd disappointed her. "He is very sick, wrong in the head."
"I heard that, you old battle-ax," Pops grumbled as he emerged from the tiny business office.
"Aricchi Du Porcu." Aunt Cecily glowered while comparing her brother-in-law to the hair on a pig's ear. Though I was probably the only person in the joint who understood the insult, her tone clued the rest of the patrons in on her displeasure.
Everyone knew that dining in the pasta shop often came with a bonus floor show.
"Andy girl!" Pops shuffled over to me, intentionally ignoring the tiny seething Italian woman glaring daggers at him. Pops wasn't big on public displays of affection, but he wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and I pressed my face against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of peppermint and wood smoke.
His color was high, and though his skin was paper thin and mottled with age spots, he looked much the same as he had over the past five years. A sigh of relief escaped. Aunt Cecily must have been mistaken. He didn't look depressed at all.
Pops escorted me back to the office and shut the door. "Daniel Tate called. Said you vouched for some strange guy lurking about off Route 86."
Tattletale. "He's right on both counts, although the 'strange guy' is a transplant who gave me a ride here, since my car is wrecked." I didn't elaborate because I didn't want him to know just how worried I'd been about him. Pops would have considered it shameful to have his granddaughter fuss over him to such an extent.
Upon closer inspection he looked tired, with tight lines creasing around his mouth. "What's wrong, Pops? I can see it in your face."
With a grunt, he lowered himself into the leather office chair held together by duct tape. His shoulders slumped in as though he carried the weight of the world and was bowing under the constant strain.
"It's this place. We need to sell the Bowtie Angel."
MURDER AL DENTE
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Sleuthing for the Weekend Page 23
