by Maria DiRico
“Catfight is a sexist term,” Mia said.
“Sorry. How’s ‘an exchange of blows rendered by those that are of the female persuasion?’” Pete put away the pad. “Or, here’s another way to look at the situation. The Boldano Family was suspected in that art heist. The body of Tina Karras is found in the water behind Belle View Banquet Manor, run by a Family lieutenant—”
Mia and Jamie exchanged a nervous glance. “Go with your first instinct,” Jamie said. “The passion thing.”
“We can guarantee NYPD a bazillion percent that nobody we know had anything to do with the heist,” Mia declared. “And I’ve known the Karras family almost my whole life. Nicole and I were in preschool together. If this is murder, you’re gonna have to cast a way wider net, Pete.” She glanced over to where representatives from the coroner’s office were transferring the late Tina from the large net that divers had used to retrieve her, into a body bag. “Not the best choice of words on my part.”
Jamie gave Mia a gentle poke in the ribs with his elbow. He motioned with his head toward the parking lot entrance. Several news vans had pulled up to the crime scene tape blocking entry to the lot. A slim woman, immaculately dressed in a sleek maroon dress and black heels, hopped out of a van. Mia recognized her as the investigative reporter from the local station’s six p.m. newscast. The reporter stuck a mic in the face of the officer guarding the entrance.
“Incoming,” Jamie said.
“Great,” Mia muttered. “Time to make ourselves outgoing. Are you done with us, Pete?”
“For now.” The detective glanced at the news vans. “Ugh. Don’t talk to them.”
“No worries on that score,” Mia said.
She and Jamie ran to the beater car and made their escape with Jamie behind the wheel. As they peeled out of the parking lot, Mia saw Teri Fuoco drive up in her tiny Smart car. Mia garnered pleasure from seeing that for once the Triborough Trib journalist was late to a Boldano Family story.
Mia texted her father the bad news on the drive home and warned him not to go by Belle View. Do NOT put yourself in Pete’s crosshairs.
Ravello responded with a long row of thumbs-up. Jamie dropped her off with a promise to touch base later, and Mia went inside. She found Elisabetta, readers perched on her nose, scouring the obituaries in the print edition of the Triborough Trib. Mia kicked off her sneakers and plopped down on the couch next to her grandmother. “Looking for funerals?”
“Yeah. People are living so much longer, there’s way less of them than there used to be.”
“I can tell you one that’ll probably be taking place soon, but I wouldn’t use it as a chance to send Gugliemo some shoes.”
Elisabetta arched her eyebrows and closed the paper. “Parlami.”
Mia did as ordered and shared the story of Tina’s strange demise. Elisabetta gasped and crossed herself. “Madonna mia. What kind of world is this where people go around murdering each other? That Pete doesn’t suspect your father again, does he?”
“It’s not officially a murder until the cause of death is determined,” Mia cautioned. “But I don’t think he suspects Dad. I mean, that’s Pete’s go-to take on any crime near Belle View. But Dad wasn’t even at the shower and he never even met Tina. As far as I know.” Given how closed-mouthed her father was about his past ventures, Mia felt compelled to add the last sentence.
Elisabetta fell back against the couch and released a sigh of relief. “Grazie a dio. But poor Nicole. Do you think she’s okay? This is the last thing she needs in her condition. I’ll make a lasagna and send it over.” As usual, if there was a question in the Carina household, food was the answer.
“I don’t want to bother Nicole right now. I’m sure she’s with her dad. But I’ll call her later.” Mia planted a kiss on top of her tiny grandmother’s head. “I’m gonna take a nap. Between the heat and Tina, this morning really took it out of me.”
Mia went upstairs to her apartment. “Hi, babies,” she said to Doorstop and Pizzazz. “Who wants to take a lie-down with Mommy?”
Doorstop, who was already prone on the bed, stretched and purred. Mia opened the door to Pizzazz’s birdcage. The parakeet flew out and made herself comfortable on top of the gold-gilded, ostentatious headboard that crowned Mia’s hand-me-down bed. Mia substituted cotton drawstring shorts for her jeans and collapsed onto the bed. She closed her eyes and instantly flashed on the image of Tina’s body being fished out of Flushing Bay. Her eyes popped open. She tried again. This time she flashed on the image of Tina’s body being zipped into a body bag. She gave an annoyed exclamation and sat up in bed. “It ain’t workin’, Doorstop,” she said to the cat, who was emitting peaceful little kitty snores. “If I’m not gonna sleep, I might as well do something useful.”
Mia got off the bed, took the laptop from her desk and returned to bed, propping herself up against the headboard. Despite her cautionary tone to Elisabetta, Mia didn’t believe some untimely accident landed the hated woman in the drink. She created a document titled SUSPECTS IN TINA’S MURDER. Mia paused and pondered. After a minute, she typed “Linda Karras” only because Justine the art dealer had blabbed about the bathroom imbroglio. Then she highlighted the name and deleted it. “I don’t care how much Linda hated Tina. I know in my bones she wouldn’t kill anyone.” Doorstop didn’t respond to Mia’s declaration, but Pizzazz cheeped what she chose to see as agreement. Next, she typed Minnie’s name. But she deleted it as well, unable to imagine the frail, diminutive old woman doing whatever it took to bump off Tina, then deposit her in the bay. Instead, Mia typed “Other People.” “That’s not too vague,” she muttered.
She thought for a moment, then typed Cow and Woman into the search bar. A long list of articles pertaining to the painting’s heist popped up on her screen. Mia read the first five, which were all different variations of the same story, the one she overheard Justine share with Teri Fuoco. She closed that search and typed in “Tina Iles-Karras.” The announcement of her wedding to Ron appeared, plus a few social media tags, but nothing of interest and since her identity hadn’t been revealed, there was no reference to her death. Mia yawned. Her eyelids fluttered shut.
* * *
“DINNER!”
“Agh!” Mia screamed and bolted up from bed, almost knocking her laptop onto the floor. She picked up her cell phone and checked the time. It was six P.M. Exhaustion had overcome her buzzing nerves, and she’d slept for five hours. She changed back into her jeans, then hurried downstairs to Elisabetta’s kitchen, passing through the living room, where voices chattered from the television her grandmother liked to have on in the background while she cooked. Ravello, clad in slacks and a button-down shirt, which he considered casual wear, was sitting at Elisabetta’s ancient dinette table fussing with an exquisite floral arrangement of lilies, roses, hydrangea, and snapdragons. “Look at what I made in Lin’s class today,” Ravello said proudly. “I figured you could use something cheerful around here after the last couple of days.”
“It’s gorgeous.” Mia bent down and breathed in the pungent scent of lilies and roses. “You got a real gift, Dad.”
“Meh.” Ravello gave a modest shrug. “I just do what Lin tells me.”
Elisabetta opened the oven door and Ravello’s flowers duked it out with the rich, tomato-y scent of lasagna. She plated three portions and placed them on the table, along with a hunk of parmesan cheese and a cheese grater. Then she sat down and said a quick prayer in Italian. “Adesso. Now we eat.”
Ravello shoveled a forkful of lasagna in his mouth. “I went by Belle View.”
Mia stopped eating. “Dad,” she said, frustrated,” I told you not to do that.”
“It’s okay. The cops were very respectful. I think I’m off the hook on this one. I had to show Benjy Tutera around the place. He starts tomorrow.”
“Right.” Mia resumed eating. “I forgot about him. Is he excited?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Ravello focused on his plate. Mia gave her father the s
ide eye. “Wow, could you sound any less convincing?”
Ravello waved off her concern. “He’ll be fine. Worry about other things.”
“Like who offed Tina.” Elisabetta worked the cheese grater with ferocity as she said this.
“Nonna, you sound like a nineteen-forties P.I.”
Mia’s cell rang. Elisabetta wagged a finger at her. “No phones at the dinner table.”
“It might be business.” Mia checked. “Argh, it’s Teri Fuoco, the reporter from the Triborough Tribune. Not answering, turning off ringer.” She did both. A text popped up. Mia cursed, then read it aloud. “ ‘Turn on channel 5.’”
“The TV’s already on 5,” Elisabetta said. “They got a real weatherperson, not some model girl dressed like she’s going to the prom.”
Mia got up and hurried into the living room. Her father and grandmother followed. The reporter Mia had seen jawing with the police officer was reporting live from the marina parking lot. Mia rewound the story to the beginning. “A body was recovered from Flushing Bay this afternoon,” the reporter intoned. The Carinas hovered around the television as she continued with the story.
“At least she didn’t mention Belle View,” Ravello said.
“. . . In the marina located behind Belle View Banquet Manor.”
“And there it is,” Mia said.
“At least she didn’t bring up the Family,” Ravello said, hunting for a bright side.
“. . . Belle View Banquet Manor recently came under new ownership and the business is now reported to be operated by members of the Boldano crime family.”
Mia crossed her arms in front of her chest and shot her father a baleful look. “At least she didn’t mention the murders from the spring?” he said hopefully.
“The upscale catering facility was the scene of two murders only a few months ago,” said the reporter.
“Hey, she called us upscale,” Ravello said, genuinely excited.
“Yeah, we can take that to the bank. And see if we can trade it for bail money.” Mia leaned against the back of an old armchair covered with one of the multicolored crocheted afghans Elisabetta birthed like rabbits.
“Belle View, which shares a name with a New York hospital renowned for its psychiatric care, was also the site of the mysterious reappearance of Cow and Woman, a long-lost painting stolen in the infamous Miller Art Collection heist.”
“Sounds like Belle View Banquet Manor could use a little therapy itself,” the newscast’s male anchor joshed.
Elisabetta chuckled. “He made a funny. I like when they do that. It’s a nice break from all the bad news. I swear, somedays I don’t know who’s gonna go first, me or the world.”
Mia used the remote to mute the TV. “I keep going back to that Cow and Woman painting. Dad, are you a hundred percent sure that the Boldanos had nothing to do with the art heist?”
“A hundred thousand percent sure,” Ravello said with total conviction.
Mia couldn’t help smiling at her father. “You put a lot more behind that than when you talked about Benjy.”
“You know how I know the Family had nothing to do with the heist? Donny was jealous. He couldn’t believe how well someone pulled off the operation. To be honest . . .” Ravello lowered his voice by habit. No one had bugged a Carina home in years, but he didn’t believe in taking chances. “Donny looked into doing his own version of the heist. There’s a lot of new-money people out there, all over the world, who think the way to flaunt it is by hanging fancy art on their walls, and they don’t care how they get it. But museums and galleries stepped up security in a big way after the Miller Collection paintings got stolen. Once that happened, Donny didn’t think the payoff was worth the risk, especially since none of those paintings except the cow one ever showed up again. What’s the point of stealing stuff if you can’t sell it?”
“What indeed.”
Mia’s sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed by her father. “Which is why I don’t do it,” he said in a defensive tone, adding under his breath. “At least anymore.”
“Okay.” Her father’s assurances rang true and Mia relaxed a little. “I pray they find Tina’s killer fast. In the meantime, I’ll welcome Benjy to the Belle View family tomorrow, and that’s family with a small f.”
“There.” Elisabetta pointed to the TV. “You see?”
A severe-looking woman in a long-sleeved, conservatively styled dress pointed to a graphic of the week’s expected temperatures. “That’s how a weather lady should dress. Not like she’s going to one of those singles bars looking for dates.”
Ravello and Mia exchanged an amused glance. “Buona notte, Mama.” Ravello bent down and kissed his mother on both cheeks. He did the same to his daughter. “I’ll see you tomorrow. And remember”—he pointed a finger at her—“be nice to Benjy.”
Mia held up her hands. “Ma, certo. Of course.”
* * *
Unfortunately, being nice to Benjy proved harder than Mia imagined. She’d arranged for the new hire to share Cammie’s office. “Does that mean I have to come in less?” Cammie had said. “Totally on board with that plan.”
Twenty-four-year-old Benjy had the blond good looks of his mother’s Teutonic heritage, which softened the sharp Sicilian lines of the Tuteras. He also had the slightly glazed look of a generation that spent too much time staring at screens. The fact Mia thought of Benjy, seven years younger than her, of another generation, made her feel old. The small company of Belle View full- and part-timers cheerfully welcomed him to their ranks. Ravello greeted him with a manly plant—a thorny cactus—from Lin’s shop. But Benjy took to the job with the enthusiasm of a Guantanamo Bay prisoner. Working at Belle View—or possibly anywhere—was obviously ordered by a grandfather aggravated by his grandson’s slacker attitude toward life.
Mia stuck her head into Cammie’s office. She found Benjy consumed by typing something which she hoped was work-related but given his lackluster response to assignments Mia had given him, she doubted. “Did you submit the liquor order for the DeNunzio wedding?”
“Not yet,” Benjy said, still focused on his typing. “I’m about to.”
He’d only been working at Belle View for three days and Mia had already enough about tos for a lifetime. “Let’s change that about to to right now, ’kay?”
“ ’Kay.”
Mia’s phone buzzed with a text from Chef Guadalupe. Get in here NOW.
Mia rubbed her forehead. A headache was beginning to take root. “I need to talk to Guadalupe.”
“Huh?”
“Guadalupe,” Mia repeated. “The head chef. Tall. Very tall. A little scary.” This was of no interest to Benjy. He returned to typing. “Remember to put in that liquor order.”
“About to.”
Mia clenched her fists. She headed to the kitchen. Guadalupe, whose chef’s toque added a foot to her given height of six-plus feet, tapped a knife against her hand with the look of a tropical storm brewing in the Atlantic. She used the knife to gesture to sacks on the kitchen workstation. “You know what these are? Beets. That idiot new hire ordered beets instead of beef. I got the Rotary Club luncheon today. I’m doing barbecue. I double-checked the order I gave the kid. Beef, tri-tip. What do I do with these? ‘Yippee, barbecued beets!’ said no Rotary Club member ever. Oh, but I got parsley. Lots and lots of parsley.” Guadalupe thrust a giant bag of the garnish under Mia’s nose. “I know, I’ll make beet and parsley surprise. The surprise is, it will suck. Wait, that won’t be a surprise.”
Mia groaned in exasperation. “Great. Let me think, let me think.” Her face cleared. “Got it. We use the beets and parsley in a side dish. Do you have potatoes? Can you add them and make up some recipe we can sell to the Rotary Club crowd as trendy?”
“Rotary Club and trendy aren’t words you generally see in the same sentence. I can try but we still need beef. This is a meat-eating crowd if I ever saw one.”
“Okay. I’ll send Benjy to the grocery store to buy out all their tri-tip.”
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“No! Don’t send that kid anywhere but home.”
“Oh, how I wish. But I can’t. I’ll put in the order myself. All he has to do is pick it up. He can do that much.” I hope, I hope.
Guadalupe glowered at Mia. “He better.”
Mia retreated to her office. She placed the meat order, then paid Benjy a visit. She found him still typing away on Cammie’s computer. “Benjy, stop typing and look at me.” He reluctantly did so. “You messed up a supply order. Your first one. That doesn’t bode well.”
Benjy stared at her. “What’d I do?”
“You ordered beets instead of beef and a boatload of parsley.”
“Oh, man. Sorry. I’m doing a run on parsley. I got it on the brain.”
“A run?” Mia said, confused.
“Yeah, a comedy run. You know . . . what’s the deal with parsley? Nobody needs it. It’s like that Facebook friend you never met, but you accepted their request, so they won’t feel bad and now they won’t shut up with their comments.” Mia responded with silence. “That’s funny for my generation. I guess you’re too old to get it.”
Mia suppressed the urge to throttle Benjy. But she was getting a clearer picture of him. “You want to be a comedian? I’m guessing that didn’t go over well with your parents or your grandpa Vito.”
Benjy snorted. “You’d think I wanted to be a serial killer. And what’s the deal with serial killers? Why are they always quiet, scary loners? There should be some app that sends out a Scary Loner Alert. You know, like . . .” Benjy mimicked an alarm going off. “Scary Loner Alert, Scary Loner Alert, beware the serial killer white van in your weird neighbor’s driveway.”
Wow, Mia thought. My sympathies are with you, Vito. “You know,” she said, mustering up a supportive tone, “Cammie’s ex-husband Pete is a detective and he writes mysteries on the side. He doesn’t let them interfere with his day job.” Which wasn’t completely true. Fictional detective Steve Stianopolis had cracked a lot of cases that stumped real-life detective Pete Dianopolis.
“Are they funny mysteries? Because that’s a thing.”
“I don’t know,” Mia admitted. “I tried to read one once but couldn’t get past the first chapter. Too many typos. He publishes them himself. A lot of people do that well, but Pete, not so much. My point is, it’s great to pursue your dream. But when you’re starting out, you have to balance it with a functional work life.”