Here Comes the Body
Page 1
MURDER AT THE CATERING HALL
She found the anniversary couple posing for photos in the outdoor gazebo where they’d renewed their vows. The photographer finished taking pictures of the couple and Mia was herding everyone back to the Marina Ballroom when her headset buzzed. It was Cody.
“We have a situation, ma’am.”
The tone of his voice alarmed her. “What’s going on?”
“No one jumped out of the cake.”
“Did you look inside to make sure someone was there?”
“Affirmative. I had one of the waiters double-check before we wheeled the cake out. Something must be wrong with the lady inside it.”
“I’m on my way.”
She hurried out of the Marina Ballroom into the foyer and was about to start up the stairs when an attractive woman in a trench coat burst through the Belle View front doors. “Sorry I’m late,” she gasped, out of breath.
Mia stared at her. “Who are you?”
The woman opened her coat, revealing a sequined bikini. “Park Lexington. I’m working the bachelor party.”
“You’re the stripper? Then who’s in the—”
Mia’s stomach clenched. She raced up the stairs and burst into the Bay Ballroom.
Cody helped her climb to the top of the cake. She threw open the lid and peered inside. A woman lay crumpled on the bottom. Mia prayed she was unconscious, but the blood pooling under the knife sticking out of Angie’s chest told a different story . . .
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Here Comes the Body
Maria DiRico
KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
MURDER AT THE CATERING HALL
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Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
RECIPES
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Ellen Byron
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2534-9
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2537-0 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2537-9 (eBook)
Here Comes the Body is dedicated to
the DiRicos, DiNardos, Tenaglias, Caniglias,
Carullos, Grossos, Testas, Evangelistas,
and the rest of my amazing extended Italian family.
But it’s mostly dedicated to my late nonna,
Maria DiRico DiVirgilio, and my extraordinary mother,
Elisabetta DiVirgilio Seideman.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m grateful to my terrific agent, Doug Grad, who found the perfect home for the Catering Hall Mysteries, as well as the perfect editor, John Scognamilio. Mille grazie to both of you! I couldn’t write this series without the priceless help of Kristen Sagona, senior event planner at Pickwick Gardens Conference Center in Burbank, California. Kristen, thank you for your infinite patience with all my questions and your boundless enthusiasm for this series. And thanks to your wonderful staff as well.
A shout-out to my fabulous partners in crime (writing) at chicksonthecase.com: Lisa Q. Mathews, Mariella Krause, Kellye Garrett, Leslie Karst, Vickie Fee, Cynthia Kuhn, Becky Clark, and Kathy Valenti. A special thank-you to Leslie for a great beta read of this book, as well as to friend and fellow mystery author Nancy Cole Silverman for her insightful notes. Thanks to Sisters in Crime (especially SinCLA), the Guppies, and my pals at SoCalMWA for the inspiration and camaraderie. Kimberly and George Taweel, thank you for letting your beautiful Sphinxy inspire Mia’s kitty, Doorstop. And as always, I’m eternally grateful to my husband, Jer, and daughter, Eliza, for their support and the sacrifices they make for my mystery writing career.
A heartfelt thank-you to my late cousins Ralphy and Pauly for the great events they supervised at Astoria Manor and Grand Bay Marina, and to all my Italian relatives for the endless engagement parties, weddings, birthdays, Sweet Sixteens, and yes, even funeral luncheons. I will never forget the wonderful times I got to share with you. Ti amo tutti.
And finally, I never could have written this book had I not been lucky enough to cater-waiter for Martha Stewart when she was just launching her meteoric career. If you have an early edition of her first book, Entertaining, you’ll find me standing next to her on page 29. Martha, you inspired me then . . . and you inspire me now.
Chapter One
At 6:45 A.M., Mia Carina woke up to Frank Sinatra singing “New York, New York” from the alarm on her phone, a happy reminder that she was in Queens, not Florida, and no longer a “person of interest” in her adulterous husband’s disappearance.
Mia had only been back in Astoria a few days. She could have left the Sunshine State months earlier. But she’d chosen to hold her head high, despite the cloud over it, and retain her position as gen
eral manager for the Palm Beach branch of Korri Designs, a go-to destination for the uber-wealthy seeking ridiculously expensive leather goods. Luckily, a little notoriety had proved a good thing sales-wise. Between her status as a person of interest in a salacious murder investigation and the whispered rumor that her father was a well-known mafioso—which happened to be true—Mia sold enough overpriced accessories to pay for a first-class ticket out of town when she gave notice.
She yawned, stretched, and snuggled up to Doorstop, the sleek ginger Abyssinian cat sharing her pillow. Then she threw off the covers. Doorstop responded with an annoyed meow. “Sorry, bud,” the thirty-one-year-old-most-likely-a-widow said, grinning at the smoky blob of orange fur burying its head under the covers. “Mama’s got to get to work.”
Mia rolled off the blow-up mattress currently serving as her bed and scrambled to her feet. She noticed the birdcage on top of a still-to-be-emptied box and got a pang of sadness. Formerly the home of her pet parakeet, Pizzazz, the cage stood empty of its resident. As she was leaving her Palm Beach apartment, she had been jostled by a crowd of local reporters eager to make their bones by getting a departing comment from her. The cage door flew open and Pizzazz, confused and scared, flew off. Mia delayed her flight home and plastered the neighborhood with flyers promising a hefty reward for the bird’s return, but so far no one had reported a sighting.
She padded through the empty second floor of her grandmother’s two-family house into the bathroom for a shower, then pulled clothing out of her suitcase: a black pencil skirt and fitted jacket she paired with a silk turquoise top that brought out the blue in her eyes. Mia had learned from her boss at Korri that her crystalline orbs, wavy dark brunette hair, and pale skin made her a “Winter.” Cool, bright colors flattered Mia. She’d also learned never to dress better than the customers, something she kept in mind while putting together an outfit for her first day of work at Belle View Banquet Manor, a party venue surrendered to her father, Ravello Carina, by a gambler who couldn’t pay his debts.
Mia filled Doorstop’s food and water bowls, grabbed her purse, then headed downstairs, a pair of black high heels in one hand. Elisabetta Carina, Mia’s beloved grandmother, stood waiting in the home’s small vestibule. Mia kissed Elisabetta on both cheeks as Hero, her grandmother’s chubby terrier mix, barked protectively. “Hero, stai zitto,” Elisabetta scolded in her native tongue, which she still preferred to English despite decades in America. Hero responded with an annoyed grumble.
“At least he likes Doorstop. He’ll get used to me.” Mia bent down to pet the mutt, who gave her a haughty glance, then succumbed to the affection.
“I made you breakfast. Fried eggs and sausage,” Elisabetta said. The eighty-three-year-old was not one to let a clogged artery or two get in the way of her favorite fatty foods, much to her cardiologist’s chagrin.
“Grazie, but I don’t have time. I want to get to Belle View early. Suss out the place.”
“Va bene, I’ll put it in a container. You can have it tomorrow.” While the thought of day-old, reheated fried eggs might be anathema to the average human, Mia took it in stride. For the Carinas, wasting food was sacrilege.
Elisabetta zipped up the jacket of her velour track suit, her daily uniform. Today’s outfit was burgundy with navy trim. “I’m going on a power walk with the Army.”
Mia couldn’t help smiling. The “Army” was a posse of Italian and Greek grandmothers who’d lived on the block for fifty, sixty, even seventy years, and “power walk” was a euphemism for gossipy stroll.
“I’ll see if anyone’s giving away furniture,” Elisabetta continued as she did a few half-hearted stretches to ostensibly warm up. “Maybe someone’s decided to turn their second bedroom into a sewing room.” “Sewing room” was another neighborhood euphemism. It meant an ancient, dusty sewing machine squashed between boxes of half-broken Christmas ornaments and polyester clothes from the seventies that were “too nice to give away.”
“That would be great.”
Elisabetta hugged her granddaughter. “I’m so glad you’re back. Ti amo. I love you, bella bambina.”
“I love you too, Nonna. Ci vediamo stasera. See you tonight.”
Elisabetta left to meet up with her senior crew. Mia opened the Pick-You-Up rideshare app on her phone and tapped in a request, then put on her heels and stepped outside. Easter had just passed, but the tidy front yards of the brick two-family homes were still awash in pastel decorations and strings of lights shaped like rabbits, eggs, lambs, and chicks. No holiday went uncelebrated or undecorated on 46th Place. Competition to outspend and one-up each other turned the sweet little old ladies of the neighborhood into bloodthirsty competitors. Mia’s own grandmother was the worst offender. When Mia was little, Elisabetta even roped her into undercover spy work. While Elisabetta delivered batches of her famous pizzelle cookies to unsuspecting neighbors, her granddaughter would plead a need to use the bathroom, but instead sneak a peek at any decorations laid out in a spare room, later reporting as many details as she could remember to her eager nonna, who’d then make sure to top them.
A moving van at the far end of the block caught Mia’s eye. Gentrification was starting to rear its upscale head in the neighborhood. She was furious when Elisabetta told her that real estate agents were intimidating elderly locals by implying they were losing their wits, then offering flyers for assisted living facilities along with their business cards. The block was an oasis of tradition and neighborliness—holiday decoration battles excepted—and Mia would fight to keep it that way.
A silver, older-model Prius pulled up in front of the Carina home. Mia shook her head but marched down the stairs and got into the back seat of the car. “First the airport, now here? You can’t be the only Pick-U-Up car in the area.”
The driver, Jamie Boldano, shrugged and smiled. “Let’s just call it luck.” Jamie, whose father, Donny, was Ravello’s boss, had the misfortune of being the sole intellectual in a family of mobster goombahs. Determined to forge his own path, he’d embarked on a teaching career, but was now earning a master’s degree in family therapy and ridesharing to pay the bills. Mia and Jamie had grown up together and even briefly dated in high school. Mia wasn’t the only Carina who wished she’d married Jamie instead of adulterer Adam Grosso. But Jamie, struggling to find himself, hadn’t asked. And now Mia, burned by her marital disaster, had more interest in cold fried eggs than in another relationship.
Jamie followed local streets until he merged onto Grand Central Parkway. As they drove past LaGuardia Airport, Mia flashed on when she and husband Adam made their move to Palm Beach. Theirs was a whirlwind relationship that began during Mia’s celebration of her twenty-seventh birthday with some girlfriends at Mingles, an aptly named Astoria hangout. Her friends were impressed when a 750 liter of Dom Perignon champagne was delivered to their table, “courtesy of the gentleman at the bar.” Mia was more impressed by the “gentleman at the bar,” who had the tawny blond looks of a Northern Italian and introduced himself as “your future husband, Adam Grosso.”
At the end of the evening, Adam had helped a drunk Mia into a taxi, then jumped in with her. A hookup turned into a torrid romance, which turned into an impulsive wedding a month later during a weekend getaway in Vegas. Adam revealed to Mia that when they met, he was only supposed to be in town for a week before moving to Florida to begin work as a manager at Tutta Pasta, a popular Palm Beach restaurant. He’d extended his stay for a few weeks just to be with her. She rewarded him with her hand in marriage and relocation to the Sunshine State, much to her brokenhearted family’s chagrin.
Basta, Mia said to herself. Enough focusing on four years of my life I’ll never get back. Like the saying goes, that was then, this is now. And now I’m in a car with Jamie. Smart, kind and cute Ja—No! Stop! Basta! She pulled out her tablet and tried to focus.
“So,” Jamie said, “looking forward to today?”
“Yes, in a big way.” Mia hesitated. “But I’m nervous. I’ve ne
ver done anything like this. Neither has my dad. It has to work out. I don’t want him going back to his old job. No offense to your dad or anything.”
“No worries, I get it. If it makes you feel better, I hear Ravello’s doing a great job running the place. Nothing seems to throw him, which is important when you’re dealing with the biggest events in people’s lives. Weddings, anniversaries, birthdays—they’re all emotionally high-octane events that can cause as much stress as pleasure.”
“I think that’s your psych degree talking.”
Jamie blushed. The fact that Mia found this trait of his attractive made her blush as well. “We’re here,” Jamie said as he drove through a parking lot and pulled up in front of a nondescript building from the mid-1960s.
Mia released a breath, and the unexpected sexual tension she felt dissipated. She looked out the window at her new work home. Belle View Banquet Manor was perched on a small outcropping of land squeezed between Flushing Bay and the parking lot that served its marina. Belle View’s glass-paned architecture was designed to take advantage of the views—some scenic, some not so much. The catering venue was also adjacent to the landing pattern for LaGuardia.
“Nice location,” Jamie said. “You know, it has the same name as the mental ward in Manhattan.”
“Yeah, we’re not gonna lead with that on the website.” Mia shoved her tablet back in her purse. “Thanks, Jamie.”
“See you later.”
“You might. Or you might not.”
“Odds favor the former.” Jamie shot her a slightly devilish grin and drove off. The son of Donny Boldano might claim independence from his mobbed-up family, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t occasionally take a page from their dicey book.