It Cannoli Be Murder

by Catherine Bruns

  Gino grunted in exasperation. “No, pain in my butt. Colleagues of his were involved in tampering with evidence. He knew about it but wasn’t directly involved himself. He has a legal obligation to report such things. When questioned, he decided to retire and the department agreed not to charge him. After six months he came back to the force. It’s been done before.”

  Gabby’s eyes were shining. “What were they tampering with?”

  “None of your business,” Gino retorted. “I already told you more than you should know. Look. No one’s going to charge you guys with anything. It would have to be over my dead body first. If Paddy comes looking for you again, just humor him, okay? It will make my life easier too, trust me.”

  He ruffled Gabby’s hair and then turned and went back inside. With resignation, we got into my car and I drove back to the bookstore where she’d left hers. Thankfully the earlier crowd had dispersed.

  “My brother the wimp,” Gabby said furiously. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Let it go,” I replied wearily. “He’s got a wife and kids to think about. He can’t afford to rock the boat, no matter how long he’s been there.”

  “But it’s ridiculous,” Gabby fumed. “Paddy is focused on us, not the real culprit. At this rate, he’ll never find the killer. All we need is for it to get out that you and I had something to do with the murder. Then we’ll both be hanging going-out-of-business signs.”

  My doors hadn’t even opened yet. I’d never heard of a business that had closed before its first day. Maybe I’d be setting some new type of record. Despite everything, I tried to think positive. “Want to hang out with me? I have an interview in an hour.”

  “No thanks,” Gabby sighed as she let herself out of my car. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be in bed with the covers pulled up over my head.”

  * * *

  I mulled over the morning’s events while I sipped a cup of coffee in Anything’s Pastable’s kitchen. It had started to rain a little while ago, and I listened to its comforting sound on the roof. Still frustrated, I closed my eyes for a few seconds. The restaurant’s opening had taken a backseat to becoming a suspect in a murder. Things weren’t looking good for either Gabby or me right now. Gabby was furious that her brother couldn’t work the case and felt like he’d betrayed her. Deep down I suspected she knew it wasn’t his fault but needed to blow off steam—and Gino was an easy target.

  As the day wore on, things proceeded to go downhill. My first interview at one o’clock had arrived fifteen minutes late and immediately wanted to know what kind of health benefits were available. Since my staff was under twenty people, I wasn’t obligated to provide medical insurance, plus there was no way I could afford it at this point. When I’d explained there was none available, she’d gotten up and left without another word.

  I carried my coffee back to the table where I’d been conducting my interviews. In the downtime I’d put together a list of things to get done before opening night. The permits and fire inspections had all concluded last week. I was still waiting on the menus, and the new sink in the bathroom was dripping, but that could be put off if necessary. Yesterday I’d hired a linen service, so that was one thing to cross off my list. I was in the process of obtaining more vendors for food deliveries and figured that I’d probably have to order produce three times a week, and meat at least twice.

  Then there was the matter of the restaurant’s taxes. Dylan had been an accountant by trade, so that would have been ideal. There were plenty of people he’d worked with whom I could consult, but he hadn’t left the company on good terms and I was reluctant to hire one of his former coworkers. Gabby had used Dylan for Once Upon a Book before, but I’d forgotten to ask her who had done the store’s taxes for the past year. I made a note to check when she was in a better frame of mind.

  The search for qualified help was starting to depress me. I’d never dreamed it would be so difficult to find people who were both eager and willing to work. My stomach twisted. What if the three waitresses I’d hired didn’t show up on opening night? I prayed that my last interviewee today would work out. Heck, I hoped she at least showed up.

  I glanced down at the application in my hands, the result of an ad I’d placed online last week. Stephanie Beaudry was only a year younger than me, but her name wasn’t familiar. For work experience she’d listed two years of waitressing at the Golden Spoon Diner in Delaware until last November. Her address was 29 Summer Place, a five-minute walk to my restaurant.

  My phone buzzed with a text, and I stared at the screen. It was from Vince. Will you be at the restaurant today?

  My fingers flew over the keyboard. I’m here now. What’s up?

  His response came promptly. How about a private tour? I’d love to see what you’ve done lately.

  Sure. I’ll be here for a while.

  Vince had been in New York City for the past couple of days. He’d lived there at one time and owned a gourmet restaurant until it closed last year, through no fault of his own. It was always fun to chat with him about my vision for the place because he was one of a few people I knew who understood the business, plus he’d given me several useful tips.

  We’d gotten off to a bit of a rocky start last fall when I’d been employed at Slice. Vince had occasionally helped out in the kitchen as a favor to the man who’d been renting the building from him at the time. A sous chef himself, he didn’t seem interested in pursuing cooking full time. He had no other job, at least not one that I knew of, and I couldn’t help but wonder how he spent his days. Did he have an unlimited pile of cash at his disposal? Vince never held his hand out for the rent money, but I was careful to always pay on time.

  The private tour part made me uneasy. Sure, Vince was interested in the restaurant, but there was a time when he’d also been interested in me as well. He’d backed off from asking me out again after learning I was widowed but still made several visits to the restaurant each month, just to ask how things were going. Last month, he’d run into Gabby and me at Java Time and joined us for a cappuccino. He’d been polite, interesting, and charming as all get-out. Every woman who’d come into the shop while we were there had ogled him, some more discreetly than others.

  I didn’t have time to worry about giving Vince a tour right now. There were bigger concerns—like the fact that I’d found a dead body earlier today, and the new detective in town was breathing down my neck. Daphne’s face kept appearing before my eyes. Suddenly, another thought occurred to me. Had Daphne been alone when she died? Was she lured there by someone else, or had she gone willingly to meet her killer? I tried to think who might hate Daphne enough to want to kill her. The Rigotta women, for starters. Lorenzo. Was there someone else in the picture who hadn’t been at the signing? What if—

  “Mrs. Esposito?” A woman with short, curly auburn hair was standing in front of me. She gave me a shy, hesitant smile.

  Startled, I jumped up from the seat and managed to knock my cup of coffee all over the cover of my planner. I hadn’t even heard her come in. “Excuse me, I’m a bit distracted today.”

  The woman was quicker than me. She produced some napkins from her purse and started to blot the table while I ran out to the kitchen for a dish towel, then removed the tablecloth. “Please excuse me.”

  She examined my face closely. “Are you okay? You acted like you’d seen a ghost.”

  Or a corpse. There was no way I’d tell a potential employee about what had happened earlier, but the truth was that Daphne’s death had affected me more than I’d imagined. “Fine, thanks. Too much caffeine. Are you Stephanie?”

  She nodded and held out her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Esposito.”

  “Please call me Tessa.” I picked up my coffee-scented planner, thankful I’d bought a leather instead of cloth one, and gestured to a table near the fireplace. “Let’s sit over here.”

  She took off
her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair while I studied her. Stephanie was tall with a medium build, dressed in black slacks and a purple blouse. A dusting of freckles dotted her cheeks and upturned nose. Deep-set green eyes waited for further instruction as she sat down in the chair across from me. There was a girl-next-door quality to Stephanie that made her seem wholesome, and when she smiled it lit up the entire room.

  I tried not to get my hopes up, but it was difficult. I had not checked references yet, because why bother if she hadn’t shown for the interview? “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No thanks.” She looked around the room in pleasure. “Wow. I’ve never been in here before, but my neighbor told me this used to be a dive pizza joint.” Color rose in her neck. “Sorry. That sounded insulting. Sometimes I don’t think before I speak.”

  I laughed. “That’s okay. I didn’t own the place when it was a pizza parlor.”

  Her cherry-colored lips parted into a winsome smile. “Alice, my neighbor, said that you’d done a lot of renovations. It’s the talk of the town. I think the place is amazing.”

  “Thank you.” I would never tire of hearing that. I glanced down at the application in front of me. “So, you waited tables for two years at the Golden Spoon Diner. How long have you lived in Harvest Park?”

  “I moved here last December. I’ve been working at Pie Carumba since then.”

  Pie Carumba sold mouthwatering pies and cakes and had a small breakfast menu. They’d been a bit of stiff competition for Carlita lately. “Oh, I know the owner, Greg Dennison. He’s a nice guy.”

  Stephanie nodded. “He is, but I’d prefer to work in a restaurant, not a bakery. If it’s as a waitress that’s fine, but I do have some training in the kitchen, too.”

  My eyebrows lifted. Be still my heart. This was exactly what I had been looking for—someone who might be able to help me create simple side dishes and do some hosting or waitressing if needed. “What type of training?”

  “I went to culinary school, but I had to drop out after a couple of months,” Stephanie explained. “My mother became terminally ill while I was there, so I quit and went back home to take care of her. She died three months later, and I’ve never regretted the decision.”

  My heart went out to her. “I’m so sorry. Did you ever think about going back? Or decide you wanted to do something else?” I didn’t want to pry, but she was easy to talk to and I found her candor refreshing. Most of the other applicants I’d interviewed hadn’t been as forthcoming. Hope bloomed in my chest. Please, please don’t ask for an insane amount of money.

  Stephanie shifted in her seat. “I thought about it, but the timing wasn’t right anymore. A year after she died, I got married and then immediately got pregnant with my daughter.” She hesitated for a moment. “My husband didn’t like the idea of me working. He was a bit controlling and when he started to become abusive last year, I left him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” An uncomfortable silence fell between us. This was an extremely personal subject that I didn’t feel was any of my business, unless she wanted to pursue it further. “How old is your daughter?”

  Stephanie’s face brightened. “Zoe’s five. I know this job would require nights, of course, and that’s fine. I live in a duplex, and the woman on the other side has a daughter the same age and has already told me she’ll watch Zoe. If I get the job, of course.”

  “The restaurant will be closed on Sundays and Mondays,” I explained. “I plan to give everyone at least a thirty-hour work week, except for a couple of waitresses who have asked for less. For this position, I’d prefer someone to work four days with extended hours, say one to ten, or something like that. Closer to forty hours. It would be a little of everything—some light cooking and serving if we’re shorthanded. The cooking wouldn’t be too complicated and under my complete direction. I freeze many items ahead of time, such as pasta and my tomato sauce.”

  She looked impressed. “You make your own pasta? Not all restaurants do that.”

  “I like my food to be authentic.”

  “That’s amazing. Alice told me that you were a trained chef. To have the opportunity to learn more from you would be a dream come true.” Her expression sobered. “She said that your husband had died recently. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” I said politely and quickly changed the subject. I explained what the job would pay and to my relief, Stephanie seemed fine with it.

  “That’s more than I make at the pie shop,” she said. “Plus, a four-day work week would be fantastic.” She nodded toward the application in front of me. “You have my references—well, if you’re thinking about offering me the job, of course. I didn’t mean to assume.”

  Oh, I was definitely thinking about it. “Yes, I do plan to call them.”

  She beamed. “Awesome. Is there any way I can see the kitchen before I leave?”

  A girl after my own heart. “Of course you can.” I rose from the table, and she followed me to my pride and joy. Sure, I was proud of the entire restaurant, but a chef’s true passion was her kitchen.

  “There used to be a pizza oven in this spot,” I told her, pointing to the right. “A contractor built extra shelving and counter space in its place.” I gestured to the other side of the room. “He also installed a pantry next to the fridge, and the stove is new.” I had a love affair with my new gas stove—a ten-burner, Southbend stainless-steel piece of art with two standard ovens. It cooked everything to perfection and was an absolute delight to use.

  “This is gorgeous,” Stephanie said in awe as she ran her finger over the light-blue Formica countertops. “I hope I get the job.” Then she blushed. “Maybe I’m not supposed to say things like that, but it would be terrific to work with you. I know I’d learn so much. What’s better than doing something you love, and getting paid for it? Do you know what I mean?”

  “Totally.” Even though I’d been cooking since the age of ten, I still had to pinch myself at times that this was finally happening to me.

  “Pardon me, ladies. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  We both looked up. Vince Falducci was leaning against the doorway, a broad smile on his handsome face and a silver gift-wrapped box in his hand. He gave a slight bow. “Hail to the chef.”

  “Welcome back. I didn’t even hear you come in.” Vince had a key to the restaurant, and this wasn’t the first time he’d shown up unannounced. It was still his building so he could do whatever he wanted, and he always did.

  “That’s because I move like a cat.” He ran a hand through his curly, dark hair, which always looked slightly mussed. Stephanie’s tongue was practically hanging out of her mouth as she watched him. Oh brother.

  “This is Stephanie Beaudry. Stephanie, my landlord, Vince Falducci.”

  Stephanie recovered from her daze in time to give him a full-fledged smile, which he returned. She held out her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” Vince brushed his fingers against hers. The scruff around his mouth was more pronounced than usual, and when he smiled, his sensual lips parted, displaying perfect white teeth that glowed against his bronzed skin.

  “I can wait in the other room until you’re done,” he told me. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve been interviewing Stephanie for a job.” I turned to her, but she seemed to have forgotten me. “Stephanie, I have everything I need, unless you have further questions.”

  “Huh? Oh, sorry.” She forced her eyes away from Vince’s face and back to mine, her cheeks tinged with pink. “Um, when do you think you’ll be making a decision by?”

  I considered. “As soon as possible. The restaurant opens in less than a week. I’d say by tomorrow or Tuesday at the latest, depending when I hear back from the rest of the candidates.” God, I was such a liar. Who was I kidding? Stephanie
was my only serious candidate. How I prayed that her references would check out.

  “Greg wouldn’t mind if I had to give him less than a week’s notice. He knew that I was coming here for an interview. I wanted to make you aware, in case that’s a factor in your decision.” Stephanie’s eyes held a pleading look.

  “Sounds good. Thanks for coming, and I’ll be in touch soon.”

  “Bye,” she said shyly, and then her face colored as she waved to Vince. He nodded casually while I bit into my lower lip, attempting to hide my smile. Vince was another Lorenzo type who attracted women like magnets.

  After we heard the front door close, Vince placed the package on the counter in front of me. “Here you go. A little housewarm—er, I mean, a little restaurant-warming present.”

  “That was thoughtful, but you didn’t have to do anything.”

  “I know,” he teased and removed his leather jacket. Vince was wearing a short-sleeved, form-fitting navy T-shirt that displayed a prominent tattoo of a scorpion on his well-developed left bicep. “But you’re going to love it.”

  I tore off the paper. Inside the rectangular shaped box was a custom-made cutting board. The background was red with white letters that read “ANYTHING’S PASTABLE WHEN TESSA’S IN CHARGE.”

  I laughed out loud. “This is great! I’ll hang it in here for inspiration. Thank you.”

  He smiled and leaned across the counter, his eyes dark and warm like fresh coffee beans in the morning.“You’re welcome.”

  Vince seemed to be deep in thought as he watched me emptying the dishwasher. “Something wrong?” I asked.

  His eyebrows rose, causing the scar above his left one to become more pronounced. “Not at all.”

  Then it dawned on me. “You’re looking for the rent money.” It wasn’t due for a couple more days, but I had it ready.

  Vince shook his head. “I’m not worried about that. I’m actually worried about you. Your car is always here.”

  Jeez, was he spying on me now? I barked out a laugh. “Well, that’s usually the way it is when you own a restaurant. I’m sure you remember. You practically live there.”